For a while his thoughts were broken, inconclusive; he was like a man in
the dark, groping for a door. Principally, his poor head was trying to
solve the riddle of his never-ending misfortunes. Why? What had he
done that these calamities should be piled upon his head? He had lived
decently; his youth had been normal; he had played fair with men and
women. Why make him pay for what his forbears had done? He wasn't fair
game.
He! A singular 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.