The White Moll | Page 9

filthy hole if there had been any other way to save my
life? Are you going to let me die here like a dog? Get me my clothes;
oh, for God's sake, get them, and give me the one chance that's left!"
A queer little smile came to Rhoda Gray's lips, and her shoulders
straightened back.
"Where are your clothes?" she asked.
"God bless you!" The tears were suddenly streaming down the grimy
face. "God bless the White Moll! It's true! It's true - all they said about
her!" The woman had lost control of herself.
"Nan, keep your nerve!" ordered Rhoda Gray almost brutally. It was
the White Moll in another light now, cool, calm, collected, efficient.
Her eyes swept Gypsy Nan. The woman, who had obviously flung
herself down on the bed fully dressed the night before, was garbed in
coarse, heavy boots, the cheapest of stockings which were also sadly in
need of repair, a tattered and crumpled skirt of some rough material,
and, previously hidden by the shawl, a soiled, greasy and spotted black
blouse. Rhoda Gray's forehead puckered into a frown. "What about

your hands and face-they go with the clothes, don't they?"
"It'll wash off," whispered Gypsy Nan. "It's just some stuff I keep in a
box-over there - the ceiling-" Her voice trailed off weakly, then with a
desperate effort strengthened again. "The door! I forgot the door! It
isn't locked! Lock the door first! Lock the door! Then you take the
candle over there on the washstand, and - and I'll show you. You - you
get the things while I'm undressing. I - I can help myself that much."
Rhoda Gray crossed quickly to the door, turned the key in the lock, and
retraced her steps to the washstand that stood in the shadows against
the wall on the opposite side from the bed, and near the far end of the
garret. Here she found the short stub of a candle that was stuck in the
mouth of a gin bottle, and matches lying beside it. She lighted the
candle, and turned inquiringly to Gypsy Nan.
The woman pointed to the end of the garret where the roof sloped
sharply down until, at the wall itself, it was scarcely four feet above the
floor.
"Go down there. Right to the wall - in the center," instructed Gypsy
Nan weakly. And then, as Rhoda Gray obeyed: "Now push up on that
wide board in the ceiling."
Rhoda Gray. already in a stooped position, reached up, and pushed at a
rough, unplaned board. It swung back without a sound, like a narrow
trap-door, until it rested in an upright position against the outer frame
of the house, disclosing an aperture through which, by standing erect,
Rhoda Gray easily thrust her head and shoulders.
She raised the candle then through the opening - and suddenly her dark
eyes widened in amazement. It was a hiding place, not only ingenious,
but exceedingly generous in expanse. As far as one could reach the
ceiling metamorphosed itself into a most convenient shelf. And it had
been well utilized! It held a most astounding collection of things. There
was a cashbox, but the cashbox was apparently wholly inadequate -
there must have been thousands of dollars in those piles of banknotes
that were stacked beside it! There was a large tin box, the cover off,

containing some black, pastelike substance - the "stuff," presumably,
that Gypsy Nan used on her face and hands. There was a bunch of
curiously formed keys, several boxes of revolver cartridges, an electric
flashlight, and a great quantity of the choicest brands of tinned and
bottled fruits and provisions - and a little to one side, evidently kept
ready for instant use, a suit of excellent material, underclothing, silk
stockings shoes and hat were neatly piled together.
Rhoda Gray took the clothing, and went back to the bedside. Gypsy
Nan had made little progress in disrobing. It seemed about all the
woman could do to cling to the edge of the cot and sit upright.
"What does all this mean, Nan," she asked tensely; "all those things up
there - that money?"
Gypsy Nan forced a twisted smile.
"It means I know how bad I am, or I wouldn't have let you see what
you have," she answered heavily. "It means that there isn't any other
way. Hurry! Get these things off! Get me dressed!"
But it took a long time. Gypsy Nan seemed with every moment to grow
weaker. The lamp on the chair went out for want of oil. There was only
the guttering candle in the gin bottle to give light. It threw weird,
flickering shadows around the garret; it seemed to enhance the already
deathlike pallor of the woman, as, using