When she reached the office she had a hard time of it to settle down to

the day's work.

"Hustle up that Sunday stuff," said Burlingame. Kitty laughed. Just as

she had pictured it. She hustled.

"I have it!" she cried, breaking a spell of silence.

"What--St. Vitus?" inquired Burlingame, patiently.

"No; the Morgue!"

"What the dickens--!"

But Kitty was no longer there to answer.

In all newspaper offices there is a department flippantly designated

as the Morgue. Obituaries on ice, as it were. A photograph or an item

concerning a great man, a celebrated, beauty or some notorious rogue;

from the king calibre down to Gyp-the-Blood brand, all indexed and laid

away against the instant need. So, running her finger tip down the K's,

Kitty found Karlov. The half tone which she eventually exhumed from the

tin box was an excellent likeness of the human gorilla who had entered

her rooms with the policeman. She would be able to carry this positive

information to Cutty that afternoon.

When she left the office at four she took the Subway to Forty-second

Street. She engaged a taxi from the Knickerbocker and discharged it at

the north entrance to the Waldorf, which she entered. She walked through

to the south entrance and got into another taxi. She left this at

Wanamaker's, ducking and dodging through the crowded aisles. She

selected this hour because, being a woman, she knew that the press of

shoppers would be the greatest during the day. Karlov's man and

the secret-service operative detailed by Cutty both made the same

mistake--followed Kitty into the dry-goods shop and lost her as

completely as if she had popped up in China. At quarter to five she

stepped into Elevator Number Four of the building which Cutty called his

home, very well pleased with herself.




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