A phrase, apparently quite irrelevant to the situation, shot into Kitty's head. Moribund perspectives. Instantly she knew, with that foretasting mind of hers, that the man peering over the policeman's shoulder and Johnny Two-Hawks had met somewhere that day. She was now able to compare the results, and she placed the victory on Two-Hawks' brow. Yonder individual somehow justified the instinct that had prompted her to play the good Samaritan. Whence had this gorilla come? He was not one of the men who had issued in such dramatic haste from the Gregor apartment.

“This man here saw you and another carrying someone across the fire escape. What's the rumpus?” The policeman was not exactly belligerent, but he was dutifully determined. And though he was ready to grant that this girl with the Irish eyes was beautiful, a man never could tell.

“There's been a tragedy of some kind,” began Kitty. “This man certainly did see us carrying a man across the fire escape. He had been set upon and robbed in the apartment across the way.”

“Why didn't you call in the police?”

“Because he might have died before you got here.”

“Where's the man who helped you?”

“Gone. He was an outsider. He was afraid of getting mixed up in a police affair and ran away.” Behind the kitchen door Cutty smiled. She would do, this girl.

“Sounds all right,” said the policeman. “I'll take a look at the man.”

“This way, if you please,” said Kitty, readily. “You come, too, sir,” she added as the squat man hesitated. Kitty wanted to watch his expression when he saw Johnny Two-Hawks.

Seed on rocky soil; nothing came of the little artifice. No Buddha's graven face was less indicative than the squat man's. Perhaps his face was too sore to permit mobility of expression. The drollery of this thought caused a quirk in one corner of Kitty's mouth. The squat man stopped at the foot of the bed with the air of a mere passer-by and seemed more interested in the investigations of the policeman than in the man on the bed. But Kitty knew.

“A fine bang on the coco,” was the policeman's observation. “Take anything out of his pockets?”

“They were quite empty. I've sent for a military surgeon. He may arrive at any moment.”

“This fellow live across the way?”

“That's the odd part of it. No, he doesn't.”

“Then what was he doing there?”

“Probably awaiting the return of the real tenant who hasn't returned up to this hour”—with an oblique glance at the squat man.

“Kind o' queer. Say, you stay here and watch the lady while I scout round.”

The squat man nodded and leaned over the foot of the bed. The policeman stalked out.

“I was in the kitchen,” said Kitty, confidingly. “I saw shadows on the window curtain. It did not look right. So I started to inquire and almost bumped into two men leaving the apartment. They took to their heels when they saw me.”

Again the squat man nodded. He appeared to be a good listener.

“Where were you when we crossed the fire escape?”

“In the yard on the other side of the fence.” There was reluctance in the guttural voice.

“Oh, I see. You live there.”

As this was a supposition and not a direct query, the squat man wagged his head affirmatively.

Kitty, her ears strained for disquieting sounds in the kitchen, laid her palm on the patient's cheek. It was very hot. She dipped a bit of cotton into the water, which had grown cold, and dampened the wounded man's cheeks and throat. Not that she expected to accomplish anything by this act; it relieved the nerve tension. This man was no fool. If her surmises were correct he was a strong man both in body and in mind. In a rage he would be terrible. However, had Johnny Two-Hawks done it—beaten the man and escaped? No doubt he had been watching all the time and had at length stepped in to learn if his subordinates had followed his instructions and to what extent they had succeeded.

“If he dies it will be murder.”

“It is a big city.”

“And so many terrible things happen like this every day. But sooner or later those who commit them are found out. Nemesis always follows on the heels of vengeance.”

For the first time there was a flash of interest in the battered eyes of the intruder. Perhaps he saw that this was not only a pretty woman but a keen one, and sensed the veiled threat. Moreover, he knew that she had lied at one point. There had been no light in the room across the court.

But what in the world was happening out there in the kitchen? Kitty wondered. So far, not a sound. Had Cutty really taken flight? And why shouldn't he have faced it out at her side? Very odd on Cutty's part. Shortly she heard the heavy shoes of the policeman returning.

“Guess it's all right, miss. I'll report the affair at the precinct and have an ambulance sent over. You'll have to come along with me, sir.”

“Is that legally necessary?” asked the squat man, rather perturbed.

“Sure. You saw the thing and I verified it,” declared the policeman. “It won't take ten minutes. Your name and address, in case this man dies.”

“I see. Very well.”

Kitty wasn't sure, but the policeman seemed embarrassed about something. The directness was gone from his eyes and his speech was no longer brisk.

“My name is Conover,” said Kitty.

“I got that coming in,” replied the policeman. “We'll be on our way.”

