When Cutty awoke--having had about two hours' sleep--he was instantly

conscious that the zest had gone from the adventure. It had resolved

itself into official business into which he had projected himself

gratuitously; and having assumed the offices of chief factor, he would

have to see the affair through, victim of his own greediness. It did not

serve to marshal excuses. He had frankly entered the affair in the role

of buccaneer; and here he was, high and dry on the reef.

The drums of jeopardy, so far as he was concerned, had been shot into

the moon two hundred thousand miles out of reach. He found himself

resenting Hawksley's honesty in the matter of the customs.

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But immediately this sense of resentment caused him to chuckle.

Certainly some ancestor of his had been a Black Bart or a Galloping

Dick.

He would put a few straight questions to Hawksley, however. To have lost

all those precious stones and not to have inquired about them was a

bit foggy, wasn't normal, human. Unless--bang on the plexus came the

thought!--the beggar had hidden them himself. He had been exceedingly

clever in hiding the wallet. Come to think of it, he hadn't mentioned

that, either. Of course he had hidden the stones--either in Gregor's

apartment or in Kitty's. Blind as a bat. Now he understood why Karlov

had made a prisoner of Coles. The old buzzard had sensed a trap and had

countered it. The way of the transgressor was hard. His punishment for

entertaining a looter's idea would be work when he wanted to loaf and

enjoy himself.

Arriving at Hawksley's door he was confronted by a spectacle not without

its humorous touch: The nurse extending a bowl and Hawksley staring at

the sky beyond the window, stonily.

"But you must!" insisted Miss Frances.

"Chops or beefsteak!"

"It will give you nausea."

"Permit me to find out. Dash it, I'm hungry!" Hawksley declared. "I'm no

fever patient. A smart rap on the head; nothing more than that. Healthy

food will draw the blood down from there. Haven't lost anything but a

few hours of consciousness, and you treat me as though I'd been jolly

well peppered with shrapnel and gassed. Touch that stuff? Rather not!

Chops or beefsteak!"

"Let him have it, Miss Frances," advised Cutty from the doorway.

"But it's unusual," replied the nurse as a final protest.

"Give it a try. Is he strong enough to sit up through breakfast?"

"He's really not fit. But if he insists on doing the one he might as

well do the other."




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