“The Russ--the educated Russ--is a queer biscuit. Got to have a finger in some political pie, and political pies in Russia before the war were lese-majesty. The result--Gregor got in wrong with his secret society and the political police and was forced to fly to save his life. But before he fled he had all his convertible funds transferred. Only his estate was confiscated. Hawksley was in London when the war broke out. There was a lot of red tape, naturally, regarding the funds. I shan't bother you with that, Hawksley, hoping to better his protector's future, returned to Russia and joined his regiment and fought until the Czar abdicated. Foretasting the trend of events, he tried to get back to England, but that was impossible. He was permitted to retire to the Gregor estate, where he remained until the uprising of the Bolsheviki. Then he started across the world to join Gregor.” “That was brave.” “It certainly was. I imagine that Hawksley's journey has that of Ulysses laid away on the shelf. Karlov was the head of the society which had voted Gregor's death. So he had agents watching Hawksley. And Karlov himself undertook the chase across Russia, China, and the Pacific.” “I'm glad I gave him something to eat. But Gregor, a valet in a hotel, with all that money!” “The red tape.” “What a dizzy world we live in, Cutty!” “Dizzy is the word.” Cutty sighed. His yarn had passed a very shrewd censor. “Karlov feels it his duty to kill off all his countryman who do not agree with his theories. He wanted these funds here, but Hawksley was too clever for him. Remember, now, not a word of this to Hawksley. I tell you this in confidence.” “I promise.” “You'll have to spend the night here. It's round four, and the power has been shut off. There's the stairs, but it would be dawn before you reach the street.” “Who cares?” “I do. I don't believe you're in a good mood to send back to that garlicky warren. I wish to the Lord you'd leave it!” “It's difficult to find anything desirable within my means. Rents are terrifying. I'll sleep on the divan. A rug or a blanket. I'm a silly fool, I suppose.” “You can have a guest room.” “I'd rather the divan; less scandalous. Cutty, I forgot. He played for me.” “What? He did?” “I had to run out of the room because some things he said choked me up. Didn't care whether he died or not. He was even lonelier than I. I lay down on the divan, and then I heard music. Funny, but somehow I fancied he was calling me back; and I had to hang on to the divan. Cutty, he is a great violinist.” “Are you fond of music?” “I am mad about it! I'm always running round to concerts; and I'd walk from Battery to Bronx to hear a good violinist.”