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<h2> XVI. THE SECRET PANEL </h2>
<p>Rhoda Gray hurried onward, back toward the garret, her mind in riot and
dismay. It was not only the beginning of the end; it was very near the
end! What was she to do? The Silver Sphinx—at eleven! That was the
end—after eleven—wasn't it? She could impersonate Gypsy Nan;
she could not, if she would, impersonate the woman who was dead! And then,
too, there were the stolen jewels at old Jake Luertz's! She could not turn
to the police for help there, because then the Pug might fall into their
hands, and—and the Pug was—was the Adventurer.</p>
<p>And then a sort of fatalistic calm fell upon her. If the masquerade was
over, if the end had come, there remained only one thing for her to do.
There were no risks too desperate to take now. It was she who must strike,
and strike first. Those jewels in old Luertz's bedroom became suddenly
vital to her. They were tangible evidence. With those jewels in her
possession she should be able to force Danglar to his knees. She could get
them—before Pinkie Bonn and the Pug—if she hurried. Afterward
she would know where to find Danglar—at the Silver Sphinx. Nothing
would happen to Cloran, because, through her failure to cooperate, the
plan would be abortive; but, veiled, as the White Moll, she could pick up
Danglar's trail again there. Yes, it would be the end—one way or the
other—between eleven o'clock and daylight!</p>
<p>She quickened her steps. Old Luertz was to be inveigled away from his home
about ten o'clock. At a guess, she made it only a little after nine now.
She would need the skeleton keys in order to get into old Luertz's place,
and, yes, she would need a flashlight, too. Well, she would have time
enough to get them, and time enough, then, to run to the deserted shed in
the lane behind the garret and change her clothes.</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray, as Gypsy Nan, went on as speedily as she dared without
inviting undue attention to herself, reached the garret, secured the
articles she sought, hurried out again, and went down the lane in the rear
to the deserted shed. She remained longer here than in the attic, perhaps
ten minutes, working mostly in the darkness, risking the flashlight only
when it was imperative; and then, the metamorphosis complete, a veiled
figure, in her own person, as Rhoda Gray, the White Moll, she was out on
the street again, and hastening back in the same general direction from
which she had just come.</p>
<p>She knew old Jake Luertz's place, and she knew the man himself very
intimately by reputation. There were few such men and such places that she
could have escaped knowing in the years of self-appointed service that she
had given to the worst, and perhaps therefore the most needy, element in
New York. The man ostensibly conducted a little secondhand store; in
reality he probably "shoved" more stolen goods for his clientele, which at
one time or another undoubtedly embraced nearly every crook in the
underworld, than any other "fence" in New York. She knew him for an oily,
cunning old fox who lived alone in the two rooms over his miserable store—unless,
of late, his young henchman, the Crab, had taken to living with him;
though, as far as that was concerned, it mattered little to-night, since
the Crab, for the moment, thanks to the gang, was eliminated from
consideration.</p>
<p>She reached the secondhand store—and walked on past it. There was a
light upstairs in the front window. Old Luertz therefore had not yet gone
out in response to the gang's fake message. She knew old Luertz's
reputation far too well for that; the man would never go out and leave a
gas jet burning—which he would have to pay for!</p>
<p>There was nothing to do but wait. Rhoda Gray sought the shelter of a
doorway across the street. She was nervously impatient now. The minutes
dragged along. Why didn't 'the man hurry and go out? "About ten o'clock,"
Danglar had said—but that was very indefinite. Pinkie Bonn and the
Pug might be as late as that; but, equally, they might be earlier!</p>
<p>It seemed an interminable time. And then, her eyes strained across the
street upon that upper window, she drew still farther back into the
protecting shadows of the doorway. The light had gone out.</p>
<p>A moment more passed. The street door of the house opposite to her—a
door separate from that of the secondhand store-opened, and a bent,
gray-bearded man, stepped out, peered around, locked the door behind him,
and scuffled down the street.</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray scanned the dingy and ill-lighted little street. It was
virtually deserted. She crossed the road, and stepped into the doorway
from which the old "fence" had just emerged. It was dark here, well out of
the direct radius of the nearest street lamp, and, with luck, there was no
reason why she should be observed—if she did not take too long in
opening the door! She had never actually used a skeleton key in her life
before, and...</p>
<p>She inserted one of her collection of keys in the lock. It would not work.
She tried another, and still another-with mounting anxiety and perplexity.
