and wrenched at the door. The next instant he was on her again.
"The key! Give me that key!" he roared.
For answer she flung it from her. It fell with a tinkle on the floor at the far end of the garret.
The man was beside himself with rage.
"Damn you, if I had time, I'd wring your neck for this, you she-devil!" he bawled—and raced back, evidently for the candle on the washstand.
Rhoda Gray, sprawled on the floor where he had thrown her, did not move—except to take the revolver from the pocket of her dress. She was crooning queerly to herself, as she watched Rough Rorke light the candle and grope around on the floor:
"She was good to me, de White Moll was. Jellies an' t'ings she brought me, she did. An' Gypsy Nan don't ferget. Gypsy Nan don't"
She sat up suddenly, snarling. Rorke had found the key, left the bottle with the short stub of guttering candle standing on the floor, and was back again.
"By God!" he gritted through his teeth, as he jabbed the key with frantic haste into the lock. "I'll fix you for this!" He made a clutch at her throat, as he swung the door open.
She jerked herself backward, eluding him, her revolver leveled.
"Youse keep yer dirty paws off me!" she screamed. "Yah, wot can youse do! Wot do I care! She was good to me, she was, an'"
Rough Rorke was gone—taking the stairs three and four at a time. Then she heard the street door slam.
She rose slowly to her feet—and suddenly reached out, grasping at the door to steady herself. It seemed as though every muscle had gone limp, as though her
