Twice before in her life Kitty had looked upon death by violence; and it

required only this present picture to convince her that she would never

be able to gaze upon it callously, without pity and terror. Newspaper

life--at least the reportorial side of it--has an odd effect upon men

and women; it sharpens their tragical instincts and perceptions and

dulls eternally the edge of tenderness and sentimentality. It was

natural for Kitty to possess the keenest perceptions of tragedy; but she

had been taken out of the reportorial field in time to preserve all

her tenderness and romanticism. Otherwise she would have seen in that

crumpled object with the sinister daub of blood on the forehead merely

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a story, and would have approached it from that angle. But was he dead?

She literally forced her steps toward the body and stared. She dropped

to her knees because they were threatening to buckle in one of those

flashes of physical incoordination to which the strongest will must bow

occasionally. She was no longer afraid of the tragedy, but she feared

the great surging pity that was striving to express itself in sobs; and

she knew that if she surrendered she would forthwith become hysterical

for the rest of the evening and incompetent to carry out the plan in her

head.

A strong, healthy young man done to death in this fashion only a few

minutes after he had left her kitchen! Somehow she could not look upon

him as a stranger. She had given him food; she had talked to him; she

had even laughed with him. He was not like those dead she had seen

in her reportorial days. Her orbit and Johnny Two-Hawks' had

indeterminately touched; she had known old Gregory, or Gregor, who had

been this unfortunate young man's friend. And he had hoped they might

never meet again!

The murderous scoundrels had been watching. They must have entered the

apartment shortly after he had entered hers. Conceivably they would have

Gregor's key. And they had watched and waited, striking him down it may

have been at the very moment he had crossed the sill of the window.

Her hand shook so idiotically that it was impossible for a time to tell

if the man's heart was beating. All at once a wave of hot fury rushed

over her--fury at the cowardliness of the assault--and the vertigo

passed. She laid her palm firmly over Johnny Two-Hawks' heart. Alive!

He was alive! She straightened his body and put a pillow under his head.

Then she sought water and towels.

There was no cut on his forehead, only blood; but the top of his head

had been cruelly beaten. He was alive, but without immediate aid he

might die. The poor young man!




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