turned away from the telephone. "He'll be here in a jiffy.
Now, then, what the deuce is all this about?"

Briefly Kitty narrated the episodes.

"Samaritan stuff. I see. Any absorbent cotton? I can wash the wound
after a fashion. Warm water and Castile soap. We can have him in shape
for Harrison."

Alone, Cutty took note of several apparent facts. The victim's flannel
shirt was torn at the collar and there were marks of finger nails on
the throat and chest. Upon close inspection he observed a thin red line
round the neck--the mark of a thong. Had they tried to strangle him or
had he carried something of value? Silk underwear and a clean body; well
born; foreign. After a conscientious hesitance Cutty went through the
pockets. All he found were some crumbs of tobacco and a soggy match box.
They had cleaned him out evidently. There were no tailors' labels in any
of the pockets; but there were signs that these had once existed. The
man on the bed had probably ripped them out himself; did not care to be
identified.

A criminal in flight? Cutty studied the face on the pillow. Shorn of
that beard it would be handsome; not the type criminal, certainly. A bit
of natural cynicism edged into his thoughts: Kitty had seen through the
beard, otherwise she would have turned the affair over to the police.
Not at all like her mother, yet equally her mother's match in beauty and
intelligence. Conover's girl, whose eyes had nearly popped out of her
head at the first sight of those drum-lined walls of his.

Two-Hawks. What was it that was trying to stir in his recollection?
Two-Hawks. He was sure he had heard that name before. Hawksley meant
nothing at all; but Two-Hawks possessed a strange attraction. He stared
off into space. He might have heard the name in a tongue other than
English.

A sound. It came from the lips of the young man. Cutty frowned. The
poor chap wasn't breathing in a promising way; he groaned after each
inhalation. And what had become of the old fellow Kitty called Gregory?
A queer business.

Kitty came in with a basin and a roll of absorbent cotton.

"He is groaning!" she whispered.

"Pretty rocky condition, I should say. That handkerchief in his cap
doubtless saved him. Now, little lady, I frankly don't like the idea
of his being here. Suppose he dies? In that event there'll be the very
devil to pay. You're all alone here, without even a maid."

"Am I all alone?"--softly.

"Well, no; come to think of it,