But that young chap! Who was he? Cutty set his process of logical
deduction moving. Karlov--always supposing that gorilla was Karlov--had
come in from the west. So had the young man. Gregor's inclinations had
been toward the aristocracy; at least, that had been the impression. A
Bolshevik would not seek haven with a man like Gregor, as this young man
had. But Two-Hawks bothered him; the name bothered him, because it had
no sense either in English or in Russian. And yet he was sure he had
heard it somewhere. Perhaps his notes would throw some light on that
subject, too.
When he arrived home Miss Frances, the nurse, informed him that the
patient was babbling in an outlandish tongue. For a long time Cutty
stood by the bedside, translating.
"Olga!... Olga!... And she gave me food, Stefani, this charming American
girl. Never must we forget that. I was hungry, and she gave me food....
But I paid for it. You, gone, there was no one else.... And she is
poor.... The torches!... I am burning, burning!... Olga!"
"What does he say?" asked the nurse.
"It is Russian. Is it a crisis?" he evaded.
"Not necessarily. Doctor Harrison said he would probably return to
consciousness sometime to-morrow. But he must have absolute quiet. No
visitors. A bad blow, but not of fatal consequence. I've seen hundreds
of cases much worse pull out in a fortnight. You'd better go to bed,
sir."
"All right," said Cutty, gratefully. He was tired. The ball did not
rebound as it used to; the resilience was petering out. But look alive,
there! Big events were toward, and he must not stop to feel of his
pulse.
Three o'clock in the morning.
The man in the Gregor bedroom sat down on the bed, the pocket lamp
dangling from his hairy fingers. Not a nook or cranny in the apartment
had he overlooked. In every cupboard, drawer; in the beds and under; the
trunks; behind the radiators and the pictures; the shelves and clothes
in the closets. What he sought he had not found.
His vengeance would not be complete without those green stones in his
hands. Anna would call from her grave. Pretty little Anna, who had
trusted Stefani Gregor, and gone to her doom.
All these thousands of miles, by hook and crook, by forged passports, by
sums of money, sleepless nights and hungry days--for this! The last of
that branch of the breed out of his reach, and the stones vanished! A
queer superstition had taken lodgment in his brain; he recognized it now
for the first time. The possession of those stones would be a sign from
God to go on. Green stones for bread! Green stones for bread! The drums
of jeopardy! In his hands they would be talismanic.