“Youse get t'hell outer here!” she croaked. “Get out!”
“I am going to,” said Rhoda Gray evenly. “And I'm going at once.” She turned abruptly and walked toward the door. “I'm going to get a doctor. You've gone too far this time, Nan, and—”
“No, youse don't!” Gypsy Nan s voice rose in a sudden scream. She sat bolt upright in bed, and pulled a revolver out from under the coverings. “Youse don't bring no doctor here! See! Youse put a finger on dat door, an' it won't be de door youse'll go out by!”
Rhoda Gray did not move.
“Nan, put that revolver down!” she ordered quietly. “You don't know what you are doing.”
“Don't!” leered Gypsy Nan. The revolver held, swaying a little unsteadily, on Rhoda Gray. There was silence for a moment; then Gypsy Nan spoke again, evidently through dry lips, for she wet them again and again with her tongue: “Say, youse are de White Moll, ain't youse?”
“Yes,” said Rhoda Gray.
Gypsy Nan appeared to ponder this for an instant.
“Well den, come back here an' sit down on de foot of de bed,” she commanded finally.
Rhoda Gray obeyed without hesitation. There was nothing to do but humor the woman in her present state, a state that seemed one bordering on delirium and complete collapse.