Suppose that—yes! The door was open now! With a quick glance over
her shoulder, scanning the street in both directions to make sure that she
was not observed, she stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it
again.</p>
<p>Her flashlight stabbed through the darkness. Narrow stairs immediately in
front of her led upward; at her right was a connecting door to the
secondhand shop. Without an instant's hesitation she ran up the stairs.
There was no need to observe caution since the place was temporarily
untenanted; there was need only of haste. She opened the door at the head
of the stairs, and, with a quick, eager nod of satisfaction, as the
flashlight swept the interior, stepped over the threshold. It was the room
she sought—old Luertz's bedroom.</p>
<p>And now the flashlight played inquisitively about her. The bed occupied a
position by the window; across one corner of the room was a cretonne
hanging, that evidently did service as a wardrobe; across another corner
was a large and dilapidated washstand; there were a few chairs, and a
threadbare carpet; and, opposite the bed, another door, closed, which
obviously led into the front room.</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray stepped to this door, opened it, and peered in. She was not
concerned that it was evidently used for kitchen, dining-room and the
stowage of everything that overflowed from the bedroom; she was concerned
only with the fact that it offered no avenue through which any added risk
or danger might reach her. She closed the door as she had found it, and
gave her attention now to the walls of old Luertz's bedroom.</p>
<p>She smiled a little whimsically. The Crab had used a somewhat dignified
term when he had referred to "panels." True, the walls were of stained
wood, but the wood was of the cheapest variety of matched boards, and the
stain was of but a single coat, and a very meager one at that! The smile
faded. There were a good many knots; and there were four corners to the
room, and therefore eight boards, each one of which would answer to the
description of being the "sixth panel."</p>
<p>She went to the corner nearest her, and dropped down on her knees. As well
start with this one! She had not dared press Danglar, or Danglar's
deformed brother, for more definite directions, had she? She counted the
boards quickly from the corner to her right; and then, the flashlight
playing steadily, she began to press first one knot after another, in the
board before her, working from the bottom up. There were many knots; she
went over each one with infinite care. There was no result.</p>
<p>She turned then to the sixth board from the corner to her left. The result
was the same. She stood up, her brows puckered, a sense of anxious
impatience creeping upon her. She had been quite a while over even these
two boards, and it might be any one of the remaining six!</p>
<p>Her eyes traversed the room, following the ray of the flashlight. If she
only knew which one, it would—Was it an inspiration? Her eyes had
fixed on the cretonne hanging across one of the far corners from the door,
and she moved toward it now quickly. The hanging might very well serve for
an other purpose than that of merely a wardrobe! It seemed suddenly to be
the most likely of the four corners because it was ingeniously concealed.</p>
<p>She parted the hanging. A heterogeneous collection of clothing hung from
pegs and nails. Eagerly, hastily now, she brushed these aside, and, close
to the wall, dropped down on her knees again. The minutes passed. Twice
she went over the sixth board from the corner to her right. She felt so
sure now that it was this corner. And then, still eagerly, she turned to
the corresponding board at her left.</p>
<p>It was warm and close here. The clothing hanging from the pegs and nails
enveloped her, and, with the cretonne hanging itself, shut out the air,
what little of it there was, that circulated through the room.</p>
<p>Over the board, from the tiniest knot to the largest, her fingers pressed
carefully. Had she missed one anywhere? She must have missed one! She was
sure the panel in question was here behind this hanging. Well, she would
try again, and...</p>
<p>What was that?</p>
<p>In an instant the flashlight in her hand was out, and she was listening
tensely. Yes, there was a footstep—two of them—not only on the
stairs, but already just outside the door. It seemed as though a deadly
fear, cold and numbing, settled upon her and robbed her of even the power
of movement. She was caught! If it was Pinkie Bonn and the Pug, and if
this corner hid the secret panel as she still believed it did, this was
the first place to which they would come, and they would find her here
amongst the clothing—which had evidently been the cause of deadening
any sound on those stairs out there until it was too late.</p>
<p>She held her breath, her hands tight upon her bosom. There was no time to
reach the sanctuary of the other room—the footsteps were already
crossing the threshold from the head of the stairs. And then a voice
reached her—the Pug's. It was the Pug and Pinkie Bonn.</p>
<p>"Strike a light, Pinkie! Dere's no use messin' around wid a flash. De old
geezer'll be back on de hop de minute he finds out he's been bunked, an'
de quicker we work de better."</p>
<p>A match crackled into flame. An air-choked gas jet, with a protesting
hiss, was lighted. And then Rhoda Gray's drawn face relaxed a little, and
a strange, mirthless smile came hovering over her lips. What was she
afraid of? The Pug was the Adventurer, wasn't he? This was one of the
occasions when he could not escape the entanglements of the gang, and must
work for the gang instead of appropriating all the loot for his own
personal and nefarious ends; but he was the Adventurer. The White Moll
need not fear him, even though he appeared, linked with Pinkie Bonn, in
the role of the Pug! So there was only Pinkie Bonn to fear.</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray took her revolver from her pocket. She was well armed—and
in more than a material sense. The Adventurer did not know that she was
aware of the Pug's identity. Her smile, still mirthless, deepened. She
might even turn the tables upon them, and still secure the stolen stones.
