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also prepared his banker against your arrival。 Have your luggage
sent here at once； sir。 Dinner will be at your convenience。〃
Hawksley's body relaxed。 A lump came into his throat。 Here was a
friend； anyhow； ready to serve him though he was thousands of miles
away。
When he could trust himself to speak he said： 〃Sorry。 It will be
impossible to accept the hospitality at present。 I shall call in
a few days； however； to establish my identity。 Thank you。 Good
evening。〃
〃Just a moment； sir。 I may have an important cable to transmit to
you。 It would be wise to leave me your address； sir。〃
Hawksley hesitated a moment。 After all； he could trust this perfect
old servant； whom he remembered。 He gave the address。
As he came out of the booth the girl stretched forth an arm to
detain him。 He stopped。
〃I'm sorry I spoke like that；〃 she said。 〃But I'm so tired！ I've
been on my feet all day； and everybody's been barking and growling；
and if I'd taken in as many nickels as I've passed out in change the
boss would be rich。〃
〃Give me a dozen of those roses there。〃 She sold flowers also。
〃The pink ones。 How much？〃 he asked。
〃Two…fifty。〃
He laid down the money。 〃Never mind the box。 They are for you。
Good evening。〃
The girl stared at the flowers as Ali Baba must have stared at the
cask with rubies。
〃For me！〃 she whispered。 〃For nothing！〃
Her eyes blurred。 She never saw Hawksley again； but that was of
no importance。 She had a gentle deed to put away in the lavender
of recollection。
Outside Hawksley could see nothing of the man who had bought the
cigars。 At any rate； further dodging would be useless。 He would
go directly to his destination。 Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate
key to the apartment。 He could hide there for a day or two； then
visit Rathbone's banker at his residence in the night to establish
his identity。 Gregor could be trusted to carry the wallet and the
pouch to the bank。 Once these were walled in steel half the battle
would be over。 He would have nothing to guard thereafter but his
life。 He laughed brokenly。 Nothing but the clothes he stood in。
He never could claim the belongings he had been forced to leave in
that hotel back yonder。 But there was loyal old Gregor。 Somebody
would be honestly glad to see him。 The poor old chap！ Astonishing；
but of late he was always thinking in English。
He hailed the first free taxicab he saw； climbed in； and was driven
downtown。 He looked back constantly。 Was he followed？ There was
no way of telling。 The street was alive with vehicles tearing
north and south； with frequent stoppage for the passage of those
racing east and west。 The destination of Hawksley's cab was an
old…fashioned apartment house in Eightieth Street。
Gregor would have a meal ready； and it struck Hawksley forcibly
that he was hungry； that he had not touched food since the night
before。 Gregor； valeting in a hotel； pressing coats and trousers
and sewing on buttons！ Groggy old world； wasn't it？ Gregor；
pressing the trousers of the hoi polloi！ Gregor； who could have
sent New York mad with that old Stradivarius of his！ But Gregor
was wise。 Safety for him lay in obscurity； and what was more
obscure than a hotel valet？
He did not seek the elevator but mounted the first flight of stairs。
He saw two doors； one on each side of the landing。 He sought one；
stooped and peered at the card over the bell。 Conover。 Gregor's
was opposite。 Having a key he did not knock but unlocked the door
and stepped into the dark hall。
〃Stefani Gregor？〃 he called； joyously。 〃Stefani； my old friend； it
is I！〃
Silence。 But that was understandable。 Either Gregor had not
returned from his labours or he was out gathering the essentials
for the evening meal。 Judging from the variety of odours that swam
the halls of this human warren many suppers were in the process of
making； and the top flavour was garlic。 He sniffed pleasurably。
Not that the smell of garlic quickened his hunger。 It merely sent
his thought galloping backward a score of years。 He saw Stefani
Gregor and a small boy in mountain costume footing it sturdily
along the dizzy goat paths of the rugged hills； saw the two sitting
on some ruddy promontory and munching black bread rubbed with garlic。
Ambrosia！ His mother's horror； when she smelt his breath … as if
garlic had not been one of her birthrights！ His uncle； roaring out
in his bull's voice that black bread and garlic were good for little
boys' stomachs； and made the stuff of soldiers。 Black bread and
garlic and the Golden Age！
After he had flooded the hall with light he began a tour of
inspection。 The rooms were rather bare but clean and orderly。
Here and there were items that kept the homeland green in the
recollection。 He came to the bedroom last。 He hesitated for a
moment before opening the door。 The lights told him why Gregor had
not greeted his entering
hail。
The overturned reading lamp； the broken chair； the letters and
papers strewn about the floor； the rifled bureau drawers … these
things spoke plainly enough。 Gregor was a prisoner somewhere in
this vast city； or he was dead。
Hawksley stood motionless for a space。 And he must remain here at
least for a night and a day！ He would not dare risk another hotel。
He could； of course； go to the splendid Rathbone place； but it would
not be fair to invite tragedy across that threshold。
A ball of crushed paper at his feet attracted his attention。 He
kicked it absently； followed and picked it up； his thought on other
things。 He was aimlessly smoothing it out when an English word
caught his eye。 English！ He smoothed the crumpled sheet and read：
If you find this it is the will of God。 I have been watched
for several days； and am now convinced that they have always
known I was here but were leaving me alone for some unknown
purpose。 I roll this ball because anything folded and left
in a conspicuous place would be useless should they come for
me。 I understand。 It is you； poor boy。 They are watching
me in hopes of catching you； and I've no way to warn you not
to come here。 It was after I sent you the key that I learned
the truth。 God bless you and guard you！
STEFANI。
Hawksley tore the note into scraps。 Food and sleep。 He walked
toward the kitchen； musing。 What an odd mixture he was！
Superficially British； with the British outlook； and yet filled with
the dancing blood of the Latin and the cold； phlegmatic blood of the
Slav。 He was like a schoolmaster with two students too big for him
to handle。 Always the Latin was dispossessing the Slav or the Slav
was ousting the Latin。 With fatalistic confidence that nevermore
would he look upon the kindly face of Stefani Gregor； alive； he went
in search of food。
Not a crust did he find。 In the ice…chest there was a bottle of
milk … soured。 Hungry； and not a crumb！ And he dared not go out
in search of food。 No one had observed his entrance to the
apartment； but it was improbable that such luck would attend
him a second time。
He returned to the bedroom。