need. So, running her finger tip down the K's,
Kitty found Karlov. The half tone which she eventually exhumed from the
tin box was an excellent likeness of the human gorilla who had entered
her rooms with the policeman. She would be able to carry this positive
information to Cutty that afternoon.

When she left the office at four she took the Subway to Forty-second
Street. She engaged a taxi from the Knickerbocker and discharged it at
the north entrance to the Waldorf, which she entered. She walked through
to the south entrance and got into another taxi. She left this at
Wanamaker's, ducking and dodging through the crowded aisles. She
selected this hour because, being a woman, she knew that the press of
shoppers would be the greatest during the day. Karlov's man and
the secret-service operative detailed by Cutty both made the same
mistake--followed Kitty into the dry-goods shop and lost her as
completely as if she had popped up in China. At quarter to five she
stepped into Elevator Number Four of the building which Cutty called his
home, very well pleased with herself.

CHAPTER XIII

To understand Kitty at this moment one must be able to understand the
Irish; and nobody does or can or will. Consider her twenty-four
years, her corpuscular inheritance, the love of drama and the love of
adventure. Imagine possessing sound ideas of life and the ability
to apply them, and spiritually always galloping off on some broad
highway--more often than not furnished by some engaging scoundrel of
a novelist--and you will be able to construct a half tone of Kitty
Conover.

That civilization might be actually on its deathbed, that positively
half of the world was starving and dying and going mad through the
reaction of the German blight touched her in a detached way. She felt
sorry, dreadfully sorry, for the poor things; but as she could not help
them she dismissed them from her thoughts every morning after she had
read the paper, the way most of us do here in these United States. You
cannot grapple with the misery of an unknown person several thousand
miles away.

That which had taken place during the past twenty-four hours was to her
a lark, a blindman's buff for grown-ups. It was not in her to tremble,
to shudder, to hesitate, to weigh this and to balance that. Irish
curiosity. Perhaps in the original that immortal line read: "The
Irish rush in where angels fear to tread," and some proofreader had a
particular grudge agai