“Thankyou，Daddy！“shesaidsoftly-andlaidabilluponthecounter，andsteppedbacktothedoor。“Good-night！“shesmiled。
Sheheardhimcalltoher；butshewasalreadyonthestreetagain，andhurryingalong。Shefeltbetter，somehow，inamentalway，forthatlittleencounterwiththeshadyoldpawnbroker。Shewasnotsomuchalone，perhaps，asshehadthought；thereweremany，perhaps，eveniftheywereoftheunderworld，whohadnotswervedfromtheloyaltytheyhadonceprofessedtotheWhiteMoll。
Itbroughtanewtrainofthought，andshepausedsuddenlyinherwalk。Shemightrallyaroundhersomeofthoseunderworldintimatesuponwhoseallegianceshefeltshecoulddepend，andusethemnow，to-night，inbehalfoftheAdventurer；shewouldbesurethentobeamatchforDanglar，nomatterwhatturnaffairstook。Andthen，withanimpatientshakeofherhead，shehurriedonagain。Therewasnotimeforthat。Itwouldtakeagreatdealoftimetofindandpickhermen；shehadevenwastedtimeherself，wheretherewasnotimetospare，inthemomentarypauseduringwhichshehadgiventhethoughtconsideration。
Shereachedthenearestsubwaystation，whichwasherobjective，andboardedaHarlemtrain，satisfiedthatherheavyveilwouldprotectheragainstrecognition。Unobtrusivelyshetookawindowseat。Noonepaidheranyattention。Hourspassed，itseemedtoherimpatience，whiletheblackwallsrushedby，punctuatedbyoccasionalscintillatingsignallights，and，atlongerintervals，bythefullerglarefromthestationplatforms。
Intheneighborhoodof125thstreetsheleftthetrain，and，enteringthefirstdrugstoreshefound，consultedadirectory。