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。 He did not turn on the light because
a novel idea had blossomed unexpectedly … a Latin idea。 There might
be food on some window ledge。 He would leave payment。 He proceeded
to the window； throwing up both it and the curtain； and looked out。
Ripping！ There was a fire escape。
As he slipped a leg over the sill a golden square sprang into
existence across the way。 Immediately he forgot his foraging
instincts。 In a moment he was all Latin； always susceptible to the
enchantment
of beauty。
The distance across the court was less than forty feet。 He could
see the girl quite plainly as she set about the preparation of her
evening meal。 He forgot his danger； his hunger； his code of ethics；
which did not permit him to gaze at a young woman through a window。
Alone。 He was alone and she was alone。 A novel idea popped into
his head。 He chuckled； and the sound of that chuckle in his ears
somehow brought back his resolve to carry on； to pass out； if so he
must； fighting。 He would knock on yonder window and ask the
beautiful lady slavey for a bit of her supper！
CHAPTER IV
Kitty Conover had inherited brains and beauty； and nothing else but
the furniture。 Her father had been a famous reporter； the admiration
of cubs from New York to San Francisco； handsome； happy…go…lucky；
generous； rather improvident； and wholly lovable。 Her mother had
been a comedy actress noted for her beauty and wit and extravagance。
Thus it will be seen that Kitty was in luck to inherit any furniture
at all。
Kitty was twenty…four。 A body is as old as it is； but a brain is as
old as the facts it absorbs； and Kitty had absorbed enough facts to
carry her brain well into the thirties。
Conover had been dead twenty years； and Kitty had scarcely any
recollections of him。 Improvident as the run of newspaper writers
are； Conover had fulfilled one obligation to his family … he had kept
up his endowment policies； and for eighteen years the insurance had
taken care of Kitty and her mother； who because of a weak ankle had
not been able to return to the scenes of her former triumphs。 In
1915 this darling mother； whom Kitty loved to idolatry； had passed on。
There was enough for the funeral and the cleaning up of the bills；
but that was all。 The income ceased with Mrs。 Conover's demise。
Kitty saw that she must give up writing short stories which nobody
wanted； and go to work。 So she proceeded at once to the newspaper
office where her father's name was still a tradition； and applied
for a job。 It was frankly a charity job； but Kitty was never to
know that because she fell into the newspaper game naturally； and
when they discovered her wide acquaintance among theatrical
celebrities they switched her into the dramatic department； where
she had astonishing success as a raconteur。 She was now assistant
dramatic editor of the Sunday issue； and her pay envelope had four
crisp ten…dollar notes in it each Monday。
She still remained in the old apartment； sentiment as much as
anything。 She had been born in it and her happiest days had been
spent there。 She lived alone； without help； being one of that
singular type of womanhood that is impervious to the rust of
loneliness。 Her daily activities sufficed the gregarious
instincts； and it was often a relief to move about in silence
Among other things Kitty had foresight。 She had learned that a
little money in the background was the most satisfying thing in
existence。 So many times she and her mother had just reached the
insurance check； with grumbling bill collectors in the hall； that
she was determined never to be poor。 She had to fight constantly
her love of finery inherited from her mother； and her love of good
times inherited from her father。 So she established a bank account；
and to date had not drawn a check against it； which speaks well for
her will power； an attribute cultivated； not inherited。
Kitty was as pleasing to the eye as a basket of fruit。 Her beauty
was animated。 There was an expression in her eyes and on her lips
that spoke of laughter always on tiptoe。 An enviable inheritance；
this； the desire to laugh； to be searching always for a vent to
laughter； it is something money cannot buy； something not to be
cultivated； a true gift of the gods。 This desire to laugh is found
invariably in the tender and valorous； and Kitty was both。 Brown
hair with running threads of gold that was always catching light；
slate…blue eyes with heavy black fringe…Irish； colour that waxed
and waned； and a healthy； shapely body。 Topped by a sparkling
intellect these gifts made Kitty desirable of men。
Kitty had no beau。 After the adolescent days beaux ceased to
interest her。 This would indicate that she was inclined toward
suffrage。 Nothing of the kind。 Intensely romantic； she determined
to await the grand passion or go it alone。 No experimental
adventures for her。 Be assured that she weighed every new man she
met； and finding some flaw discarded him as a matrimonial
possibility。 Besides； her unusual fa