ion of fire.

Who he was and what he was, by a simple turn of the wrist. It was
Cutty's affair now, not hers. He had a legal right to examine the
contents. He was an agent of the Federal Government. The drums of
jeopardy and Stefani Gregor and Johnny Two-Hawks, all interwoven. She
had waited in vain for Cutty to mention the emeralds. What signified his
silence? She had indirectly apprised him of the fact that she knew
the author of that advertisement offering to purchase the drums, no
questions asked. Who but Cutty in New York would know about them? The
mark of the thong. Johnny Two-Hawks had been carrying the drums, and
Karlov's men had torn them from their victim's neck during the battle.
Was there any reason why Cutty should not have taken her completely into
his confidence? Palaces looted. If Stefani Gregor had lived in a palace,
why not his protege? Still, it was possible Cutty was holding back until
he could tell her everything.

But what to do with it? If she called him up and made known her
discovery, Cutty would rush up as fast as a taxicab could bring him.
He had peremptorily ordered her not to come to his apartment for the
present. But to sit here and wait, to be alone again after he had gone!
It was not to be borne. Orders or no orders, she would carry the wallet
to him. He could lecture her as much as he pleased. To-night, at least,
she would lay aside her part as parlour maid in the drama. It would give
her something to do, keep her mind off herself. Nothing but excitement
would pull her out of this semi-hysterical doldrum.

She hid the wallet in the pocket of her underskirt. Already her blood
was beginning to dance. She ran into her bedroom for two veils, a gray
automobile puggree and one of those heavy black affairs with butterflies
scattered over it, quite as effectual as a mask. She wound the puggree
about her hat. When the right moment came she would discard the
puggree and drop the black veil. Her coat was of dark blue, lined with
steel-gray taffeta. Turned inside out it would fool any man. She wore
spats. These she would leave behind when she made the change.

Someone might follow her as far as the Knickerbocker, but beyond there,
never. She was sorry, but she dared not warn Bernini. He might object,
notify Cutty, and spoil everything.

By the time she reached the street exhilaration suffused her. The
melancholia was gone. The sinister and cynical idea had vanished
apparently. Apparently. Merel