— VII —
FELLOW THIEVES
REACHING the courtyard, Rhoda Gray led the way without a word through the driveway, and finding the street clear, hurried on rapidly. Her mind, strangely stimulated, was working in quick, incisive flashes. Her work was not yet done. The Sparrow was safe, as far as his life was concerned; but her possession of even the necklace would not save the Sparrow from the law. There was the money that was gone from the safe. She could not recover that, but—yes, dimly, she began to see a way. She swerved suddenly from the sidewalk as she came to an alleyway—which had been her objective—and drew the Sparrow in with her out of sight of the street.
The Sparrow gripped at her hand.
"The White Moll!" he whispered brokenly. "God bless the White Moll! I ain't had a chance to say it before. You saved my life, and I—I"
In the semi-darkness she leaned forward and laid her fingers gently over the Sparrow's lips.
"And there's no time to say it now, Marty," she said quickly. "You are not out of this yet."
He swept his hand across his eyes.
"I know it," he said. "I got to get those shiners back up there somehow, and I got to get that paper they planted on me."
She shook her head.
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