A criminal in flight? Cutty studied the face on the pillow. Shorn of
that beard it would be handsome; not the type criminal, certainly. A bit
of natural cynicism edged into his thoughts: Kitty had seen through the
beard, otherwise she would have turned the affair over to the police.
Not at all like her mother, yet equally her mother's match in beauty and
intelligence. Conover's girl, whose eyes had nearly popped out of her
head at the first sight of those drum-lined walls of his.
Two-Hawks. What was it that was trying to stir in his recollection?
Two-Hawks. He was sure he had heard that name before. Hawksley meant
nothing at all; but Two-Hawks possessed a strange attraction. He stared
off into space. He might have heard the name in a tongue other than
English.
A sound. It came from the lips of the young man. Cutty frowned. The
poor chap wasn't breathing in a promising way; he groaned after each
inhalation. And what had become of the old fellow Kitty called Gregory?
A queer business.
Kitty came in with a basin and a roll of absorbent cotton.
"He is groaning!" she whispered.
"Pretty rocky condition, I should say. That handkerchief in his cap
doubtless saved him. Now, little lady, I frankly don't like the idea
of his being here. Suppose he dies? In that event there'll be the very
devil to pay. You're all alone here, without even a maid."
"Am I all alone?"--softly.
"Well, no; come to think of it, I'm no longer your godfather in theory.
Give me the cotton and hold the basin."
He was very tender. The wound bled a little; but it was not the kind
that bled profusely. It was less a cut than a smashing bruise.
"Well, that's all I can do. Who was this tenant Gregory?"
"A dear old man. A valet at a Broadway hotel. Oh, I forgot! Johnny
Two-Hawks called him Stefani Gregor."
"Stefani Gregor?"
"Yes. What is it? Why do you say it like that?"
"Say it like what?"--sparring for time.
"As if you had heard the name before?"
"Just as I thought!" cried Cutty, his nimble mind pouncing upon a
happy invention. "You're romantic, Kitty. You're imagining all sorts of
nonsense about this chap, and you must not let the situation intrigue
you. If I spoke the name oddly--this Stefani Gregor--it was because I
sensed in a moment that this was a bit of the overflow. Southeastern
Europe, where the good Samaritan gets kicked instead of thanked. Now,
here's a good idea. Of course we can't turn this poor chap loose upon
the public, now that we know his life is in danger. That's always the
trouble with this Samaritan business. When you commit a fine action
you assume an obligation. You hoist the Old Man of the Sea on your
shoulders, as it were. The chap cannot be allowed to remain here. So,
if Harrison agrees, we'll take him up to my diggings, where no Bolshevik
will ever lay eyes upon him."