Rhoda Gray's face had gone a little white. There was no doubt about the woman's serious condition, and yet—and yet—She stood there hesitant. There must be some other way! It was not likely even that the woman had strength enough to walk down the stairs to begin with. Strange things had come to her in this world of shadow, but none before like this. If the law got the woman it would cost the woman her life; if the woman did not receive immediate and adequate medical assistance it would cost the woman her life. Over and over in her brain, like a jangling refrain, that thought repeated itself. It was not like her to stand hesitant before       any emergency, no matter what that emergency might be. She had never done it before, but now...     

       “For God's sake,” Gypsy Nan implored, “don't stand there looking at me! Can't you understand? If I'm caught, I go out. Do you think I'd have lived in this 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 

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