United States or Zimbabwe ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
But the squat man trembled with excitement when he noted that it was stamped 214. He had taken particular pains to search the register for Hawksley's number before rousing the clerk. He hadn't counted on any such luck as this. His idea had been merely to watch the door of Room 212. He had the feline foot, as they say. He moved about lightly and without sound in the dark.
But no theory is perfect; and in this instance his reticence was going to cost him intolerable agony in the near future. Within a quarter of an hour he was back in the living room. Kitty was out of sight; probably had curled up on the divan again. He would not disturb her. Hawksley's wallet! He drew a chair under the reading lamp and explored the wallet.
He had frankly entered the affair in the role of buccaneer; and here he was, high and dry on the reef. The drums of jeopardy, so far as he was concerned, had been shot into the moon two hundred thousand miles out of reach. He found himself resenting Hawksley's honesty in the matter of the customs. But immediately this sense of resentment caused him to chuckle.
As soon as the attic was cleared Cutty limped over to Molly Conover's daughter. The poor innocent! The way she was holding that head was an illumination. With a reassuring smile an effort, for his lips were puffed and burning he knelt and put his hand on Hawksley's heart. "Done in, Kitty; that's all." "He isn't dead?" "Lord, no! He had nine lives, this chap, and only one of 'em missing to date.
There was some clear reason for the horror in Hawksley's tones. What tragedy lay behind these wonderful prisms of colour that the legitimate owner could not look upon them without being stirred in this manner? "Take them into the study," urged Kitty. "Wait!" interposed Hawksley. "I give one of the emeralds to you, Cutty. They came out of hell if you want to risk it!
You might go in ahead, Mr. Narkom, and get the acid bath and the powder ready for me. We'll see what the finger-prints of our gentle correspondent have to tell, and, if they are not in the records of Scotland Yard or down in my own private little book, we'll get a sample of Captain Hawksley's in the morning."
He turned to broach the suggestion of purchase, but remained mute. Hawksley's head was sunk upon his chest; his arms hung limply at the sides of his chair. "He is fainting!" cried Kitty, her love outweighing her resolves. "Cutty!" desperately, fearing to touch Hawksley herself. "No! The stones, the stones! Take them away out of sight! I'm too done in! I can't stand it! I can't The Red Night!
In Hawksley's case the blow had probably restricted some current of thought, and that which would have flowed normally now shot out obliquely, perversely. It might be that the natural perverseness of his blood, unchecked by the noble influence of Stefani Gregor and liberated by the blow, governed his thoughts in relation to Kitty.
His punishment for entertaining a looter's idea would be work when he wanted to loaf and enjoy himself. Arriving at Hawksley's door he was confronted by a spectacle not without its humorous touch: The nurse extending a bowl and Hawksley staring at the sky beyond the window, stonily. "But you must!" insisted Miss Frances. "Chops or beefsteak!" "It will give you nausea." "Permit me to find out.
In the limousine Cutty sat in the middle, Kitty on his left and Hawksley on his right, his arms round them both. Presently Hawksley's head touched his shoulder and rested there; a little later Kitty did likewise. His children! Lord, he was going to have a tremendous interest in life, after all! He smiled with kindly irony at the back of the chauffeur.
Word Of The Day