Kitty Conover had and beauty, and nothing else but the furniture. Her father had been a famous reporter, the of from New York to San Francisco; handsome, happy-go-lucky, generous, improvident, and lovable. Her mother had been a noted for her and and extravagance. Thus it will be that Kitty was in luck to any at all.
Kitty was twenty-four. A is as old as it is, but a brain is as old as the it absorbs; and Kitty had to her brain well into the thirties.
Conover had been twenty years; and Kitty had any of him. Improvident as the of newspaper are, Conover had one to his family—he had up his policies; and for eighteen years the had taken of Kitty and her mother, who of a weak had not been able to return to the of her triumphs. In 1915 this mother, Kitty loved to idolatry, had passed on.
There was for the and the up of the bills; but that was all. The with Mrs. Conover's demise. Kitty saw that she must give up which nobody wanted, and go to work. So she at once to the newspaper office where her father's name was still a tradition, and for a job. It was a job, but Kitty was to know that she into the newspaper game naturally; and when they her wide among they her into the department, where she had success as a raconteur. She was now of the Sunday issue, and her pay had four ten-dollar notes in it each Monday.
She still in the old apartment; as much as anything. She had been in it and her days had been there. She alone, without help, being one of that type of that is to the of loneliness. Her daily the instincts, and it was often a to move about in silence.
Among other Kitty had foresight. She had learned that a little money in the was the most satisfying thing in existence. So many times she and her mother had just the check, with bill in the hall, that she was to be poor. She had to her love of from her mother, and her love of good times from her father. So she a bank account, and to date had not a check against it; which speaks well for her will power, an cultivated, not inherited.
Kitty was as to the as a of fruit. Her was animated. There was an in her and on her that spoke of always on tiptoe. An inheritance, this, the to laugh, to be always for a to laughter; it is something money cannot buy, something not to be cultivated; a true gift of the gods. This to laugh is in the and valorous; and Kitty was both. Brown with of gold that was always light; slate-blue with black fringe-Irish; colour that and waned; and a healthy, body. Topped by a these gifts Kitty of men.
Kitty had no beau. After the days to her. This would that she was toward suffrage. Nothing of the kind. Intensely romantic, she to the or go it alone. No for her. Be that she every new man she met, and some him as a possibility. Besides, her to view and judge men had her phases the woman would have only after the was tied. She did not that she was romantical. She her to common sense.
If there is one place where a woman may without having to a of liquid air about her to off that place is the room of a great daily. One must have to in love; and only the office boys time to call it leisure.
Her Burlingame's; and Burlingame was the editor, a and a gentleman. He liked to Kitty talk, and often he her into the open; and he about that was his wide range of knowledge.
A had over New York since morning. Kitty was up some Sunday special. Burlingame was reading proofs. All day had been in and out of this little ten-by-twelve cubby-hole; and now there would be quiet.
But no. The door opened and an iron-gray intruded.
“Will I be in the way?”
“Lord, no!” Burlingame, his proofs. “Come along in, Cutty.”
The great came in and sat down, gratefully.
Cutty was a nickname; he and smoked—everywhere they would permit him—the worst-looking and the worst-smelling pipe in Christendom. You may not it, but a is a round-about Anglo-Saxon way of telling a you love him. He was Cutty, but only among his dear intimates, mind you; to the world at large, to presidents, kings, ambassadors, generals, and he is by another name. You will it on the of the Royal Geographical; on the title page of books on travel, jewels, and drums; in and newspapers; on the membership roll of the Savage in London and the Lambs in New York. But you will not it in this story; it would not be to set his name against the that his line of life with that of the man who the tobacco from his neck.
Tall, bony, in a chair, where his conspicuous; the ruddy, weather-bitten of a deep-sea sailor, and a man's eye; the of a and the mouth of a humourist. Men often call another man when a woman they manly. Among men Cutty was handsome.
Kitty rose and up her manuscript.
“No, no, Kitty! I'd talk to you than Burly, here. You're always me of that father of yours. Best I had. You laugh just like him. Did your mother tell you that old Cutty is your godfather?”
“Good gracious!”
“Fact. I told your I'd watch over you.”
“And a of you've done to date,” Burlingame.
“Couldn't help that. But I can be on the job until I return to the Balkans.”
