"Well, you seem to have acquired at least one American habit!" said a
gruff voice from the bedroom doorway. "Raise your hands quickly, and
don't turn," went on the gruff voice. "If I shoot it will be to kill.
It is a rough game, as you say. That's it; and keep them up. Now, then,
young lady, slip on your kimono. Get up and search these men. I'm in a
hurry, too."
Kitty obeyed, very lovely in her dishevelment. Repugnant as the task was
she disarmed the two men and flung their weapons on the bed.
"Now something to tie their hands; anything that will hold."
Kitty could see the speaker now. Another coal heaver, but evidently on
her side.
"Tie their hands behind them... I warn you not to move, men. When I say
I'll shoot I mean it. Don't be afraid of hurting them, miss. Very good.
Now bandage their eyes. Handkerchiefs."
But Kitty's handkerchiefs did not run to the dimensions' required; so
she ripped up a petticoat. Torn between her eagerness to complete a
disagreeable task and her offended modesty, Kitty went through the
performance with creditable alacrity. Then she jumped back into bed,
doubled her knees, and once more drew up the bedclothes to her chin,
content to be a spectator, her eyes as wide as ever they possibly could
be.
Some secret-service man Cutty had sent to protect her. Dear old Cutty!
Small wonder he had urged her to spend the night at a hotel. The
admiration of her childhood returned, but without the shackles of
shyness. She had always trusted him absolutely, and to this trust was
now added understanding. To have him pop into her life again in this
fashion, all the ordinary approaches to intimacy wiped out by these
amazing episodes; the years bridged in an hour! If only he were younger!
"Watch them, miss. Don't be afraid to shoot. I'll return in a
moment"--still gruffly. The secret-service man pushed his prisoners into
chairs and left the bedroom.
Kitty did not care how gruff the voice was; it was decidedly pleasant
in her ears. Gingerly she picked up one of the revolvers. Kitty Conover
with shooting irons in her hands, like a movie actress! She heard a
whistle. After this an interval of silence, save for the ticking of the
alarm clock on the stand. She eyed the blindfolded men speculatively,
swung out of bed, and put on her stockings and sandals; then she sat on
the edge of the bed and waited for the sequence. Kitty Conover was going
to have some queer recollections to tell her grandchildren, providing
she had any. That morning she had risen to face a humdrum normal day.
And here she was, at midnight, hobnobbing with quiescent murder and
sudden death! To-morrow Burlingame would ask her to hustle up the Sunday
stuff, and she would hustle. She wanted to laugh, but was a little
afraid that this laughter might degenerate into incipient hysteria.