Love him? Well, she would get over it. It might be only the glamour of
the adventure they had shared. Anyhow, she wouldn't die of it. Cutty
hadn't. Of course it hurt; she was a silly little fool, and all that.
Once he was in Montana he would be sending for his Olga. There wasn't
the least doubt in her mind that if ever autocracy returned to power,
he'd be casting aside his American citizenship, his chaps and sombrero,
for the old regalia. Well--truculently to the world at large--why not?
So she avoided Hawksley's gaze, sensing the sustained persistence of it.
But, oh, to be alone, alone, alone!
Cutty washed the patient's hands and face and patched up the cut on
the cheek, interlarding his chatter with trench idioms, banter, jokes.
Underneath, though, he was chuckling. He was the hero of this tale;
he had done all the thrilling stunts, carried limp bodies across fire
escapes in the rain, climbed roofs, eluded newspaper reporters, fought
with his bare fists, rescued the girl.... All with one foot in the
grave! Fifty-two, gray haired--with a prospect of rheumatism on the
morrow--and putting it over like a debonair movie idol!
Hawksley met these pleasantries halfway by grousing about being babied
when there was nothing the matter with him but his head, his body, and
his legs.
Why didn't she look at him? What was the meaning of this persistent
avoidance? She must have forgiven last night. She was too much of a
thoroughbred to harbour ill feeling over that. Why didn't she look at
him?
The telephone called Cutty from the room.
Kitty went into the dining room for an extra pair of salt cellars and
delayed her return until she heard Cutty coming back.
"Karlov is dead," he announced. "Started a fight in the taxi, got out,
and was making for safety when one of the boys shot him. He hadn't
the jewels on him, John. I'm afraid they are gone, unless he hid them
somewhere in that--What's the matter, Kitty?"
For Kitty had dropped the salt cellars and pressed her hands against her
bosom, her face colourless.
Hawksley, terrified, tried to get up.
"No, no! Nothing is the matter with me but my head.... To think I could
forget! Good--heavens!" She prolonged the words drolly. "Wait."
She turned her back to them. When she faced them again she extended a
palm upon which lay a leather tobacco pouch, cracked and parched and
blistered by the reactions of rain and sun.
"Think of my forgetting them! I found them this morning. Where do you
suppose? On a step of the fire-escape ladder."