ngular revelation cleared one corner. Kitty had spoken of a
problem; and he, by those devil-urged kisses, had solved it for her. She
had been doddering, and his own act had thrust her into the arms of that
old thoroughbred. That cynical suggestion of his the other morning
had been acted upon. God had long ago deserted him, and now the devil
himself had taken leave. Hawksley buried his face in the pillow once
made wet with Kitty's tears.

The great tragedy in life lies in being too late. Hawksley had learned
this once before; it was now being driven home again. Cutty was to find
it out on the morrow, for he missed his train that night.

The shuttles of the Weaver in this pattern of life were two green stones
called the drums of jeopardy, inanimate objects, but perfect tools
in the hands of Destiny. But for these stones Hawksley would not
have tarried too long on a certain red night; Cutty would not now be
stumbling about the labyrinths into which his looting instincts had
thrust him; and Kitty Conover would have jogged along in the humdrum
rut, if not happy at least philosophically content with her lot.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Decision is always a mental relief, hesitance a curse. Kitty, having
shifted her burdens to the broad shoulders of Cutty, felt as she reached
the lobby as if she had left storm and stress behind and entered calm.
She would marry Cutty; she had published the fact, burned her bridges.

She had stepped into the car, her heart full of cold fury. Now she began
to find excuses for Hawksley's conduct. A sick brain; he was not really
accountable for his acts. Her own folly had opened the way. Of course
she would never see him again. Why should she? Their lives were as far
apart as the Volga and the Hudson.

Bernini met her in the lobby. "I've got a cab for you, Miss Conover," he
said as if nothing at all had happened.

"Have you Cutty's address?"

"Yes."

"Then take me at once to a telegraph office. I have a very important
message to send him."

"All right, Miss Conover."

"Say: 'Decision made. It is yes.' And sign it just Kitty."

Without being conscious of it her soul was still in the clouds, where it
had been driven by the music of the fiddle; thus, what she assumed to be
a normal sequence of a train of thought was only a sublime impulse. She
would marry Cutty. More, she would be his wife, his true wife. For his
tenderness, his generosity, his chivalry, she would pay him in kind.
There wou