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chair。 Echoes。 The Tschaikowsky waltz。 She got up suddenly；
excused herself； and went to her room。
Six days； and her problem was still unsolved。 Something in her
… she could not define it； she could not reach it； it defied
analysis … something； then； revolted at the idea of marrying Cutty；
divorcing him； and living on his money。 There was a touch of
horror in the suggestion。 It was tearing her to pieces； this hidden
repellence。 And yet this occult objection was so utterly absurd。
If he died and left her a legacy she would accept it gratefully
enough。 Cutty's plan was only a method of circumventing this
indefinite wait。
Comforts； the good things of life； amusements … simply by nodding
her head。 Why not？ It wasn't as if Cutty was asking her to be
his wife； he wasn't。 Just wanted to dodge convention； and give her
freedom and happiness。 He was only giving her a mite out of his
income。 Because he had loved her mother； because； but for an
accident of chance； she； Kitty； might have been his daughter。 Why；
then； this persistent and unaccountable revulsion？ Why should she
hesitate？ The ancient female fear of the trap？ That could not be
it。 For a more honourable； a more lovable man did not walk the
earth。 Brave； strong； handsome； whimsical … why； Cutty was a catch！
Comfy。 Never any of that inherent doubt of man when she was with
him。 Absolute trust。 An evil thought had entered her head； fate
had made it honourably possible。 And still this mysterious
repellence。
Romance？ She was not surrendering her right to that。 What was a
year out of her life if afterward she would be in comfortable
circumstances； free to love where she willed？ She wasn't cheating
herself or Cutty： she was cheating convention； a flimsy thing at
best。
Windows。 We carry our troubles to our windows； through windows we
see the stars。 We cannot visualize God； but we can see His stars
pinned to the immeasurable spaces。 So Kitty sought her window and
added her question to the countless millions forlornly wandering
about up there； and finding no answer。
But she would return to New York on the morrow。 She would not
summon Bernini as she had promised。 She would go back by train；
alone； unhampered。
And in his cellar Boris Karlov spun his web for her。
CHAPTER XXVI
Hawksley heard the lift door close； and he knew that at last he was
alone。 He flung out his arms； ecstatically。 Free！ He would see
no more of that nagging beggar Ryan until tomorrow。 Free to put
into execution the idea that had been bubbling all day long in his
head； like a fine champagne； firing his blood with reckless
whimsicality。
Quietly he stole down the corridor。 Through a crack in the kitchen
door he saw Kuroki's back； the attitude of which was satisfying。
It signified that the Jap was pegging away at his endless studies
and that only the banging of the gong would rouse him。 The way was
as broad and clear as a street at dawn。 Not that Kuroki mattered；
only so long as he did not know； so much the better。
With careful step Hawksley manoeuvred his retreat so that it brought
him to Cutty's bedroom door。 The door was unlocked。 He entered
the room。 What a lark！ They would hide his own clothes； so much
the worse for the old beggar's wardrobe。 Street clothes。 Presently
he found a dark suit； commendable not so much for its style as for
the fact that it was the nearest fit he could find。 He had to roll
up the trouser hems。
Hats。 Chuckling like a boy rummaging a jam closet； he rifled the
shelves and pulled down a black derby of an unknown vintage。 Large；
but a runner of folded paper reduced the size。 As he pressed the
relic firmly down on his head he winced。 A stab over his eyes。 He
waited doubtfully； but there was no recurrence。 Fit as a fiddle。
Of course he could not stoop without a flash of vertigo； but on his
feet he was top…hole。 He was gaining every day。
Luck。 He might have come out of it with the blank mind of a newborn
babe； and here he was； keen to resume his adventures。 Luck。 They
had not stopped to see if he was actually dead。 Some passer…by in
the hall had probably alarmed them。 That handkerchief had carried
him round the brink。 Perhaps Fate intended letting him get through
… written on his pass an extension of his leave of absence。 Or she
had some new torture in reserve。
Now for a stout walking stick。 He selected a blackthorn； twirled it；
saluted； and posed before the mirror。 Not so bally rotten。 He would
pass。 Next； he remembered that there were some flowers in the
dining room … window boxes with scarlet geraniums。 He broke off a
sprig and drew it through his buttonhole。
Outside there was a cold； pale April sky； presaging wind and rain。
Unimportant。 He was going down into the streets for an hour or so。
The colour and action of a crowded street； the lure was irresistible。
Who would dare touch him in the crowd？ These rooms had suddenly
become intolerable。
He leaned against the side of the window。 Roofs； thousands of them；
flat； domed； pinnacled； and somewhere under one of these roofs
Stefani Gregor was eating his heart out。 It did not matter that
this queer old eagle whom everybody called Cutty had promised to
bring Stefani home。 It might be too late。 Stefani was old； highly
strung。 Who knew what infernal lies Karlov had told him？ Stefani
could stand up under physical torture； but to tear at his soul； to
twist and rend his spirit！
The bubble in the champagne died down … as it always will if one
permits it to stand。 He felt the old mood seep through the dikes
of his gayety。 Alone。 A familiar face … he would have dropped on
his knees and thanked God for the sight of a familiar face。 These
people； kindly as they were … what were they but strangers？
Yesterday he had not known them； to…morrow he would leave them
behind forever。 All at once the mystery of this bubbling idea was
bared： he was going to risk his life in the streets in the vague
hope of seeing some face he had known in the days before the world
had gone drunk on blood。 One familiar face。
Of course he would never forget … at any rate； not the girl whose
courage had made possible this hour。 Those chaps； scared off
temporarily； might have returned。 What had become of her？ He was
a1ways seeing her lovely face in the shadows； now tender； now
resolute； now mocking。 Doubtless he thought of her constantly
because his freedom of action was limited。 He hadn't diversion
enough。 Books and fiddling； these carried him but halfway through
the boredom。 Where was she？ Daily he had called her by telephone；
no answer。 The Jap shook his head； the slangy boy in the lift shook
his。
She was a thoroughbred； even if she had been born of middle …class
parentage。 He laughed bitterly。 Middle class。 A homeless；
countryless derelict； and he had the impudence to revert to
comparisons that no longer existed in this topsy…turvy old world。
He was an upstart。 The final curtain had dropped between him and
his world； and he was still thinking in the ancient make…up。 Middle
class！ He was no better than a troglodyte； set down in a new
wilderness