She had turned the tables upon Pinkie Bonn last night; to-night, if she
used her wits, she could do it again!</p>
<p>And then, suddenly, she stifled an exclamation, as the Pug's voice reached
her again:</p>
<p>"Wot are youse gapin' about? Dere ain't anything else worth pinchin'
around here except wot's in de old gent's safety vault. Get a move on! We
ain't got all night! It's de corner behind de washstand. Give us a hand to
move de furniture!"</p>
<p>It wasn't here behind the cretonne hanging! Rhoda Gray bit her lips in a
crestfallen little way. Well, her supposition had been natural enough,
hadn't it? And she would have tried every corner before she was through if
she had had the opportunity.</p>
<p>She moved now slightly, without a sound, parting the clothing away from in
front of her, and moving the cretonne hanging by the fraction of an inch
where it touched the side wall of the room. And now she could see the Pug,
with his dirty and discolored celluloid eye-patch, and his ingeniously
contorted face; and she could see Pinkie Bonn's pasty-white, drug-stamped
countenance.</p>
<p>It was not a large room. The two men in the opposite corner along the wall
from her were scarcely more than ten feet away. They swung the washstand
out from the wall, and the Pug, going in behind it, began to work on one
of the wall boards. Pinkie Bonn, an unlighted cigarette dangling from his
lip, leaned over the washstand watching his companion.</p>
<p>A minute passed—another. It was still in the room, except only for
the distant sounds of the world outside—a clatter of wheels upon the
pavement, the muffled roar of the elevated, the clang of a trolley bell.
And then the Pug began to mutter to himself. Rhoda Gray smiled a little
grimly. She was not the only one, it would appear, who experienced
difficulty with old Jake Luertz's crafty hiding place!</p>
<p>"Say, dis is de limit!" the Pug growled out suddenly. "Dere's more damned
knots in dis board dan I ever save in any piece of wood in me life before,
an'—" He drew back abruptly from the wall, twisting his head sharply
around. "D'ye hear dat, Pinkie!" he whispered tensely. "Quick! Put out de
light! Quick! Dere's some one down at de front door!"</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray felt the blood ebb from her face. She had heard nothing save
the rattle and bump of a wagon along the street below; but she had had
reason to appreciate on a certain occasion before that the Pug, alias the
Adventurer, was possessed of a sense of hearing that was abnormally acute.
If it was some one else—who was it? What would it mean to her? What
complication here in this room would result? What...</p>
<p>The light was out. Pinkie Bonn had stepped silently across the room to the
gas jet near the door. Her eyes, strained, she could just make out the
Adventurer's form kneeling by the wall, and then—was she mad! Was
the faint night-light of the city filtering in through the window mocking
her? The Adventurer, hidden from his companion by the washstand, was
working swiftly and without a sound—or else it was a phantasm of
shadows that tricked her! A door in the wall opened; the Adventurer thrust
in his hand, drew out a package, and, leaning around, slipped it quickly
into the bottom of the washstand, where, with its little doors, there was
a most convenient and very commodious apartment. He turned again then,
seemed to take something from his pocket and place it in the opening in
the wall, and then the panel closed.</p>
<p>It had taken scarcely more than a second.</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray brushed her hand across her eyes. No, it wasn't a phantasm! She
had misjudged the Adventurer—quite misjudged him! The Adventurer,
even with one of the gang present—to furnish an unimpeachable alibi
for him!—was plucking the gang's fruit again for his own and
undivided enrichment!</p>
<p>Pinkie Bonn's voice came in a guarded whisper from the doorway.</p>
<p>"I don't hear nothin'!" said Pinkie Bonn anxiously.</p>
<p>The Pug tiptoed across the room, and joined his companion. She could not
see them now, but apparently they stood together by the door listening.
