But his narrative contained no mention of the emeralds. Why? A bit conscience-stricken because, if he could, he was going to rob his guest on the basis that findings is keepings? Cutty wasn't ready to analyze the omission. Perhaps he wanted Hawksley himself to inquire about the stones; test him out. If he asked frankly that would signify that he had brought the stones in honestly, paid his obligations to the Customs. Otherwise, smuggling; and in that event conscience wouldn't matter; the emeralds became a game anybody could take a hand in--anybody who considered the United States Customs an infringement upon human rights. What a devil of a call those stones had for him! Did they mean anything to Hawksley aside from their intrinsic value? But for the nebulous idea, originally, that the emeralds were mixed up somewhere in this adventure, Cutty knew that he would have sent Hawksley to a hospital, left him to his fate, and never known who he was. All through the narration Hawksley listened motionless, with his eyes closed, possibly to keep the wavering instability of the walls from interfering with his assimilation of this astonishing series of fact. “Found you insensible on the floor,” concluded Cutty, “hoisted you to my shoulders, took you to the street--and here you are!” Hawksley opened his eyes. “I say, you know, what a devil of an old Sherlock you must be! And you carried me on your shoulders across that fire escape? Ripping! When I stepped back into that room I heard a rushing sound. I knew! But I didn't have the least chance.... You and that bully girl!” Cutty swore under his breath. He had taken particular pains to avoid mentioning Kitty; and here, first off, the fat was in the fire. He remembered now that he had told Hawksley that Kitty had saved his life. Fortunately, the chap wasn't keen enough with that banged-up head of his to apply reason to the omission. “Saved my life. Suppose she doesn't want me to know.” Cutty jumped at this. “Doesn't care to be mixed up with the Bolshevik end of it. Besides, she doesn't know who you are.” “The fewer that know the better. But I'll always remember her kindness and that bally pistol with the fan in it. But you? Why did you bother to bring me up here?” “Couldn't decently leave you where Karlov could get to you again.” “Is Stefani Gregor dead?” “Don't know; probably not. But we are hunting for him.” Cutty had not explained his interest in Gregor. Those plaguey stones again. They were demoralizing him. Loot. “You spoke of Karlov. Who is he?” “Why, the man who followed you across half the world.” “There were many. What is he like?” “A gorilla.” “Ah!” Hawksley became galvanized and extended his fists. “God let me live long enough to put my hands on him! I had the chance the other day--to blot out his face with my boots! But I couldn't do it! I couldn't do it!” He sagged in the chair. “No, no! Just a bit groggy. All right in a moment.”