第47章 CHAPTER XVII(2)

"I'm sorry," repeated Cutty, a bit choked up. This was honest misery and it affected him deeply. He felt himself singularly drawn.

"I want to live. Because I am young? No. I want to prove to the shades of those who loved me that I am fit to go on. So my identity is known to you?" - dejectedly.

"Yes. You wish me to forget what I know?"

"Will you?" - eagerly. "Will you forget that I am anything but a naked, friendless human being?"

"Yes. But your enemies know."

"I rather fancy they will keep the truth to themselves. Let them publish my identity, and a hundred havens would be offered. Your Government would protect me."

"It is doing so now, indirectly. But why do you not want it known?"

"Freedom! Would I have it if known? Could I trust anybody? Would it not be essentially the old life in a new land? I want a new life in a new land. I want to be born again. I want to be what you patently are, an American. That is why I risked life a hundred times in coming all these miles, why I sit in this chair before you, with the room rocking because they battered in my head. I do not offer a human wreck, an illiterate mind, in exchange for citizenship.

I bring a tolerably decent manhood. Try me! Always I have admired you people. Always we Russians have. But there is no Russia now that I can ever return to!" Hawksley's head drooped again and his bloodshot eyes closed.

Cutty sensed confusion, indecision; all his deductions were upset in the face of this strange appeal. Russian, born of an Italian mother and speaking Oxford English as if it were his birthright; and wanting citizenship! Wasn't ashamed of his tears; wasn't afraid to die or to live! Cutty searched quickly for a new handhold to his antagonism, but he found only straws. He was honest enough to realize that he had built this antagonism upon a want, a desire; there was no foundation for it. Downright likeable. A chap who had gone through so much, who was in such a pitiable condition, would not have the wit to manufacture character, camouflage his soul.

"Hang it!" he said, briskly. "You shall have your chance. Talk like that will carry a man anywhere in this country. You shall stay here until you are strong again. Then some night I'll put you on your train for Montana. You want to ask questions. I'll save you the trouble by telling you what I know."

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."

"By the Lord Harry, I'll see you through. Now buck up. Hear that?" cried Cutty, throwing up a window.

"Music."

"Look through that street there. See the glint of bayonets?

American soldiers, marching up Fifth Avenue, thousands of them, freemen who broke the vaunted Hlndenburg Line. God bless 'em!

Americans, every mother's son of 'em; who went away laughing, who returned laughing, who will go back to their jobs laughing. The ability to laugh, that's America. Do you know how to laugh?"

"I used to. I'm jolly weak just now. But I'll grin if you want me to." And Hawksley grinned.

"That's the way. A grin in this country will take you quite as far.

All right. In five years you'll be voting. I'll see to that. Now back to bed with you, and no more leaving it until the nurse says so.

What you need is rest."