the drums of jeopardy-第4部分

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would　be　over。　　He　would　have　nothing　to　guard　thereafter　but　his
life。　　He　laughed　brokenly。　　Nothing　but　the　clothes　he　stood　in。
He　never　could　claim　the　belongings　he　had　been　forced　to　leave　in
that　hotel　back　yonder。　　But　there　was　loyal　old　Gregor。　　Somebody
would　be　honestly　glad　to　see　him。　　The　poor　old　chap！　　Astonishing；
but　of　late　he　was　always　thinking　in　English。

He　hailed　the　first　free　taxicab　he　saw；　climbed　in；　and　was　driven
downtown。　　He　looked　back　constantly。　　Was　he　followed？　　There　was
no　way　of　telling。　　The　street　was　alive　with　vehicles　tearing
north　and　south；　with　frequent　stoppage　for　the　passage　of　those
racing　east　and　west。　　The　destination　of　Hawksley's　cab　was　an
old…fashioned　apartment　house　in　Eightieth　Street。

Gregor　would　have　a　meal　ready；　and　it　struck　Hawksley　forcibly
that　he　was　hungry；　that　he　had　not　touched　food　since　the　night
before。　　Gregor；　valeting　in　a　hotel；　pressing　coats　and　trousers
and　sewing　on　buttons！　　Groggy　old　world；　wasn't　it？　　Gregor；
pressing　the　trousers　of　the　hoi　polloi！　　Gregor；　who　could　have
sent　New　York　mad　with　that　old　Stradivarius　of　his！　　But　Gregor
was　wise。　　Safety　for　him　lay　in　obscurity；　and　what　was　more
obscure　than　a　hotel　valet？

He　did　not　seek　the　elevator　but　mounted　the　first　flight　of　stairs。
He　saw　two　doors；　one　on　each　side　of　the　landing。　　He　sought　one；
stooped　and　peered　at　the　card　over　the　bell。　　Conover。　　Gregor's
was　opposite。　　Having　a　key　he　did　not　knock　but　unlocked　the　door
and　stepped　into　the　dark　hall。

〃Stefani　Gregor？〃　he　called；　joyously。　　〃Stefani；　my　old　friend；　it
is　I！〃

Silence。　　But　that　was　understandable。　　Either　Gregor　had　not
returned　from　his　labours　or　he　was　out　gathering　the　essentials
for　the　evening　meal。　　Judging　from　the　variety　of　odours　that　swam
the　halls　of　this　human　warren　many　suppers　were　in　the　process　of
making；　and　the　top　flavour　was　garlic。　　He　sniffed　pleasurably。
Not　that　the　smell　of　garlic　quickened　his　hunger。　　It　merely　sent
his　thought　galloping　backward　a　score　of　years。　　He　saw　Stefani
Gregor　and　a　small　boy　in　mountain　costume　footing　it　sturdily
along　the　dizzy　goat　paths　of　the　rugged　hills；　saw　the　two　sitting
on　some　ruddy　promontory　and　munching　black　bread　rubbed　with　garlic。
Ambrosia！　　His　mother's　horror；　when　she　smelt　his　breath　…　as　if
garlic　had　not　been　one　of　her　birthrights！　　His　uncle；　roaring　out
in　his　bull's　voice　that　black　bread　and　garlic　were　good　for　little
boys'　stomachs；　and　made　the　stuff　of　soldiers。　　Black　bread　and
garlic　and　the　Golden　Age！

After　he　had　flooded　the　hall　with　light　he　began　a　tour　of
inspection。　　The　rooms　were　rather　bare　but　clean　and　orderly。
Here　and　there　were　items　that　kept　the　homeland　green　in　the
recollection。　　He　came　to　the　bedroom　last。　　He　hesitated　for　a
moment　before　opening　the　door。　　The　lights　told　him　why　Gregor　had
not　greeted　his　entering
hail。

The　overturned　reading　lamp；　the　broken　chair；　the　letters　and
papers　strewn　about　the　floor；　the　rifled　bureau　drawers　…　these
things　spoke　plainly　enough。　　Gregor　was　a　prisoner　somewhere　in
this　vast　city；　or　he　was　dead。

Hawksley　stood　motionless　for　a　space。　　And　he　must　remain　here　at
least　for　a　night　and　a　day！　　He　would　not　dare　risk　another　hotel。
He　could；　of　course；　go　to　the　splendid　Rathbone　place；　but　it　would
not　be　fair　to　invite　tragedy　across　that　threshold。

A　ball　of　crushed　paper　at　his　feet　attracted　his　attention。　　He
kicked　it　absently；　followed　and　picked　it　up；　his　thought　on　other
things。　　He　was　aimlessly　smoothing　it　out　when　an　English　word
caught　his　eye。　　English！　　He　smoothed　the　crumpled　sheet　and　read：

