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 fear. Was he one of the gang, or not? Was she, in the rôle of Gypsy Nan, supposed to know him, or not? Did he know that the real Gypsy Nan, too, had but played a part, and, therefore, when she spoke must it be in the vernacular of the East Side—or not? And then sudden enlightenment, with its incident relief, came to her.

"My dear lady"—the young man's soft felt hat was under his arm, and he was plucking daintily at the fingers of his yellow gloves as he removed them—"I beg you to pardon the intrusion of a perfect stranger. I offer you my very genuine apologies. My excuse is that I come from a—I hope I am not overstepping the bounds in using the term—mutual friend."

Rhoda Gray snorted disdainfully.

"Aw, cut out de boudoir talk, an' get down to cases!" she croaked. "Who are youse, anyway?"

The young man had gray eyes—and they lighted up now humorously.

"Boudoir? Ah—yes! Of course! Awfully neat!" His eyes, from the chair that held the candle, strayed around the scantily furnished, murky garret as though in search of a seat, and finally rested inquiringly on Rhoda Gray.

"Youse can put de candle on de floor, if youse like," she said grudgingly. "Dat's de only chair dere is."

"Thank you!" he said.

Rhoda Gray watched him with puckered brow, as he placed the gin bottle with its candle on the floor, and appropriated the chair. He might, from his tone, have been thanking her for some priceless boon. He wore a boutonnière. His clothes fitted him like gloves. He exuded a certain studied, almost languid fastidiousness—that was wholly out of keeping with the quick, daring, agile wit that he had exhibited the night