Because it was assumed that some of Karlov's pack might be at large and
unsuspectingly return to the trap, Federal agents would remain on guard
all night. They explored the house, hunting for chemicals, documents,
letters, and addresses. They found enough high explosive to blow up the
district. And they found Stefani Gregor. They were standing by the cot
as Cutty came in.
"Yes, sir. Just this minute went out."
"Did he speak?"
"A woman's name."
"Rosa?"
"Yes, sir. Looks to me as if he had been starved to death. Know who he
was?"
"Yes. Tell the coroner to be gentle. Once upon a time Stefani Gregor
spoke to kings by right of genius."
The thought that he himself might have been the indirect cause of
Gregor's death shocked Cutty, who was above all things tender.
He had held back the raid for several days, to serve his own ends. He
could have ordered the raid from Washington, and it would have gone
through as smoothly as to-night. The drums of jeopardy. Well, that phase
of the game was done with. He had held up this raid so that he might
be on hand to search Karlov; and until now he had forgotten the drums.
Accurst! They were accurst. The death of Stefani Gregor would always be
on his conscience.
Cutty stared--not very clearly--at the cameo-like face so beautifully
calm. As in life, so it was in death; the calm that had brooked and
beaten down the turbulent instincts of the boy, the imperturbable calm
of a great soul. Rosa. The sublime unselfishness of the man! He had
sacrificed wealth and fame for the love of the boy's mother--unspoken,
unrequited love, the quality that passes understanding. And his reward:
to die on this cot, in horrid loneliness. Rosa.
All at once Cutty felt himself little, trivial, beside this forlorn
bier. What did he know about love? He had never made any sacrifices; he
had simply carried in his heart a bittersweet recollection. But here!
Twenty-odd years of unremitting devotion to the son of the woman he
had loved--Stefani Gregor. Creating environments that would develop the
noble qualities in the boy, interposing himself between the boy and the
evil pleasures of the uncle, teaching him the beautiful, cleansing his
soul of the inherited mud. Reverently Cutty drew the coverlet over the
fine old head.
"What's this?" asked one of the operatives. "Looks like the pieces of a
broken fiddle."
Out of those dark red bits of wood--some of them bearing the imprints of
hobnails--Cutty constructed the scene. A wave of bitter rage rolled over
him. The beast! Karlov had done this thing, with poor old Gregor looking
on, too weak to intervene. Not so many years ago these bits of wood,
under the master's touch, had entranced the souls of thousands. Cutty
recalled a fairy tale he had read when a boy about a prince whose soul
had been transformed into a flower which, if plucked or broken, died.
Karlov had murdered Stefani Gregor, perhaps not legally but actually
nevertheless.