　　If　you　find　this　it　is　the　will　of　God。　　I　have　been　watched
　　for　several　days；　and　am　now　convinced　that　they　have　always
　　known　I　was　here　but　were　leaving　me　alone　for　some　unknown
　　purpose。　　I　roll　this　ball　because　anything　folded　and　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　Francisco；　handsome；　happy…go…lucky；
generous；　rather　improvident；　and　wholly　lovable。　　Her　mother　had
been　a　comedy　actress　noted　for　her　beauty　and　wit　and　extravagance。
Thus　it　will　be　seen　that　Kitty　was　in　luck　to　inherit　any　furniture
at　all。

Kitty　was　twenty…four。　　A　body　is　as　old　as　it　is；　but　a　brain　is　as
old　as　the　facts　it　absorbs；　and　Kitty　had　absorbed　enough　facts　to
carry　her　brain　well　into　the　thirties。

Conover　had　been　dead　twenty　years；　and　Kitty　had　scarcely　any
recollections　of　him。　　Improvident　as　the　run　of　newspaper　writers
are；　Conover　had　fulfilled　one　obligation　to　his　family　…　he　had　kept
up　his　endowment　policies；　and　for　eighteen　years　the　insurance　had
taken　care　of　Kitty　and　her　mother；　who　because　of　a　weak　ankle　had
not　been　able　to　return　to　the　scenes　of　her　former　triumphs。　　In
1915　this　darling　mother；　whom　Kitty　loved　to　idolatry；　had　passed　on。

There　was　enough　for　the　funeral　and　the　cleaning　up　of　the　bills；
but　that　was　all。　　The　income　ceased　with　Mrs。　Conover's　demise。
Kitty　saw　that　she　must　give　up　writing　short　stories　which　nobody
wanted；　and　go　to　work。　　So　she　proceeded　at　once　to　the　newspaper
office　where　her　father's　name　was　still　a　tradition；　and　applied
for　a　job。　　It　was　frankly　a　charity　job；　but　Kitty　was　never　to
know　that　because　she　fell　into　the　newspaper　game　naturally；　and
when　they　discovered　her　wide　acquaintance　among　theatrical
celebrities　they　switched　her　into　the　dramatic　department；　where
she　had　astonishing　success　as　a　raconteur。　　She　was　now　assistant
dramatic　editor　of　the　Sunday　issue；　and　her　pay　envelope　had　four
crisp　ten…dollar　notes　in　it　each　Monday。

She　still　remained　in　the　old　apartment；　sentiment　as　much　as
anything。　　She　had　been　born　in　it　and　her　happiest　days　had　been
spent　there。　　She　lived　alone；　without　help；　being　one　of　that
singular　type　of　womanhood　that　is　impervious　to　the　rust　of
loneliness。　　Her　daily　activities　sufficed　the　gregarious
instincts；　and　it　was　often　a　relief　to　move　about　in　silence

Among　other　things　Kitty　had　foresight。　　She　had　learned　that　a
little　money　in　the　background　was　the　most　satisfying　thing　in
existence。　　So　many　times　she　and　her　mother　had　just　reached　the
insurance　check；　with　grumbling　bill　collectors　in　the　hall；　that
she　was　determined　never　to　be　poor。　　She　had　to　fight　constantly
her　love　of　finery　inherited　from　her　mother；　and　her　love　of　good
times　inherited　from　her　father。　　So　she　established　a　bank　account；
and　to　date　had　not　drawn　a　check　against　it；　which　speaks　well　for
her　will　power；　an　attribute　cultivated；　not　inherited。

Kitty　was　as　pleasing　to　the　eye　as　a　basket　of　fruit。　　Her　beauty
was　animated。　　There　was　an　expression　in　her　eyes　and　on　her　lips
that　spoke　of　laughter　always　on　tiptoe。　　An　enviable　inheritance；
this；　the　desire　to　laugh；　to　be　searching　always　for　a　vent　to
laughter；　it　is　something　money　cannot　buy；　something　not　to　be
cultivated；　a　true　gift　of　the　gods。　　This　desire　to　laugh　is　found
invariably　in　the　tender　and　valorous；　and　Kitty　was　both。　　Brown
hair　with　running　threads　of　gold　that　was　always　catching　light；
slate…blue　eyes　with　heavy　black　fringe…Irish；　colour　that　waxed
and　waned；　and　a　healthy；　shapely　body。　　Topped　by　a　sparkling
intellect　these　gifts　made　Kitty　desirable　of　men。

Kitty　had　no　beau。　　After　the　adolescent　days　beaux　ceased　to
interest　her。　　This　would　indicate　that　she　was　inclined　toward
suffrage。　　Nothing　of　the　kind。　　Intensely　romantic；　she　determined
to　await　the　grand　passion　or　go　it　alone。　　No　experimental
adventures　for　her。　　Be　assured　that　she　weighed　every　new　man　she
met；　and　finding　some　flaw　discarded　him　as　a　matrimonial
possibility。　　Besides；　her　unusual　fa