Kitty laughed and sat down, a little thrilled. She had always Cutty from afar, shyly. Once in a moon he had in the old days appeared for tea; and he and Mrs. Conover would the of the the of Tommy Conover. Kitty had him but twice the war.
“Every so often,” Cutty, “I have to listeners. Fact. I used to crowds, listeners; but those ten days in an open boat, a thousand miles from anywhere, me gregarious. I'm always wanting company and to go to bed, which is for a man of fifty-two.” Cutty's ship had been torpedoed.
To Kitty, with his and weather-bitten face, his bony, body, he had the of a lazy man. Actually she him to be a man of and endurance. Eagles when they are heavy-lidded and clumsy. She if there was a on the he had not into.
For thirty years he had been two gods—Rumour and War. For thirty years he had been the of and telegrams. Even now he was preparing to return to the Balkans, where the great fire had started and where there were still some to watch.
Cutty was not well in America; his was European. He played the game he loved it, being with goods. He was a of attainments, in the of Europe. He came and like cloud shadow. His was so he was ordered to go here or there; he was on the spot when the orders arrived.
He was in and its ramifications, but only as an student. He fit himself into any environment, a minister in the and take that night with the who was to up the minister.
Burlingame, an intimate, often for Kitty's the and of Cutty's diamond-brilliant mind. Cutty on famous and drums. He had one of the of in the world. He loved these semi-precious of their unmatchable, green—like the of a grape. From Burlingame Kitty had learned that Cutty, to women, about with him the photographs—large size—of famous professional and a case with chrysoprase. He would a photograph on a table and the with and the with tiaras, all the while his brain at work with some political puzzle.
And he drums. The of his apartment—part of the of a office building—were with a most of drums: of war, of the dance, of the temples of the feast, and modern, some of them looking objects, as Kitty had to remember.
Though Cutty had her father and mother intimately, Kitty was a stranger. He her a dozen times. She had been a child, not to over visitors' knees; not the of the mother. So in the past he had her. Then one day he had in to see Burlingame and had Kitty instead; which for his presence here this day. Neither Kitty Burlingame the true attraction. The the as a to himself. And it is to be if Cutty himself that there was a true magnetic in this of a room.
Kitty, however, had recollections. Actually the man she had met. But not having been visible on her horizon, in flashes, she of the man only what she had read and what Burlingame had offered discussions.
“Well, anyhow,” said Burlingame, complacently, “the is over.”
Cutty indulgently. “That's the trouble with us who the world for news. We can't ourselves like you who at home. The was only the phase. There's a over there; wanting something and not what, those millions; cattle, with neither pasture. The Lord only how long it will take to clarify. Would you mind if I smoked?”
“Wow!” Burlingame.
“Not at all,” answered Kitty. “I don't see how any pipe be than Mr. Burlingame's.”
“I apologize,” said the editor, humbly.
“You needn't,” the girl. She to the correspondent. “Any new drums?”
“I that day. You were to death at my walls.”
“Small wonder! I was only twelve; and I of for weeks.”
“Drums! I wonder if any man has a than I? What a of them! I have them calling a in the Sudan. Tumpi-tum-tump! tumpitum-tump! Makes a white man's up when he it in the night. I don't know what it is, but the the Oriental mad. And that me—I've had them in mind all day—the of jeopardy!”
“What an odd phrase! And what are the of jeopardy?” asked Kitty, on her arms. Odd, but she a to go somewhere, thousands and thousands of miles away. She had been west of Chicago or east of Boston. Until this moment she had the call of the blood—her father's. Cocoanut and of paradise! And in the night going tumpi-tum-tump! tumpi-tum-tump!
“I've always been over green things,” Cutty. “A in the spring, maples. It's Nature's choice and mine. My is emeralds; and I haven't any those I want are reach. They are owned by the great houses of Europe and Asia, and in caskets; or did. If I go into a mine and an as big as my I should be only happy if it to be of colour. In a little while I should in it. It wouldn't be alive, if you can what I mean. Just as a man would have a woman to talk to than a window to admire. A to me must have a story—a of and loot, of women, palaces.
“Br-r-r!” Burlingame.
