But why hadn't Hawksley inquired about them? Stoic indifference? A good
loser? How had he got through the customs without a lot of publicity?
The Russian consul of the old regime probably; and an appraiser who was
a good sport. To have come safely to his destination, and then to have
lost out! The magnificent careless generosity of putting the wallet
behind Kitty's flatirons, to be hers if he didn't pull through! Why,
this fiddling derelict was a man! Stood up and fought Karlov with his
bare fists; wasn't ashamed to weep over his mother's photograph;
and fiddled like Heifetz. All right. This Johnny Two-Hawks, as Kitty
persisted in calling him, was going to reach his Montana ranch. His
friend Cutty would take it upon himself to see to that.
It struck him that after all he would have to play the game as he had
planned it. Those gems falling into the hands of the Federal agents
would surely bring to light Hawksley's identity; and Hawksley should
have his chance.
Cutty then came upon the will. Somehow the pathos of it went deep into
his heart. The poor devil!--a will that hadn't been witnessed, the
handwriting the same as that on the passport. If he had fallen into
the hands of the police they would have justifiably locked him up as
a murder suspect. Two-Hawks! It was a small world. He returned the
contents to the wallet, leaving out the will, however. This he thrust
into a drawer.
"Coffee?" said Kitty at his elbow.
"Kitty? I'd forgotten you! I thought I smelt coffee. Just what I wanted,
too, only I hadn't brains enough left to think of it. Smells better than
anything Kuroki makes.... Tastes better, too. You're going to make some
lucky duffer a fine wife."
"Is there anything you can tell me, Cutty?"
"A whole lot, Kitty; only I'm twenty years too old."
"I mean the wallet. Who is he?"
Cutty drained the cup slowly. A good coherent lie, to appease Kitty's
curiosity; half a truth, something hard to nail. He set down the empty
cup, building. By the time he had filled his pipe and lit it he was
ready.
Something bored up through the subconscious, however--a query. Why
hadn't he told her the plain truth at the start? Wasn't on account of
the drums. He hadn't kept her in the dark because of the drums. He could
have trusted her with that part of it--his tentative piracy. That to
divulge Hawksley's identity would be a menace to her peace of mind now
appeared ridiculous; and yet he had worked forward from this assumption.
No answer to the query. Generally he thought clearly enough; but
somewhere along this route he had made a muddle of things and couldn't
find the spot. The only point clearly defined was that he should wish
to keep her out of the affair because there were elements of positive
danger. But somewhere inside of him was a question asking for
recognition, and it eluded him. Nothing could be solved until this
question got out of the fog. Even now he might risk the whole truth; but
the lie he had woven appeared too good to waste.