ing Kuroki makes.... Tastes better, too. You're going to make some
lucky duffer a fine wife."

"Is there anything you can tell me, Cutty?"

"A whole lot, Kitty; only I'm twenty years too old."

"I mean the wallet. Who is he?"

Cutty drained the cup slowly. A good coherent lie, to appease Kitty's
curiosity; half a truth, something hard to nail. He set down the empty
cup, building. By the time he had filled his pipe and lit it he was
ready.

Something bored up through the subconscious, however--a query. Why
hadn't he told her the plain truth at the start? Wasn't on account of
the drums. He hadn't kept her in the dark because of the drums. He could
have trusted her with that part of it--his tentative piracy. That to
divulge Hawksley's identity would be a menace to her peace of mind now
appeared ridiculous; and yet he had worked forward from this assumption.
No answer to the query. Generally he thought clearly enough; but
somewhere along this route he had made a muddle of things and couldn't
find the spot. The only point clearly defined was that he should wish
to keep her out of the affair because there were elements of positive
danger. But somewhere inside of him was a question asking for
recognition, and it eluded him. Nothing could be solved until this
question got out of the fog. Even now he might risk the whole truth; but
the lie he had woven appeared too good to waste.

Human frailty. The most accomplished human being is the finished liar.
Never to forget a detail, to remember step by step the windings, over a
ticklish road. And Cutty, for all his wide newspaper experience, was a
poor liar because he had been brought up on facts. Perhaps his lie might
have passed had he not been so fagged. The physical labours of the night
had dulled his perceptions.

"Ab, but that tastes good!"--as he blew forth a wavering ring of smoke.

"It ought to have at least one merit," replied Kitty, wrinkling her
nose. What a fine profile Cutty had! "Now, who and what is he? I'm dying
to know."

"An odd story; probably hundreds like it. You see, the Bolsheviki have
driven out of the country or killed all the nobles and bourgeoisie. Some
of them have escaped--into China, Sweden, India, wherever they could
find an open route. To his story there are many loose ends, and Hawksley
is not the talking kind. You mustn't repeat what I tell you. Hawksley,
with all that money and a forged English passport, would have a good
deal of trouble e