A criminal in flight? Cutty studied the face on the pillow. Shorn of

that beard it would be handsome; not the type criminal, certainly. A bit

of natural cynicism edged into his thoughts: Kitty had seen through the

beard, otherwise she would have turned the affair over to the police.

Not at all like her mother, yet equally her mother's match in beauty and

intelligence. Conover's girl, whose eyes had nearly popped out of her

head at the first sight of those drum-lined walls of his.

Two-Hawks. What was it that was trying to stir in his recollection?

Two-Hawks. He was sure he had heard that name before. Hawksley meant

nothing at all; but Two-Hawks possessed a strange attraction. He stared

off into space. He might have heard the name in a tongue other than

English.

A sound. It came from the lips of the young man. Cutty frowned. The

poor chap wasn't breathing in a promising way; he groaned after each

inhalation. And what had become of the old fellow Kitty called Gregory?

A queer business.

Kitty came in with a basin and a roll of absorbent cotton.

"He is groaning!" she whispered.

"Pretty rocky condition, I should say. That handkerchief in his cap

doubtless saved him. Now, little lady, I frankly don't like the idea

of his being here. Suppose he dies? In that event there'll be the very

devil to pay. You're all alone here, without even a maid."

"Am I all alone?"--softly.

"Well, no; come to think of it, I'm no longer your godfather in theory.

Give me the cotton and hold the basin."

He was very tender. The wound bled a little; but it was not the kind

that bled profusely. It was less a cut than a smashing bruise.

"Well, that's all I can do. Who was this tenant Gregory?"

"A dear old man. A valet at a Broadway hotel. Oh, I forgot! Johnny

Two-Hawks called him Stefani Gregor."

"Stefani Gregor?"

"Yes. What is it? Why do you say it like that?"

"Say it like what?"--sparring for time.

"As if you had heard the name before?"

"Just as I thought!" cried Cutty, his nimble mind pouncing upon a

happy invention. "You're romantic, Kitty. You're imagining all sorts of

nonsense about this chap, and you must not let the situation intrigue

you. If I spoke the name oddly--this Stefani Gregor--it was because I

sensed in a moment that this was a bit of the overflow. Southeastern

Europe, where the good Samaritan gets kicked instead of thanked. Now,

here's a good idea. Of course we can't turn this poor chap loose upon

the public, now that we know his life is in danger. That's always the

trouble with this Samaritan business. When you commit a fine action

you assume an obligation. You hoist the Old Man of the Sea on your

shoulders, as it were. The chap cannot be allowed to remain here. So,

if Harrison agrees, we'll take him up to my diggings, where no Bolshevik

will ever lay eyes upon him."




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