“Well, then, listen, Bertha!” Danglar's voice was lowered earnestly. “We've uncovered the Nabob's stuff! Do you get me? Every last one of the sparklers!”
Rhoda Gray's eyes went back to the deformed creature at Danglar's side, as the man laughed out abruptly.
“Yes,” grinned Matty Danglar, “and they weren't in the empty money-belt that you beat it with like a scared cat after croaking Deemer!”
How queer and dim the light seemed to go suddenly—or was it a blur before her own eyes? She said nothing. Her mind seemed to be groping its way out of darkness toward some faint gleam of light showing in the far distance. She heard Danglar order his brother savagely to hold his tongue. That was curious, too, because she was grateful for the man's gibe. Gypsy Nan, in her proper person, had murdered a man named Deemer in an effort to secure—Danglar's voice came again:
“Well, to-night we'll get that stuff, all of it—it's worth a cool half million; and to-night we'll get Mr. House-Detective Cloran for keeps—bump him off. That cleans everything up. How does that strike you, Bertha?”
Rhoda Gray's hands under her shawl locked tightly together. Her premonition had not betrayed her. She was face to face to-night with the beginning of the end.
“It sounds fine!” she said derisively.
Danglar's eyes narrowed for an instant; and then he laughed.
“You're a rare one, Bertha!” he ejaculated again. “You don't seem to put much stock in your husband lately.”
“Why should I?” she inquired imperturbably. “Things have been breaking fine, haven't they?—only not for us!” She cleared her throat as though it were an effort to talk. “I'm not going crazy with joy till I've been shown.”