It was Gypsy Nan, not Rhoda Gray, who spoke.
“Who's dere?” she screeched. “D'ye hear, blast youse, who's dere?”
Rough Rorke laughed gratingly.
“That you, Nan, my dear?”
“Who d'youse t'ink it is-me gran'mother?” demanded Rhoda Gray caustically. “Who are youse?”
“Rorke,” said Rorke shortly. “I guess you know, don't you?”
“Is dat so?” snorted Rhoda Gray. “Well den, youse can beat it—hop it—on de jump! Wot t'hell right have youse got bustin' into me room at dis time of night—eh? I ain't done nothin'!”
Rough Rorke, his feet scuffling to feel the way, came forward.
“Cut it out!” he snarled. “I ain't the only visitor you've got! It's not you I want; it's the White Moll.”
“Wot's dat got to do wid me?” Rhoda Gray flung back hotly. “She ain't here, is she?”