“Why, I've I would with a chance. I couldn't help it. Fact,” Cutty, earnestly. “Think of the in the Romanoff palaces! What's of all those stones? In a little while they'll be up in Amsterdam to be cut—some of them. Or maybe Mister Bolsheviki's will be them her neck. Loot.”
“But the of jeopardy!” said Kitty.
“Emeralds, green as an English lawn in May after a shower, Kitty. By the way, do you mind if I call you Kitty? I used to.”
“And I've always of you as Cutty. Fifty-fifty.”
“It's a bargain. Well, the to my are the two examples of the green in the world. Polished, of course, as always should be. I should say that they were about the size of those chocolate there.”
“Have one?” said Kitty.
“No. Spoil the taste of the pipe.”
“You ought to that taste once in a while,” was Burlingame's observation. “But go on.”
“I originally there was a single stone, later cut into halves, they are perfect matches. The proper are statuettes, of Hindu or Mohammedan drummers, squatting, the of the the knees, and the the emeralds. Lord, how they got to me! I wanted to off with them. The history of and they tell! Some Delhi owned them first. Then Nadir Shah them off to Persia, along with the famous throne. I saw them in a on the Caspian in 1912. Russia was very in Persia at one time. Perhaps they were gifts; they were stolen—these emeralds. Anyhow, I'd of them until that year. And I all the way up from Constantinople to a of them if it were possible. I had to do some wire-pulling. For one of those I would give of all I own. To see them in the of another man would be a test to my honesty.”
“You old pirate!” said Burlingame.
“But why the word jeopardy?” Kitty, who was by the phrase.
“Probably some Hindu trick. It is a language of metaphors. It means, I suppose, that when you touch the they bite. In from one spot to another they always behind, as I it. Just coincidence; but you couldn't drive that into an Oriental skull. This is what makes the study of so interesting. There is always some enchantment, some spell. To the is to a minor accident. Call it twaddle; is; and yet I have to that there's something to the superstition.”
Burlingame sniffed.
“I can prove it,” Cutty declared. “I those in my hands one day. I them to a window the to them. On my return to the hotel I was by a and up in for a week. That same night someone to kill the man who me the emeralds. Coincidence? Perhaps. But these days I'm at thirteen, the of the street, ladders, and religious curses.”
“An old hard-boiled egg like you?” Burlingame up his hands in despair.
“I laugh, too; but I duck, nevertheless. The who me the was what you'd call the custodian; a of his genius. Before him I sent him a copy of my on green stones. I that he was as over green as I. That us together; and while I him out I where I had him before. Both his name and his were familiar. It a had come along with the stones, from India to Persia, from there to Russia. A to see the would and be happy. The old that occasionally he a to upon the stones. But he let the male of the this out. He them a little too intimately. A lot.”
“And this palace?” asked Kitty.
“Not one on another. The rose up and it. To anything is offensive. Palaces looted, banks, museums, houses. The with hand grenades, them sceptres. All the in the world to the top. After the Red Day comes the Red Night.”
“Whatever will of them—the little kings and and dukes?” After all, Kitty, they were beings; they would not any the less they had been to the purple.
“Maybe they'll go to work,” said Cutty, dryly. “Sooner or later, all will have to work if they want bread. And yet I've met some men among them, big in the and the mind, who would have farmers and professors. The thing about the Anglo-Saxon education is that the whole is upon play. In and Europe of them can play without cheating. But I would give a good to know what has to those emeralds—the of jeopardy. They'll be up and in weights. The whole family was out in a night.... I say, will you take with me to-morrow?”
“Gladly.”
“All right. I'll in here at after twelve. Here's my telephone number, should anything your plans. If I'm going to be I might as well start right in.”
“The of jeopardy; what a phrase!”
“Haunting stones, too, Kitty. For them up in my hands I to with a banged-up leg. I can't that. We Occidentals laugh at Orientals and their superstitions. We don't in the curse. And yet, by George, those were accursed!”
“Piffle!” Burlingame. “Mush! It's greed, pure and simple, that their histories. You'd have been by that if you had up nothing more valuable than a buckle. Take away the gold lure, and wouldn't sell at the price of window glass.”
“Is that so? How about me? It isn't a is so much that makes me want it. I want it for the beauty; I want it for the the of it in my mind. I what from the hour the was to the hour it came into my possession. To me—to all collectors—the value is nil. Can't you see? It is for me what Balzac's La Peau de Chagrin would be to you if you had on it for the time—money, love, tragedy, death.”
