“My word, I am hungry! I was looking out of the window across the way and saw you preparing your dinner. A bit of bread and a glass of milk. Would you mind, I wonder?” “Why didn't you come to the door then? What window?” Kitty was resolute; once she embarked upon an enterprise. “That one.” “Where is Mr. Gregory?” Kitty recalled that odd letter. “Gregory? I should very much like to know. I have come many miles to see him. He sent me a duplicate key. There was not even a crust in the cupboard.” Gregory away? That letter! Something had happened to that poor, kindly old man. “Why did you not seek some restaurant? Or have you no money?” “I have plenty. I was afraid that I might not be able conveniently to return. I am a stranger. My actions might be viewed with suspicion.” “Indeed! Describe Mr. Gregory.” Not of the clinging kind, evidently, he thought. A raving beauty--Diana domesticated! “It is four years since I saw him. He was then gray, dapper, and erect. A mole on his chin, which he rubs when he talks. He is a valet in one of the fashionable hotels. He is--or was--the only true friend I have in New York.” “Was? What do you mean?” “I'm afraid something has happened to him. I found his bedroom things tossed about.” “What could possibly happen to a harmless old man like Mr. Gregory?” “Pardon me, but your egg is burning!” Kitty wheeled and lifted off the pan, choking in the smother of smoke. She came right-about face swiftly enough. The man had not moved; and that decided her. “Come in. I will give you something to eat. Sit in that chair by the window, and be careful not to stir from it. I'm a good shot,” lied Kitty, truculently. “Frankly, I do not like the looks of this.” “I do look like a burglar, what?” He sat down in the chair meekly. Food and a human being to talk to! A lovely, self-reliant American girl, able to take care of herself. Magnificent eyes--slate blue, with thick, velvety black lashes. Irish. In a moment Kitty had three eggs and half a dozen strips of bacon frying in a fresh pan. She kept one eye upon the pan and the other upon the intruder, risking strabismus. At length she transferred the contents of the pan to a plate, backed to the ice chest, and reached for a bottle of milk. She placed the food at the far end of the table and retreated a few steps, her arms crossed in such a way as to keep the revolver in view. “Please do not be afraid of me. “What makes you think I am?” “Any woman would be.” Kitty saw that he was actually hungry, and her suspicions began to ebb. He hadn't lied about that. And he ate like a gentleman. Young, not more than thirty; possibly less. But that dreadful stubble and that black eye! The clothes would have passed muster on any fashionable golf links. A fugitive? From what? “Thank you,” he said, setting down the empty milk bottle. “Your accent is English.” “Which is to say?” “That your gestures are Italian.” “My mother was Italian. But what makes you believe I am not English?”