amongst all those rambling structures, with little time, perhaps none at all, to search, was she to find the Adventurer?
She did not try to answer her own question—she was afraid that her dismay would get the better of her if she hesitated for an instant. She crossed the street, choosing a spot between two of the arc lamps where the shadows were blackest. It was a high fence, but not too high to climb. She reached up, preparatory to pulling herself to the top—and drew back with a stifled cry. She was too late, then—already too late! They were here ahead of her—and on guard after all! A man's form, appearing suddenly out of the darkness but a few feet away, was making quickly toward her. She wrenched her automatic from her pocket. The touch of the weapon in her hand restored her self-control.
"Don't come any nearer!" she cried out sharply. "I will fire if you do!"
And then the man spoke.
"It's you, ain't it?" he called in guarded eagerness. "It's the White Moll, ain't it? Thank God, it's you!"
Her extended hand with the automatic fell to her side. She had recognized his voice. It wasn't Danglar, it wasn't one of the gang, or the watchman who was no better than an accomplice; it was Marty Finch, alias the Sparrow.
"Marty!" she exclaimed. "You! What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to keep you from goin' in there!" he answered excitedly. "And—and, say, I was afraid I was too late. Don't you go in there! For God's sake, don't you go! They're layin' a trap for you! They're goin' to' bump you off! I know all about it!"
