Other editions of book The White Moll

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It was very shallow, scarcely three-quarters of an inch in depth, but it was quite long enough, and quite wide enough for its purpose! Inside, there lay a little pile of banknotes, banknotes of very large denomination—the one on top was a thousand-dollar bill. She reached in and took out the money—and then from Rhoda Gray's lips there came a little cry, the flashlight dropped from her hand and smashed to the floor, and she was clinging desperately to the edge of the escritoire for support. The shop was flooded with light. Over by the side wall, one hand still on the electric-light switch, the other holding a leveled revolver, stood a man." The White Moll is Packard's only novel with a female protagonist. It was adapted into a silent film in 1920................... Frank Lucius Packard (February 2, 1877 – February 17, 1942) was a Canadian novelist. Life: Frank L. Packard was born in Montreal, Quebec and educated at McGill University and the University of Liege.As a young man he worked as a civil engineer for the Canadian Pacific Railway. His experiences working on the railroad led to his writing many railroad stories, then to a series of mystery novels, the most famous of which featured a character called Jimmie Dale. Several of his novels were made into films. Frank Packard died in 1942 in Lachine, Quebec and was buried in the Mount Royal Cemetery in Montreal.

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Set in New York's shady underbelly of crime, we follow Rhoda Gray, alias The White Moll, as she strives to do good but finds herself framed by criminals who also blame her for ruining their schemes. Rhoda Gray devoted her life protecting the poor and weak in the underworld of New York City, and became known as The White Moll, a fearless crime fighter. But when she helps Gypsy Nan, who turns out not to be what she seemed, The White Moll is accused of a crime she didn't commit. Pulled into the criminal world and on the run from the police, she plays against fearful odds to beat the most notorious crime gang in New York City.

It was like some shadowy pantomime: The dark mouth of an alleyway thrown into murky relief by the rays of a distant street lamp...the swift, forward leap of a skulking figure...a girl's form swaying and struggling in the man's embrace. Then, a pantomime no longer, there came a half threatening, half triumphant oath; and then the girl's voice, quiet, strangely contained, almost imperious: “Now, give me back that purse, please. Instantly!” The man, already retreating into the alleyway, paused to fling back a jeering laugh. “Say, youse've got yer nerve, ain't youse!” The girl turned her head so that the rays of the street lamp, faint as they were, fell full upon her, disclosing a sweet, oval face, out of which the dark eyes gazed steadily at the man.

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