Ah, never had she needed that darling mother of hers so much as now. Tears did not seem to afford relief when one shed them into handkerchiefs and pillows. But on that gentle bosom, to let loose this brimming flood, to hear the tender voice consoling! “Oh, I say, now! Please!” she heard Johnny Two-Hawks cry out. But she rushed on blindly, knocking against the door jamb and almost upsetting the nurse, who was returning. Somehow she managed to reach the living room, glad it was dark. Alter sundry reaching about she found the divan and flung herself upon it. What would he think? What would the nurse think? That Kitty Conover had suddenly gone stark, raving crazy! And now that she was in the dark, alone, the desire to weep passed over and she lay quietly with her face buried in the pillow. But not for long. She sat up. Music--violin music! A gay waltz that made her think of flashing water, the laughter of children. Tschaikowsky. Thrilled, she waited for the finale. Silence. Scharwenka's “Polish Dance,” with a swing and a fire beyond anything she had ever heard before. Another stretch of silence--a silence full of interrogation points. Then a tender little sketch, quite unfamiliar. But all at once she understood. He was imploring her to return. She smiled in the dark; but she knew she was going to remain right where she was. “Miss Conover?” It was the voice of the nurse. “Yes. I'm over here on the divan.” “Anything wrong?” “Good gracious, no! I'm overtired. A little hysterical, maybe. The parade to-day, with all those wounded boys in automobiles, the music and colour and excitement--have rather done me up. And the way I rushed up here. And not finding Cutty--” “Anything I can get for you?” “No, thanks. I'll try to snatch a little sleep before Cutty returns.” “But he may be gone all night!” “Will it be so very scandalous if I stay here?” “You poor child! Go ahead and sleep. Don't hesitate to call me if you want anything. I have a mild sedative if you would like it.” “No, thanks. I did not know that Mr. Hawksley played.” “Wonderfully! But does it bother you?” “It kind of makes me choky.” “I'll tell him.” Kitty, now strangely at peace, snuggled down among the pillows. Some great Polish violinist, who had roused the bitter enmity of the anarchist? But no; he was Russian. Cutty had admitted that. It struck her that Cutty knew a great deal more than Kitty Conover; and so far as she could see there was no apparent reason for this secrecy. She rather believed she had Cutty. Either he should tell her everything or she would run loose, Bolshevik or no Bolshevik. Sheep. She boosted one over the bars, another and another. Round somewhere in the thirties the bars dissolved. The next thing she knew she was blinking in the light, Cutty, his arms folded, staring down at her sombrely. There was blood on his face and blood on his hands. CHAPTER XX