The White Moll
A Lone Hand
And now Rhoda Gray was in the radius of the arc lamp, and distinctly visible to any one
coming down the yard. How near were they? Yes, she saw them now - three forms-
perhaps a little more than a hundred yards away. She moved a few steps deliberately
toward them, as though quite unconscious of their presence; and then, as a shout from
one of them announced that she was seen, she halted, hesitated as though surprised,
terrified and uncertain, and, as they sprang forward, she turned and ran - making for the
side of the shed away from the side door.
A voice rang out - Danglar's:
"By God, it's the White Moll!"
It was the only way! She had the pack in cry now. They would pay no attention to the
Adventurer while the White Moll was seemingly almost within their grasp. If she could
only hold them now for a little while - just a little while - the Adventurer wasn't hurt -
only cramped and numbed - he would be all right again and able to take care of himself in
a little while - and meanwhile the Sparrow would help him to get away.
She was running with all her speed. She heard them behind her - the pound, pound,
pound of feet. She had gained the side of the shed. The light from the arc lamp was shut
off from her now, and they would only be able to see her, she knew, as a dim, fleeting
shadow. Where was that iron casting? Pray God, it was heavy enough; and pray God, it
was not too heavy! Yes, here it was! She pretended to stumble - and caught the thing up
in her arms. An exultant cry went up from behind her as she appeared to fall - oaths, a
chorus of them, as she went on again.
They had not gained on her before; but with the weight in her arms, especially as she was
obliged to carry it awkwardly in order to shield it from their view with her body, she
could not run so fast now, and they were beginning to close up on her. But she was on the
wharf now, and there was not much farther to go, and - and surely she could hold all the
lead she needed until she reached the edge.
The light from the arc lamp held her in view again out here on the wharf where she was
clear of the shed; but she knew they would not fire at her except as a last resort. They
could not afford to sound an alarm that would attract notice to the spot - when they had,
or believed they had, both the Adventurer and the White Moll within their grasp now.
She was running now with short, hard, panting gasps. There were still five yards to go-
three-one! She looked around her like a hunted animal at bay, as she reached the end of
the wharf and stood there poised at the edge. Yes, thank God, they were still far enough
behind to give her the few seconds she needed! She cried out loudly as though in despair
and terror - and sprang from the edge of the wharf. And as she sprang she dropped the
casting; but even as it struck the water with a loud splash, Rhoda Gray, in frantic haste,
was crawling in through the little locker-like opening under the decked-over bow of the