Rehabilitated in soul, Cutty left the room. He had read a compelling

lesson in self-sacrifice. He was going to pick up his cross and go on

with it, smiling. After all, Kitty was only an interlude; the big thing

was the game; and shortly he would be in the thick of great events

again. But Kitty should be happy.

His old analytical philosophy resumed its functions. The contempt and

jealousy of one race for another; what was God's idea in implanting that

in souls? Hawksley was at base Russian. The boy's English education,

his adopted outlook upon life, made it possible for Cutty to ignore the

racial antagonism of the Anglo-Saxon for all other races. Stefani Gregor

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at one end of the world and he at the other, blindly working out the

destinies of Kitty Conover and Ivan Mikhail Feodorovich and so forth and

so on, with the blood of Catharine in his veins! Made a chap dizzy to

think of it. Traditions were piling up along with crowns and sceptres in

the abyss.

When he returned to the attic he felt himself fortified against any

inevitability. Hawksley was sitting up, his back to the wall, staring

groggily but with reckless adoration into Kitty's lovely face. Youth

will be served. As if, watching these two, there could be any doubt of

it! And he had bent part of his energies toward keeping them separated.

"Ha!" he cried, cheerfully. "Back on top again, I see. How's the head?"

"Haven't any; no legs; I'm nothing at all but a bit of my own

imagination. How do you feel?"

"Like the aftermath of an Irish wake." Then Cutty's battered face

assumed an expression that was meant to typify gravity. "John," he aid,

"I've bad news for you."

John. A glow went over the young man's aching body. John. What could

that signify except that he had passed into the eternal friendship of

this old thoroughbred? John.

"About Stefani?"

"Stefani is dead. He died speaking your mother's name."

Hawksley's head sank; his chin touched his chest. He spoke without

looking up. "Something told me I would never see him alive again. Old

Stefani! If there is any good in me it will be his handiwork. I say,"

he added, his eyes now seeking Cutty's, "you called me John. Will you

carry on?"

"Keep an eye on you? So long as you may need me."

"I come from a lawless race. Stefani had to fight. Even now I'm afraid

sometimes. God knows I want to be all he tried to make me."




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