“The fact that I can assure you that, whoever else it may be, the person outside there cannot be Rough Rorke, is simply a proof that, if I had the opportunity, I could be of real assistance to the White Moll,” he said imperturbably. “Well”—a grim little smile flickered suddenly across his lips—“do you hear any one now?”
Quite low, but quite unmistakably, the short, ladder-like steps just outside the door were voicing a creaky protest now as some one mounted them. Rhoda Gray did not move. It seemed as though she could hear the sudden thumping of her own heart. Who was it this time? How was she to act? What was she to say? It was so easy to make the single little slip of word or manner that would spell ruin and disaster.
“Rubber heels and rubber soles,” murmured the Adventurer. “But, at that, it is extremely well done.” He held out the torn piece of paper to Rhoda Gray.
“If”—he smiled significantly—“if, by any good fortune, you see the White Moll again, please give her this and let her decide for herself. It is a telephone number. She can always reach me there by asking for—the Adventurer.” He was still extending the piece of paper. “Quick!” he whispered, as the door knob rattled.
V. A SECOND VISITOR
Mechanically Rhoda Gray thrust the paper into the pocket of her skirt. The door swung open. A tall man, well dressed, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, a slouch hat pulled far down over his eyes, stood on the threshold, surveying the interior of the garret.
The Adventurer rose composedly to his feet—and moved slightly back out of the direct radius of the candlelight.
There was silence for a moment, and then the man in the doorway laughed unpleasantly.
“Hello!” he flung out harshly. “Who's the dude, Nan?”