re of
himself. But he is flat broke."

"He said he had money."

"Well, Karlov's men stripped him clean."

"Have you any idea who he is?"

"To be honest, that's one of the reasons why I want to keep him here.
He's Russian, for all his Oxford English and his Italian gestures; and
from his babble I imagine he's been through seven kinds of hell. Torches
and hobnailed boots and the incessant call for a woman named Olga--a
young woman about eighteen."

"How did you find that out?"

"From a photograph I found in the lining of his coat. A pretty blonde
girl."

"Good heavens!"--recollecting her dream. "Where was it printed?"

"Amateur photography. I'll pick it up on the way to the living room."

It was nothing like the blonde girl of her dream. Still, the girl was
charming. Kitty turned over the photograph. There was writing on the
back.

"Russian? What does it say?"

"'To Ivan from Olga with all her love.'"

Cutty was conscious of the presence of an indefensible malice in his
tones. Why the deuce should he be bitter--glad that the chap had left
behind a sweetheart? He knew exactly the basis of Kitty's interest, as
utterly detached as that of a reporter going to a fire. On the day the
patient could explain himself, Kitty's interest would automatically
cease. An old dog in the manger? Malice.

"Cutty, something dreadful has happened to this poor young woman. That's
what makes him cry out the name. Caught in that horror, and probably he
alone escaped. Is it heartless to be glad I'm an American? Do they let
in these Russians?"

"Not since the Trotzky regime. I imagine Two-Hawks slipped through on
some British passport. He'll probably tell us all about it when he comes
round. But how do you feel after last night's bout?"

"Alive! And I'm going on being alive, forever and ever! Oh, those awful
drums! They look like dead eyes in those dim corners. Tumpitum-tump!
Tumpitum-tump!" she cried, linking her arm in his. "What a gorgeous
view! Just what I'm going to do when my ship comes in--live in a loft. I
really believe I could write up here--I mean worth-while things I could
enjoy writing and sell."

"It's yours if you want it when I leave."

"And I'd have a fine time explaining to my friends! You old innocent!
... Or are you so innocent?"

"We do live in a cramped world. But I meant it. Don't forget to whistle
down to Tony Bernini when you get back home to-night."

"I promise.

"Why the gurgle?"

"Because I'