n islands
floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through the
shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the waste of space.
. . .

But the thing that tantalized him about her and filled him with despair
was that, though one moment she might be the first woman in the
birthday of the world filled with the primitive emotions of the
explorer, the next she was a cool, Paris-gowned-and-shod young modern,
about as competent to meet emergencies as anything yet devised by
heaven and a battling race.

They crossed to Morningside Park and moved through it to the northern
end where the remains of Fort Laight, built to protect the approach to
the city during the War of 1812, can still be seen and traced.

Beatrice had read the story of the earthworks. In the midst of the
telling of it she stopped to turn upon him with swift accusation,
"You're not listening."

"That's right, I wasn't," he admitted.

"Have you heard something about your cigarette girl?"

Clay was amazed at the accuracy of her center shot.

"Yes." He showed her the newspaper.

She read. The golden head nodded triumphantly. "I told you she could
look out for herself. You see when she had lost you she knew enough to
advertise."

Was there or was there not a faint note of malice in the girl's voice?
Clay did not know. But it would have neither surprised nor displeased
him. He had long since discovered that his imperious little friend was
far from an angel.

At his rooms he found a note awaiting him.

Come to-night after eleven. I am locked in the west rear room of the
second story. Climb up over the back porch. Don't make any noise.
The window will be unbolted. A friend is mailing this. For God's
sake, don't fail me.

The note was signed "Kitty." Below were given the house and street
number. Clay studied the letter a long time--the wording of it, the
formation of the letters, the spirit that had actuated the writer. It
was written upon a sheet of cheap lined paper torn from a pad. The
envelope was one of those sold at the post-office already stamped.

Was the note genuine? Or did it lead to a trap? He could not tell.
It might be a plant or it might be a wail of real distress. There was
only one way to find out unless he went to the police. That way was to
go through with the adventure. The police! Clay went back to the
thought of them several times. The truth was that he had put himself
out of co