They stood there for a long time. Occasionally she heard them whisper to
each other; and then finally the Pug spoke in a less guarded voice.</p>
<p>"All right," he said. "I guess me nerves are gettin' de creeps. Shoot de
light on again, an' let's get back on de job. An' youse can take a turn
dis time pushin' de knots, Pinkie; mabbe youse'll have better luck."</p>
<p>The light went on again. Both men came back across the room, and now
Pinkie Bonn knelt at the wall while the Pug leaned over the washstand
watching him. Pinkie Bonn was not immediately successful; the Pug's
nerves, of which he had complained, appeared shortly to get the better of
him.</p>
<p>"Fer Gawd's sake, hurry up!" he urged irritably. "Or else lemme take
another crack at it, Pinkie, an'..."</p>
<p>A low, triumphant exclamation came from Pinkie Bonn, as the small door in
the wall swung suddenly open.</p>
<p>"There she is, my bucko!" he grinned. "Some nifty vault, eh? The old guy-"
He stopped. He had thrust in his hand, and drawn it out again. His fingers
gripped a sheet of notepaper—but he was seemingly unconscious of
that fact. He was leaning forward, staring into the aperture. "It's
empty!" he choked.</p>
<p>"Wot's dat?" cried the Pug, and sprang to his companion's side. "Youse're
crazy, Pinkie!" He thrust his head toward the opening—and then
turned and stared for a moment helplessly at Pinkie Bonn. "So help me!" he
said heavily. "It's—it's empty." He shook his fist suddenly. "De
Crab's handed us one, dat's wot! But de Crab'll get his fer—"</p>
<p>"It wasn't the Crab!" Pinkie Bonn was stuttering his words. He stood, jaws
dropped, his eyes glued now on the paper in his hand.</p>
<p>The Pug, his face working, the personification of baffled rage and
intolerance, leered at Pinkie Bonn. "Well, who was it, den?" he snarled.</p>
<p>Pinkie Bonn licked his lips.</p>
<p>"The White Moll!" He licked his lips again.</p>
<p>"De White Moll!" echoed the Pug incredulously.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Pinkie Bonn. "Listen to what's on this paper that I fished out
of there I Listen! She's got all the nerve of the devil! 'With thanks, and
my most grateful appreciation—the White Moll.'"</p>
<p>The Pug snatched the paper from Pinkie Bonn's hand, as though to assure
himself that it was true. Rhoda Gray smiled faintly. It was good acting,
very excellently done—seeing that the Pug had written the note and
placed it in the hiding place himself!</p>
<p>"My God!" mumbled Pinkie Bonn thickly. "I ain't afraid of most things, but
I'm gettin' scared of her. She ain't human. Last night you know what
happened, and the night before, and—" He gulped suddenly. "Let's get
out of here!" he said hurriedly. The Pug made no reply, except for a
muttered growl of assent and a nod of his head.</p>
<p>The two men crossed the room. The light went out. Their footsteps echoed
back as they descended the stairs, then died away.</p>
<p>And then Rhoda Gray moved for the first time. She brushed aside the
cretonne hanging, ran to the washstand, possessed herself of the package
she had seen the Pug place there, and then made her way, cautious now of
the slightest sound, downstairs.</p>
<p>She tried the door that led into the secondhand shop from the hall, found
it unlocked, and with a little gasp of relief slipped through, and closed
it gently behind her. She did not dare risk the front entrance. Pinkie
Bonn and the Pug were not far enough away yet, and she did not dare wait
until they were. Too bulky to take the risk of attempting to conceal it
about his person while with Pinkie Bonn, the Pug, it was obvious, would
come back alone for that package, and it was equally obvious that he would
not be long in doing so. There was old Luertz's return that he would have
to anticipate. It would not take wits nearly so sharp as those possessed
by the Pug to find an excuse for separating promptly from Pinkie Bonn!</p>
<p>Rhoda Gray groped her way down the shop, groped her way to a back door,
unbolted it, working by the sense of touch, and let herself out into a
back yard. Five minutes later she was blocks away, and hurrying rapidly
back toward the deserted shed in the lane behind Gypsy Nan's garret.</p>
<p>Her lips formed into a tight little curve as she went along. There was
still work to do to-night—if this package really contained the
stolen legacy of gems left by Angel Jack. She had first of all to reach a
place where she could examine the package with safety; then a place to
hide it where it would be secure; and then—Danglar!</p>
<p>She gained the lane, stole along it, and disappeared into the shed through
the broken door that hung, partially open, on sagging hinges. Here she
sought a corner, and crouched down so that her body would smother any
reflection from her flashlight. And now, eagerly, feverishly, she began to
undo the package; and then, a moment later, she gazed, stupefied and
amazed, at what lay before her. Precious stones, scores of them, nestled
on a bed of cotton; they were of all colors and of all sizes—but
each one of them seemed to pulsate and throb, and from some wondrous,
glorious depth of its own to fling back from the white ray upon it a
thousand rays in return, as though into it had been breathed a living and
immortal fire.</p>
<p>And Rhoda Gray, crouched there, stared—until suddenly she grew
afraid, and suddenly with a shudder she wrapped the package up again.
