ociation with Molly's daughter. He wanted Kitty for himself, wanted
her with every fibre in his body, fiercely. And never could he tell
her--now.

The tragic irony of it all numbed him. Fate hadn't played the game
fairly. He was fifty-two, on the far side of the plateau, near sunset.
It wasn't a square deal.

Still he stood there on the sidewalk, like a rock in the middle of a
turbulent stream, rejecting selfish thoughts. Marry Kitty, and tell her
the truth afterward. He knew the blood of her--loyalest of the loyal.
He could if he chose play that sort of game--cheat her. He could not
withdraw his proposition. If she accepted it he would have to carry it
through. Cheat her.

CHAPTER XXV

Kitty hung up her hat and coat. She did not pat her hair or tuck in the
loose ends before the mirror--a custom as invariable as sunrise. The
coat tree stood at the right of the single window, and out of this
window Kitty stared solemnly, at everything and at nothing.

Burlingame eyed her seriously. Cutty had given him a glimmer of the
tale--enough to make known to him that this pretty, sensible girl,
though no fault of her own, was in the shadow of some actual if unknown
danger. And Cutty wanted her out of town for a few days. Burlingame had
intended sending Kitty out of town on an assignment during Easter week.
An exchange of telegrams that morning had closed the gap in time.

"Well, you might say 'Good morning.'"

"I beg your pardon, Burly!" In newspaper offices you belong at once or
you never belong; and to belong is to have your name sheared to as
few syllables as possible. You are formal only to the city editor, the
managing editor, and the auditor.

"What's the matter?"

"I've been set in the middle of a fairy story," said Kitty, "and I'm
wondering if it's worth the trouble to try to find a way out. A Knight
of the Round Table, a prince of chivalry. What would you say if you saw
one in spats and a black derby?"

"Why," answered Burlingame, "I suppose I'd consider July first as the
best thing that could happen to me."

Kitty laughed; and that was what he wanted.

What had that old rogue been doing now--offering Kitty his
eighteen-story office building?

"It's odd, isn't it, that I shouldn't possess a little histrionic
ability. You'd think it would be in my blood to act."

"It is, Kitty; only not to mimic. You're an actress, but the Big
Dramatist writes your business for you. Now, I've got some fairly good
ne