sed an unpalatable
suggestion. He evidently looked fatherly, no matter how he felt. Hang
these fifty-two years, to come crowding his doorstep all at once!

He raised his head and laughed. He suddenly remembered now. At nine that
night he had been scheduled to deliver a lecture on the Italo-Jugoslav
muddle before a distinguished audience in the ballroom of a famous
hotel! He would have some fancy apologizing to do in the morning.

He stepped into a doorway, then peered out cautiously. There was not a
single pedestrian in sight. No need of hiking any further in this
rain; so he hunted for a taxi. To-morrow he would set the wires humming
relative to old Stefani Gregor. Boris Karlov, if indeed it were he,
would lead the way. Hadn't Stefani and Boris been boyhood friends, and
hadn't Stefani betrayed the latter in some political affair? He wasn't
sure; but a glance among his 1912 notes would clear up the fog.

But that young chap! Who was he? Cutty set his process of logical
deduction moving. Karlov--always supposing that gorilla was Karlov--had
come in from the west. So had the young man. Gregor's inclinations had
been toward the aristocracy; at least, that had been the impression. A
Bolshevik would not seek haven with a man like Gregor, as this young man
had. But Two-Hawks bothered him; the name bothered him, because it had
no sense either in English or in Russian. And yet he was sure he had
heard it somewhere. Perhaps his notes would throw some light on that
subject, too.

When he arrived home Miss Frances, the nurse, informed him that the
patient was babbling in an outlandish tongue. For a long time Cutty
stood by the bedside, translating.

"Olga!... Olga!... And she gave me food, Stefani, this charming American
girl. Never must we forget that. I was hungry, and she gave me food....
But I paid for it. You, gone, there was no one else.... And she is
poor.... The torches!... I am burning, burning!... Olga!"

"What does he say?" asked the nurse.

"It is Russian. Is it a crisis?" he evaded.

"Not necessarily. Doctor Harrison said he would probably return to
consciousness sometime to-morrow. But he must have absolute quiet. No
visitors. A bad blow, but not of fatal consequence. I've seen hundreds
of cases much worse pull out in a fortnight. You'd better go to bed,
sir."

"All right," said Cutty, gratefully. He was tired. The ball did not
rebound as it used to; the resilience was petering out. But look alive,
there!