"Good gracious!"

"Fact. But come up to the roost--changing taxis--to-morrow at five and

have tea."

Down in the street Cutty bore into the slanting rain, no longer a

drizzle. With his hands jammed in his side pockets and his gaze on the

sparkling pavement he continued downtown, in a dangerously ruminative

frame of mind, dangerous because had he been followed he would not have

known it.

Molly Conover's girl! That afternoon it had been Tommy Conover's girl;

now she was Molly's. It occurred to him for the first time that he was

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one of those unfortunate individuals who are always able to open the

door to Paradise for others and are themselves forced to remain outside.

Hadn't he introduced Conover to Molly, and hadn't they fallen in love

on the spot? Too old to be a hero and not old enough to die. He grinned.

Some day he would use that line.

Of course it wasn't Kitty who set this peculiar cogitation in motion. It

wasn't her arms and the perfume of her hair. The actual thrill had come

from a recrudescence of a vanished passion; anyhow, a passion that had

been held suspended all these years. Still, it offered a disquieting

prospect. He was sensible enough to realize that he would be in for some

confusion in trying to disassociate the phantom from the quick.

Most pretty young women were flitter-flutters, unstable, shallow,

immature. But this little lady had depth, the sense of the living drama;

and, Lord, she was such a beauty! Wanted a man who would laugh when he

was happy and when he was hurt. A bull's-eye--bang, like that! For the

only breed worth its salt was the kind that laughed when happy and when

hurt.

The average young woman, rushing into his arms the way she had, would

not have stirred him in the least. And immediately upon the heels of

this thought came a taste of the confusion he saw in store for himself.

Was it the phantom or Kitty? He jumped to another angle to escape the

impasse. Kitty's coming to him in that fashion raised an unpalatable

suggestion. He evidently looked fatherly, no matter how he felt. Hang

these fifty-two years, to come crowding his doorstep all at once!

He raised his head and laughed. He suddenly remembered now. At nine that

night he had been scheduled to deliver a lecture on the Italo-Jugoslav

muddle before a distinguished audience in the ballroom of a famous

hotel! He would have some fancy apologizing to do in the morning.

He stepped into a doorway, then peered out cautiously. There was not a

single pedestrian in sight. No need of hiking any further in this

rain; so he hunted for a taxi. To-morrow he would set the wires humming

relative to old Stefani Gregor. Boris Karlov, if indeed it were he,

would lead the way. Hadn't Stefani and Boris been boyhood friends, and

hadn't Stefani betrayed the latter in some political affair? He wasn't

sure; but a glance among his 1912 notes would clear up the fog.




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