Because it was assumed that some of Karlov's pack might be at large and

unsuspectingly return to the trap, Federal agents would remain on guard

all night. They explored the house, hunting for chemicals, documents,

letters, and addresses. They found enough high explosive to blow up the

district. And they found Stefani Gregor. They were standing by the cot

as Cutty came in.

"Yes, sir. Just this minute went out."

"Did he speak?"

"A woman's name."

"Rosa?"

Advertisement..

"Yes, sir. Looks to me as if he had been starved to death. Know who he

was?"

"Yes. Tell the coroner to be gentle. Once upon a time Stefani Gregor

spoke to kings by right of genius."

The thought that he himself might have been the indirect cause of

Gregor's death shocked Cutty, who was above all things tender.

He had held back the raid for several days, to serve his own ends. He

could have ordered the raid from Washington, and it would have gone

through as smoothly as to-night. The drums of jeopardy. Well, that phase

of the game was done with. He had held up this raid so that he might

be on hand to search Karlov; and until now he had forgotten the drums.

Accurst! They were accurst. The death of Stefani Gregor would always be

on his conscience.

Cutty stared--not very clearly--at the cameo-like face so beautifully

calm. As in life, so it was in death; the calm that had brooked and

beaten down the turbulent instincts of the boy, the imperturbable calm

of a great soul. Rosa. The sublime unselfishness of the man! He had

sacrificed wealth and fame for the love of the boy's mother--unspoken,

unrequited love, the quality that passes understanding. And his reward:

to die on this cot, in horrid loneliness. Rosa.

All at once Cutty felt himself little, trivial, beside this forlorn

bier. What did he know about love? He had never made any sacrifices; he

had simply carried in his heart a bittersweet recollection. But here!

Twenty-odd years of unremitting devotion to the son of the woman he

had loved--Stefani Gregor. Creating environments that would develop the

noble qualities in the boy, interposing himself between the boy and the

evil pleasures of the uncle, teaching him the beautiful, cleansing his

soul of the inherited mud. Reverently Cutty drew the coverlet over the

fine old head.

"What's this?" asked one of the operatives. "Looks like the pieces of a

broken fiddle."

Out of those dark red bits of wood--some of them bearing the imprints of

hobnails--Cutty constructed the scene. A wave of bitter rage rolled over

him. The beast! Karlov had done this thing, with poor old Gregor looking

on, too weak to intervene. Not so many years ago these bits of wood,

under the master's touch, had entranced the souls of thousands. Cutty

recalled a fairy tale he had read when a boy about a prince whose soul

had been transformed into a flower which, if plucked or broken, died.

Karlov had murdered Stefani Gregor, perhaps not legally but actually

nevertheless.




Most Popular