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"
"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.
The Pug, his face working, the personification of baffled rage and intolerance, leered at Pinkie Bonn.
"Well, who was it, den?" he snarled.
Pinkie Bonn licked his lips.
"The White Moll!" He licked his lips again.
"De White Moll!" echoed the Pug incredulously.
"Yes," said Pinkie Bonn. "Listen to what's on this paper that I fished out of there! Listen! She's got all the nerve of the devil! 'With thanks, and my most grateful appreciation—the White Moll.'"
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!
"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.
The two men crossed the room. The light went out. Their footsteps echoed back as they descended the stairs, then died away.
And then Rhoda Gray moved for the first time. She brushed aside the cretonne hanging, ran to the wash-
