rowling; and if I'd
taken in as many nickels as I've passed out in change the boss would be
rich."

"Give me a dozen of those roses there." She sold flowers also. "The pink
ones. How much?" he asked.

"Two-fifty."

He laid down the money. "Never mind the box. They are for you. Good
evening."

The girl stared at the flowers as Ali Baba must have stared at the cask
with rubies.

"For me!" she whispered. "For nothing!"

Her eyes blurred. She never saw Hawksley again; but that was of no
importance. She had a gentle deed to put away in the lavender of
recollection.

Outside Hawksley could see nothing of the man who had bought the cigars.
At any rate, further dodging would be useless. He would go directly
to his destination. Old Gregor had sent him a duplicate key to the
apartment. He could hide there for a day or two; then visit Rathbone's
banker at his residence in the night to establish his identity. Gregor
could be trusted to carry the wallet and the pouch to the bank. Once
these were walled in steel half the battle would be over. He would have
nothing to guard thereafter but his life. He laughed brokenly. Nothing
but the clothes he stood in. He never could claim the belongings he had
been forced to leave in that hotel back yonder. But there was loyal old
Gregor. Somebody would be honestly glad to see him. The poor old chap!
Astonishing, but of late he was always thinking in English.

He hailed the first free taxicab he saw, climbed in, and was driven
downtown. He looked back constantly. Was he followed? There was no way
of telling. The street was alive with vehicles tearing north and south,
with frequent stoppage for the passage of those racing east and west.
The destination of Hawksley's cab was an old-fashioned apartment house
in Eightieth Street.

Gregor would have a meal ready; and it struck Hawksley forcibly that he
was hungry, that he had not touched food since the night before. Gregor,
valeting in a hotel, pressing coats and trousers and sewing on buttons!
Groggy old world, wasn't it? Gregor, pressing the trousers of the
hoi polloi! Gregor, who could have sent New York mad with that old
Stradivarius of his! But Gregor was wise. Safety for him lay in
obscurity; and what was more obscure than a hotel valet?

He did not seek the elevator but mounted the first flight of stairs. He
saw two doors, one on each side of the landing. He sought one, stooped
and peered at the card over the bell. Conover. Gregor'