Her fingers seemingly all thumbs, her heart swelling with misery and

loneliness, wanting to go to him but fearing she would be misunderstood,

Kitty scooped up the dazzling stones and poured them hastily into the

tobacco pouch, which she thrust into Cutty's hands. What she had heard

was not the cry of a disordered brain. There was some clear reason for

the horror in Hawksley's tones. What tragedy lay behind these wonderful

prisms of colour that the legitimate owner could not look upon them

without being stirred in this manner?

"Take them into the study," urged Kitty.

"Wait!" interposed Hawksley. "I give one of the emeralds to you, Cutty.

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They came out of hell--if you want to risk it! The other is for Miss

Conover, with Mister Hawksley's compliments." He was looking at Kitty

now, his face drawn, his eyes bloodshot. "Don't be apprehensive. They

bring evil only to men. With one in your possession you will be happy

ever after, as the saying goes. Oh, they are mine to give; mine by right

of inheritance. God knows I paid for them!"

"If I said Mister--" began Kitty, her brain confused, her tongue clumsy.

"You haven't forgiven!" he interrupted. "A thoroughbred like you,

to hold last night against me! Mister--after what we two have shared

together! Why didn't you leave me there to die?"

Cutty observed that the drama had resolved itself into two characters;

he had been relegated to the scenes. He tiptoed toward his study door,

and as he slipped inside he knew that Gethsemane was not an orchard

but a condition of the mind. He tossed the pouch on his desk, eyed it

ironically, and sat down. His, one of them--one of those marvellous

emeralds was his! He interlaced his fingers and rested his brow upon

them. He was very tired.

Kitty missed him only when she heard the latch snap.

She was alone with Hawksley; and all her terror returned. Not to touch

him, not to console him; to stand staring at him like a dumb thing!

"I do forgive--Johnny! But your world and my world--"

"Those stains! The wretches hurt you!"

"What? Where?"--bewildered.

"The blood on your waist!"

Kitty looked down. "That is not my blood, Johnny. It is yours."

"Mine?" Johnny. Something in the way she said it. "Mine?"--trying to

solve the riddle.

"Yes. It is where your cheek rested when--I thought you were dead."

The sense of misery, of oppression, of terror, all fell away

miraculously, leaving only the flower of glory. She would be his

plaything if he wanted her.




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