For a while his thoughts were broken, inconclusive; he was like a man in

the dark, groping for a door. Principally, his poor head was trying to

solve the riddle of his never-ending misfortunes. Why? What had he

done that these calamities should be piled upon his head? He had lived

decently; his youth had been normal; he had played fair with men and

women. Why make him pay for what his forbears had done? He wasn't fair

game.

He! A singular revelation cleared one corner. Kitty had spoken of a

problem; and he, by those devil-urged kisses, had solved it for her. She

had been doddering, and his own act had thrust her into the arms of that

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old thoroughbred. That cynical suggestion of his the other morning

had been acted upon. God had long ago deserted him, and now the devil

himself had taken leave. Hawksley buried his face in the pillow once

made wet with Kitty's tears.

The great tragedy in life lies in being too late. Hawksley had learned

this once before; it was now being driven home again. Cutty was to find

it out on the morrow, for he missed his train that night.

The shuttles of the Weaver in this pattern of life were two green stones

called the drums of jeopardy, inanimate objects, but perfect tools

in the hands of Destiny. But for these stones Hawksley would not

have tarried too long on a certain red night; Cutty would not now be

stumbling about the labyrinths into which his looting instincts had

thrust him; and Kitty Conover would have jogged along in the humdrum

rut, if not happy at least philosophically content with her lot.




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