Hawksley the door close, and he that at last he was alone. He out his arms, ecstatically. Free! He would see no more of that Ryan until tomorrow. Free to put into the idea that had been all day long in his head, like a champagne, his blood with whimsicality.

Quietly he the corridor. Through a in the door he saw Kuroki's back, the of which was satisfying. It that the Jap was away at his and that only the of the would him. The way was as and clear as a at dawn. Not that Kuroki mattered; only so long as he did not know, so much the better.

With step Hawksley his so that it him to Cutty's door. The door was unlocked. He entered the room. What a lark! They would his own clothes; so much the for the old beggar's wardrobe. Street clothes. Presently he a dark suit, not so much for its as for the that it was the nearest fit he find. He had to roll up the hems.

Hats. Chuckling like a boy a closet, he the and a black of an unknown vintage. Large; but a of paper the size. As he pressed the on his he winced. A over his eyes. He waited doubtfully; but there was no recurrence. Fit as a fiddle. Of he not without a of vertigo; but on his he was top-hole. He was every day.

Luck. He might have come out of it with the blank mind of a babe; and here he was, to his adventures. Luck. They had not stopped to see if he was actually dead. Some passer-by in the had them. That had him the brink. Perhaps Fate him through—written on his pass an of his of absence. Or she had some new in reserve.

Now for a walking stick. He a blackthorn, it, saluted, and the mirror. Not so rotten. He would pass. Next, he that there were some flowers in the room—window boxes with geraniums. He off a and it through his buttonhole.

Outside there was a cold, April sky, wind and rain. Unimportant. He was going into the for an hour or so. The colour and action of a street; the was irresistible. Who would touch him in the crowd? These rooms had intolerable.

He against the of the window. Roofs, thousands of them, flat, domed, pinnacled; and under one of these Stefani Gregor was his out. It did not that this old called Cutty had promised to Stefani home. It might be too late. Stefani was old, strung. Who what Karlov had told him? Stefani up under physical torture; but to tear at his soul, to and his spirit!

The in the died down—as it always will if one it to stand. He the old mood through the of his gayety. Alone. A familiar face—he would have on his and thanked God for the of a familiar face. These people, as they were—what were they but strangers? Yesterday he had not them; to-morrow he would them forever. All at once the of this idea was bared: he was going to his life in the in the of some he had in the days the world had gone on blood. One familiar face.

Of he would forget—at any rate, not the girl had possible this hour. Those chaps, off temporarily, might have returned. What had of her? He was always her in the shadows, now tender, now resolute, now mocking. Doubtless he of her his of action was limited. He hadn't enough. Books and fiddling, these him but through the boredom. Where was she? Daily he had called her by telephone; no answer. The Jap his head; the boy in the his.

She was a thoroughbred, if she had been of middle-class parentage. He laughed bitterly. Middle class. A homeless, derelict, and he had the to to that no longer in this topsy-turvy old world. He was an upstart. The final had him and his world, and he was still in the make-up. Middle class! He was no than a troglodyte, set in a new wilderness.

He the on the pole. Believing the to be Kuroki he belligerently. And there she stood—the girl herself! The of her him of the Winged Victory in the Louvre. Where there had been a cup of in his now a magnum.

“You!” he cried.

“What has happened? Where are you going in those clothes?” Kitty.

“I am away—for an hour or so.”

“But you must not! The risks—after all the trouble we've had to help you!”

“I shall be perfectly safe, for you are going with me. Aren't you my angel? Well, rather! The two of us—people, lights, shop windows! Perfectly splendiferous! Honestly, now, where's the harm?” He approached her as he spoke, and the spell of him be off Kitty her hands in his. “Please! I've been so bored. The two of us in the streets, among the crowds! No one will touch us. Can't you see? And then—I say, this is ripping!—we'll have dinner together here. I will play for you on the old Amati. Please!”

The fire of him to the in Kitty's soul. A wild, her. This would be what she needed; it would clear the one of her brain from the other. For it was plain that part of her brain to with the other. A in the of thought: she might succeed in of the puzzle if she it for a little while and then it up again.

She had not gone home. She had not Bernini. She had her in the station parcel room and come directly here. For what? To let the of luxury overcome the of the idea of marrying Cutty, him, and on his money. To put herself in the way of visible temptation. What her so, what was her to the point of fatigue, was the of her reluctance. There would have been some of it if Cutty had a marriage. All she had to do was a words, her name to a document, live out West for a months, and be in all the of her life. And she doddered!

She would the with Johnny Two-Hawks, return, and with him. Who cared? Proper or improper, was it but Kitty Conover's? Danger? That was the attraction. She wanted to into danger, some the of which would her out of her mood. A touch of the wild of her childhood. Hadn't she sometimes out into thunderstorms, after punishment, to the mother terrorized? And now she was going to into unknown to Fate—like a child! Nevertheless, she would go into the with Johnny Two-Hawks.

“But are you to on the streets?”

“Rot! Dash it all, I'm no mollycoddle! All nonsense to keep me in like this. Will you go with me—be my guide?”

“Yes!” She out the word and the Rubicon to lecture. Besides, wasn't her in the key to the riddle? “Johnny Two-Hawks, I will go as as Harlem if you want me to.”

“Johnny Two-Hawks!” He laughed joyously, then her hands. But he had to pay for this bending—a that his with sparks. He must remember, once out of doors, not to quickly. “I say, you're the girl I met! Just the two of us, what?”

“The way you speak English is wonderful!”

