Love him? Well, she would get over it. It might be only the glamour of

the adventure they had shared. Anyhow, she wouldn't die of it. Cutty

hadn't. Of course it hurt; she was a silly little fool, and all that.

Once he was in Montana he would be sending for his Olga. There wasn't

the least doubt in her mind that if ever autocracy returned to power,

he'd be casting aside his American citizenship, his chaps and sombrero,

for the old regalia. Well--truculently to the world at large--why not?

So she avoided Hawksley's gaze, sensing the sustained persistence of it.

But, oh, to be alone, alone, alone!

Cutty washed the patient's hands and face and patched up the cut on

the cheek, interlarding his chatter with trench idioms, banter, jokes.

Underneath, though, he was chuckling. He was the hero of this tale;

he had done all the thrilling stunts, carried limp bodies across fire

escapes in the rain, climbed roofs, eluded newspaper reporters, fought

with his bare fists, rescued the girl.... All with one foot in the

grave! Fifty-two, gray haired--with a prospect of rheumatism on the

morrow--and putting it over like a debonair movie idol!

Hawksley met these pleasantries halfway by grousing about being babied

when there was nothing the matter with him but his head, his body, and

his legs.

Why didn't she look at him? What was the meaning of this persistent

avoidance? She must have forgiven last night. She was too much of a

thoroughbred to harbour ill feeling over that. Why didn't she look at

him?

The telephone called Cutty from the room.

Kitty went into the dining room for an extra pair of salt cellars and

delayed her return until she heard Cutty coming back.

"Karlov is dead," he announced. "Started a fight in the taxi, got out,

and was making for safety when one of the boys shot him. He hadn't

the jewels on him, John. I'm afraid they are gone, unless he hid them

somewhere in that--What's the matter, Kitty?"

For Kitty had dropped the salt cellars and pressed her hands against her

bosom, her face colourless.

Hawksley, terrified, tried to get up.

"No, no! Nothing is the matter with me but my head.... To think I could

forget! Good--heavens!" She prolonged the words drolly. "Wait."

She turned her back to them. When she faced them again she extended a

palm upon which lay a leather tobacco pouch, cracked and parched and

blistered by the reactions of rain and sun.

"Think of my forgetting them! I found them this morning. Where do you

suppose? On a step of the fire-escape ladder."




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