Not once again did the squat man glance at the man on the bed. He followed the policeman into the hall, his air that of one who had accepted a certain obligation to community welfare and cancelled it.

Kitty shut the door—and leaned against it weakly. Where had Cutty gone? Even as she expressed the query she smelt burning tobacco. She ran out into the kitchen, to behold Cutty seated in a chair calmly smoking his infamous pipe!

“And I thought you were gone! What did you say to that policeman?”

“I hypnotized him, Kitty.”

“The newspaper?”

“No. Just looked into his eye and made a few passes with my hands.”

“Of course, if you believe you ought not to tell me—” said Kitty, which is the way all women start their wheedling.

Cutty looked into the bowl of his pipe.

“Kitty, when you throw a cobble into a pond, what happens? A splash. But did you ever notice the way the ripples have of running on and on, until they touch the farthest shore?”

“Yes. And this is a ripple from some big stone cast into the pond of southeastern Europe. I understand.”

“That's just the difficulty. If you understood nothing it would be much easier for me. But you know just enough to want to follow up on your own hook. I know nothing definitely; I have only suspicions. I calmed that policeman by showing him a blanket police power issued by the commissioner. I want you to pack up and move out of this neighbourhood. It's not congenial to you.”

“I'm afraid I can't afford to move until May.”

“I'll take care of that gladly, to get you out of this garlicky ruin.”

“No, Cutty; I'm going to stay here until the lease is up.”

“Gee-whiz! The Irish are all alike,” cried the war correspondent, hopelessly. “Petticoat or pantaloon, always looking for trouble.”

“No, Cutty; simply we don't run away from it. And there's just as much Irish in you as there is in me.”

“Sure! And for thirty years I've gone hunting for trouble, and never failed to find it. I don't like this affair, Kitty; and because I don't I'm going to risk my Samson locks in your lily-white hands. I am going to tell you two things: I am a secret foreign agent of the United States Government. Now don't light up that way. Dark alleys and secret papers and beautiful adventuresses and bang-bang have nothing at all to do with my job. There isn't a grain of romance in it. Ostensibly I am a war correspondent. I have handled all the big events in Serbia and Bulgaria and Greece and southwestern Russia. Boiled down, I am a census taker of undesirables. Socialist, anarchist and Bolshevik—I photograph them in my mental 'fillums' and transmit to Washington. Thus, when Feodor Slopeski lands at Ellis Island with the idea of blowing up New York, he is returned with thanks. I didn't ask for the job; it was thrust upon me because of my knowledge of the foreign tongues. I accepted it because I am a loyal American citizen.”

“And you left me because you' didn't know who might be at the door!”

“Precisely. I am known in lower New York under another name. I'm a rabid internationalist. Down with everything! I don't go out much these days; keep under cover as much as I can. Once recognized, my value would be nil. In a flannel shirt I'm a dangerous codger.”

“And Gregor and this poor young man are in some way mixed up with internationalism!”

“Victims, probably.”

“What is the other thing you wish to tell me?”

“Because your eyes are slate blue like your mother's. I loved your mother, Kitty,” said Cutty, blinking into his pipe. “And the singular fact is, your father knew but your mother never did. I was never able to tell your mother after your father died. Their bodies were separated, but not their spirits.”

Kitty nodded. So that was it? Poor Cutty!

“I make this confession because I want you to understand my attitude toward you. I am going to elect myself as your special guardian so long as I'm in New York. From now on, when I ask you to do something, understand that I believe it best for you. If my suspicions are correct we are not dealing with fools but with madmen. The most dangerous human being, Kitty, is an honest man with a half-baked or crooked idea; and that's what this world pother, Bolshevism, is—honest men with crooked ideas, carrying the torch of anarchism and believing it enlightenment. What makes them tear down things? Every beautiful building is only a monument to their former wretchedness; and so they annihilate. None of them actually knows what he wants. A thousand will-o'-the-wisps in front of them, and all alike. A thousand years to throw off the shackles, and they expect Utopia in ten minutes! It makes you want to weep. Socialism—the brotherhood of man—is a beautiful thing theoretically; but it is like some plays—they read well but do not act. Lopping off heads, believing them to be ideas!”

“The poor things!”

“That's it. Though I betray them I pity them. Democracy; slowly and surely. As prickly with faults as a cactus pear; but every year there are less prickles. We don't stand still or retrogress; we keep going on and up. Take this town. Think of It to-day and compare it with the town your father knew. There's the bell. I imagine that will be Harrison. If we can move this chap will you go to a hotel for the night?”

“I'm going to stay here, Cutty. That's final.”

Cutty sighed.