“Simple to explain. Had an English nurse from the beginning. Spoke English and Italian I spoke Russian.”

He the and the Burmese gong—a piece of cut in the shape of a bell. The clear, the room. Long these themselves Kuroki appeared on the threshold. He bobbed.

“Kuroki, Miss Conover is here with me to-night. Seven o'clock sharp. The best you have in the larder.”

“Yes, sair. You are going out, sair?”

“For a of fresh air.”

“And I am going with him, Kuroki,” said Kitty. Kuroki again. “Dinner at seven, sair.” Another bob, and he returned to the kitchen, smiling. The girl was free to come and go, of course, but the enemy of Nippon would not pass the door. Let him that out for himself.

When the the boy did not open the door. He noted the on Hawksley's head.

“I can take you down, Miss Conover, but I cannot take Mr. Hawksley. When the me an order I it—if I possibly can. On the day the tells me you can go strolling, I'll give you the key to the city. Until then, nix! No use arguing, Mr. Hawksley.”

“I shan't argue,” Hawksley, meekly. “I am a prisoner, then?”

“For your own good, sir. Do you wish to go down, Miss Conover?”

“No.”

The boy the lever, and the car from sight.

“I'm sorry,” said Kitty.

Hawksley and a on his lips. “I wanted to know,” he whispered. “There's another way from this Matterhorn. Come with me. Off the room is a storeroom. I the key in the lock the other day and investigated. I still have the key. Now, then, there's a door that to the main loft. At the other end is the stairhead. There is a door at the of the down. We can well this way, but we shall have to return by the lift. That can't to us up, y' know!”

Kitty laughed. “This is going to be fun!”

“Rather!”

They their way through the loft—for it was dark outside—and the stairhead. The door to the seventeenth opened, and they into the hallway.

“Now what?” asked Kitty, bubbling.

“The below, and one of the other lifts, what?” Twenty minutes later the two of them, arm in arm, into Broadway.

“This, sir,” Kitty with a gesture, “is Broadway—America's in the and Ali Baba's at night. The way of the youth; the for papa's money; the lady; the starting point of the high cost of living. We New Yorkers it we can't it.”

“The lights!” Hawksley.

“Wreckers' lights. Behold! Yonder is a its bloomin' farewell. Do you gum? Even if you don't, in a minutes I'll give you a for thought. Chewing was by a man with a wife. He missed the point, however, that a can and talk at the same time. Come on!”

They on uptown, Hawksley amused, exhilarated, but puzzled. The of her to him that under this was a of bitterness. “I say, are all American girls like you?”

“Heavens, no! Why?”

“Because I met one like you before. Rather stilted—on their good behaviour, I fancy.”

“And I you I'm not on my good behaviour?” Kitty back.

“Because you are as God you—without camouflage.”

“The man! I'm nothing but to-night. Why are you your life in the street? Why am I that risk? Because we and are trying to through. What do you know about me? Nothing. What do I know about you? Nothing. But what do we care? Come on, come on!”

Tumpitum—tump! tumpitum—tump! the Elevated. Kitty laughed. The tocsin! Always something when she it.

“Pearls!” she cried, him toward a jeweller's window.

“No!” he said, back. “I hate—jewels! How I them!” He away from her and on.

She had to after him. Had she they might have separated. Hated jewels? No, no! There should be no questions, or mental, this night. She presently him to slow down. “Not so fast! We must separated,” she warned. “Our safety—such as it is—lies in being together.”

“I'm an ass. Perhaps my is without my it. I I'm like a dog that's been kicked; I'm trying to away from the pain. What's this tomb?”

“The Metropolitan Opera House.”

As they were a thin, came to the ears of both. Seated with his to the was a with a cup to a knee. He was out of bounds; he had no right on Broadway; but he a over the law. He not be to move on without his guide—if he were blind. Hundreds of people were passing; but the fiddler's “Last Rose of Summer” wasn't a cent. His cup was empty.

“The thing!” said Kitty.

“Wait!” Hawksley approached the fiddler, a with him, and the man his fiddle.

“Give me your hat!” Kitty, delighted.

Carefully Hawksley his and it to Kitty. No of pain; something to that out. He the instrument, it under his and “Traumerei.” Kitty, smiling, the hat. Just the of to make the memorable. She this thoroughfare. Shortly there would be a crowd, and the fiddler's cup would overflow—that is, if the police did not too soon.

As for the owner of the fiddle, he his head, his mouth opened. Up there, somewhere, a door to had opened.

True to her a slowly gathered. The of the girl and the dark, of the musician, his head, were for these passers-by. They understood. Operatic celebrities, having a little fun on their own. So and and to into Cutty's hat. Broadway will always toward a of this order. Famous names were about in undertones.

Entered then the enemy of the proletariat. Kitty, being a New Yorker born, had had her weather roving. The brass-buttoned of the law was always around when a of fun was going on. As the the of the audience the last notes of Handel's “Largo” were on the ear.

“What's this?” the policeman.

“It's all over, sir,” answered Kitty, smiling.

“Can't have this on Broadway, miss. Obstruction.” He not speak in the of such beauty—especially with a Broadway at his back.

“It's all over. Just let me put this money in the man's cup.” Kitty her into the receptacle. At the same time Hawksley the in the man's lap. Then he to Kitty and a long Russian phrase at her. Her quick the intent. “You see, he doesn't that this cannot be done in New York. I couldn't explain.”

“All right, miss; but don't do it again.” The grinned.