An came in the of one of the office boys. The was on the wire and wanted Cutty at once.
“At after twelve, Kitty. And by the way,” added Cutty as he rose, “they say about the that a woman is to their danger.”
“There's your chance, Kitty,” said Burlingame.
“Am I beautiful?” asked Kitty, demurely.
“Lord love the minx!” Cutty. “A in Mouquin's.”
“Rain or shine.” After Cutty had Kitty said: “He's the most man I know. What fun it would be to the world with a man like that, who and everything. As a little girl I was in love with him; but don't you give me away.”
“You'll have to-night. And you ought not to live in that alone. But Cutty has things,” Burlingame admitted; “things no white man ought to see. He's been up, by animals, marooned, at sea, by old Fuzzy-Wuzzy. An ordinary man would have died of fatigue. Cutty is as and as a and as active as a cat. But this is all rot. Odd, though; he'll travel the world to see a or an emerald. He says no true a for a diamond. Says they are vulgar.”
“Except on the third of a lady's left hand; and then they are just perfectly splendid!”
“Oho! Well, when you yours I it's as big as the Koh-i-noor.”
“Thank you! You might just as well wish a on me!”
Kitty left the office at a of six. The phrase through her head—the of jeopardy. A little ran up her spine. Money, love, tragedy, death! This terrible and old world, of which she had little else than city streets, wide vistas. She now why she had to save—travel. Just as soon as she had a thousand she would go somewhere. A great to native in the night.
Even as the wish entered her mind a new entered her ears. The Subway car to beat—tumpitum-tump! tumpitum-tump! Fudge! She opened her paper and the fashions, the news, and the comics. Being a woman she read the world news last. On the page she saw a story, at Albany: Mysterious guests at a hotel; how they had and in the early morning. There had been left a case with orders with thousand dollars' of gems. Bolsheviki, said the police; just as they said a years ago when with something they not understand. The orders had been over to the Federal from it was learned that they were all and demi-royal. Neither of the two guests had returned up to noon, and one had fled, his and coat. But there was nothing to his identity.
“Loot!” Kitty. “All the in the world to the top”—quoting Cutty. “Poor things!” as she of the ladies who had died in and cellars.
Kitty was to about for more quarters. There were too many in the apartments, and none of them good housekeepers. Always, nowadays, somebody had a out on the line, the of was in the air, and there were noisy children under in the halls. The families she and her mother had were all gone; and Kitty was the in the block.
The living-room Eightieth Street; bedrooms, room, and looked out upon the court. From the one step out upon the fire-escape platform, which ran the three of the court.
Among the present she but one, an old man by the name of Gregory, who opposite. The had into friendship; but sometimes Kitty would borrow an egg and he would borrow some sugar. In the summertime, when the were open at night, she had the music of a across the court. Polish, Russian, and Hungarian music, always speaking with a note; nothing she had in concerts. Once, however, she had him something from Thais, and stop in the middle of it; and that her that he was a master. She was of good music. One day she asked Gregory why he did not teach music of at a hotel. His answer had been illuminative. It was only his that pressed clothes; but it would have his to daily to the of the novice. Kitty was through as much as anything. As for friends, she had a of them. But she their hospitality, that she not return it. No men called she them. All this, however, was going to when she moved.
As she on the light she saw an on the floor. Evidently it had been under the door. It was unstamped. She opened it, and out of the into the whirligig.
DEAR MISS CONOVER:
If anything should to me all the in my apartment
I give to you without reservation.
STEPHEN GREGORY.
She read the a dozen times to make sure that it meant what it said. He might be ill. After she had her supper she would and inquire. The old man!
She into the and took inventory. There was nothing but and eggs and coffee. She had to order that morning. She the range and to prepare the meal. As she an egg against the of the pan the Elevated train by, tumpitum-tump! tumpitum-tump! She laughed, but it wasn't laughter. She laughed she was that she was of something. Impulse her to the window. Contact with men—her as a reporter—had her natural to a point where it was aggressive. As she pressed the of her nose against the pane, however, she herself into a pair of dark eyes; and all the blood in her to into her throat.
Tableau!
