left
in a conspicuous place would be useless should they come for
me. I understand. It is you, poor boy. They are watching
me in hopes of catching you, and I've no way to warn you not
to come here. It was after I sent you the key that I learned
the truth. God bless you and guard you!
STEFANI.

Hawksley tore the note into scraps. Food and sleep. He walked toward the
kitchen, musing. What an odd mixture he was! Superficially British, with
the British outlook; and yet filled with the dancing blood of the Latin
and the cold, phlegmatic blood of the Slav. He was like a schoolmaster
with two students too big for him to handle. Always the Latin was
dispossessing the Slav or the Slav was ousting the Latin. With
fatalistic confidence that nevermore would he look upon the kindly face
of Stefani Gregor, alive, he went in search of food.

Not a crust did he find. In the ice-chest there was a bottle of
milk--soured. Hungry; and not a crumb! And he dared not go out in search
of food. No one had observed his entrance to the apartment, but it was
improbable that such luck would attend him a second time.

He returned to the bedroom. He did not turn on the light because a novel
idea had blossomed unexpectedly--a Latin idea. There might be food on
some window ledge. He would leave payment. He proceeded to the window,
throwing up both it and the curtain, and looked out. Ripping! There was
a fire escape.

As he slipped a leg over the sill a golden square sprang into existence
across the way. Immediately he forgot his foraging instincts. In a
moment he was all Latin, always susceptible to the enchantment of
beauty.

The distance across the court was less than forty feet. He could see the
girl quite plainly as she set about the preparation of her evening meal.
He forgot his danger, his hunger, his code of ethics, which did not
permit him to gaze at a young woman through a window.

Alone. He was alone and she was alone. A novel idea popped into his
head. He chuckled; and the sound of that chuckle in his ears somehow
brought back his resolve to carry on, to pass out, if so he must,
fighting. He would knock on yonder window and ask the beautiful lady
slavey for a bit of her supper!

CHAPTER IV

Kitty Conover had inherited brains and beauty, and nothing else but the
furniture. Her father had been a famous reporter, the admiration of
cubs from New York to San