he letter into the kitchen. Apparently her unwelcome guest had not
stirred. The revolver was where he had laid it.

"Read this," she said.

The visitor glanced through it. "It is Gregor's hand. Poor old chap! I
shall never forgive my self."

"For what?"

"For dragging him into this. They must have intercepted one of my
telegrams." He stared dejectedly at the strip of oilcloth in front of
the range. "You are an American?"

"Yes."

"God has been exceedingly kind to your country. I doubt if you will ever
know how kind. I'll take myself off. No sense in compromising you."
He laid a folded handkerchief inside his cap which he put on. "Know
anything about this?"--indicating the revolver.

"Nothing whatever."

"Permit me to show you. It is loaded; there are five bullets in the
clip. See this little latch? So, it is harmless. So, and you kill with
it."

"It is horrible!" cried Kitty. "Take it with you please. I could not
keep my eyes open to shoot it."

"These are troublous times. All women should know something about small
arms. Again I thank you. For your own sake I trust that we may never
meet again. Good-bye." He stepped out of the window and vanished.

Kitty, at a mental impasse, could only stare into the night beyond the
window. This mesmeric state endured for a minute; then a gentle and
continuous sound dissipated the spell. It was raining. Obliquely she
saw the burnt egg in the pan. The thing had happened; she had not been
dreaming.

Her brain awoke. Thought crowded thought; before one matured another
displaced it; and all as futile as the sparks from the anvil. An
avalanche of conjecture; and out of it all eventually emerged one
concrete fact. The man Was honest. His hunger had been honest; his
laughter. Who was he, what was he? For all his speech, not English; for
all his gestures, not Italian. Moribund perspectives. Somewhere that day
he had fought for his life. John Two-Hawks.

And there was the mysterious evanishment of old Gregory, whose name was
Stefani Gregor. In a humdrum, prosaic old apartment like this!

Kitty had ideas about adventure--an inheritance, though she was not
aware of that. There had to be certain ingredients, principally mystery.
Anything sordid must not be permitted to edge in. She had often gone
forth upon semi-perilous enterprises as a reporter, entered sinister
houses where crimes had been committed, but always calculating how much
copy at eight dollars a column could be sq