These were the stones for whose fabulous worth the woman whose personality
she, Rhoda Gray, had usurped, had murdered a man; these were the stones
which were indirectly the instrumentality—since but for them Gypsy
Nan would never have existed—that made her, Rhoda Gray, to-night,
now, at this very moment, a hunted thing, homeless, friendless, fighting
for her very life against police and underworld alike!</p>
<p>She rose abruptly to her feet. She had no longer any need of a flashlight.
There was even light of a sort in the place—she could see the stars
through the jagged holes in the roof, and through one of these, too, the
moonlight streamed in. The shed was all but crumbling in a heap.
Underfoot, what had once been flooring, was now but rotting, broken
boards. Under one of these, beside the clothing of Gypsy Nan which she had
discarded but a little while before, she deposited the package; then
stepped out into the lane, and from there to the street again.</p>
<p>And now she became suddenly conscious of a great and almost overpowering
physical weariness. She did not quite understand at first, unless it was
to be attributed to the reaction from the last few hours—and then,
smiling wanly to herself, she remembered. For two nights she had not
slept. It seemed very strange. That was it, of course, though she was not
in the least sleepy now—just tired, just near the breaking point.</p>
<p>But she must go on. To-night was the end, anyhow. To-night, failing to
keep her appointment as "Bertha," the crash must come; but before it came,
as the White Moll, armed with the knowledge of the crime that had driven
Danglar's wife into hiding, and which was Danglar's crime too, and with
the evidence in the shape of those jewels in her possession, she and
Danglar would meet somewhere—alone. Before the law got him, when he
would be close-mouthed and struggling with all his cunning to keep the
evidence of other crimes from piling up against him and damning whatever
meager chances he might have to escape the penalty for Deemer's murder,
she meant—yes, even if she pretended to compound a felony with him—to
force or to inveigle from him, it mattered little which, a confession of
the authorship and details of the scheme to rob Skarbolov that night when
she, Rhoda Gray, in answer to a dying woman's pleading, had tried to
forestall the plan, and had been caught, apparently, in the very act of
committing the robbery herself! With that confession in her possession,
with the identity of the unknown woman who had died in the hospital that
night established, her own story would be believed.</p>
<p>And so, if she were weary, what did it matter? It was only until morning.
Danglar was at the Silver Sphinx now with the man he meant that she should
help him murder, only—only that plan would fail, because there would
be no "Bertha" to lure the man to his death, and she, Rhoda Gray, had only
to keep track of Danglar until somewhere, where he lived perhaps, she
should have that final scene, that final reckoning with him alone.</p>
<p>It was a long way to the Silver Sphinx, which she knew, as every one in
the underworld, and every one in New York who was addicted to slumming
knew, was a combination dance-hall and restaurant in the Chatham Square
district. She tried to find a taxi, but with out avail. A clock in a
jeweler's window which she passed showed her that it was ten minutes after
eleven. She had had no idea that it was so late. At eleven, Danglar had
said. Danglar would be growing restive! She took the elevated. If she
could risk the protection of her veil in the Silver Sphinx, she could risk
it equally in an elevated train!</p>
<p>But, in spite of the elevated, it was, she knew, well on towards half past
eleven when she finally came down the street in front of the Silver
Sphinx. From under her veil, she glanced, half curiously, half in a sort
of grim irony, at the taxis lined up before the dancehall. The two leading
cars were not taxis at all, though they bore the ear-marks, with their
registers, of being public vehicles for hire; they were large, roomy,
powerful, and looked, with their hoods up, like privately owned motors.
Well, it was of little account! She shrugged her shoulders, as—she
mounted the steps of the dance-hall. Neither "Bertha" nor Cloran would use
those cars to-night!</p>
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