Kitty could see the speaker now. Another coal heaver, but evidently
on her side.

"Tie their hands behind them... I warn you not to move, men. When
I say I'll shoot I mean it. Don't be afraid of hurting them, miss.
Very good. Now bandage their eyes. Handkerchiefs."

But Kitty's handkerchiefs did not run to the dimensions' required;
so she ripped up a petticoat. Torn between her eagerness to
complete a disagreeable task and her offended modesty, Kitty went
through the performance with creditable alacrity. Then she jumped
back into bed, doubled her knees, and once more drew up the
bedclothes to her chin, content to be a spectator, her eyes as wide
as ever they possibly could be.

Some secret-service man Cutty had sent to protect her. Dear old
Cutty! Small wonder he had urged her to spend the night at a hotel.
The admiration of her childhood returned, but without the shackles
of shyness. She had always trusted him absolutely, and to this
trust was now added understanding. To have him pop into her life
again in this fashion, all the ordinary approaches to intimacy
wiped out by these amazing episodes; the years bridged in an hour!
If only he were younger!

"Watch them, miss. Don't be afraid to shoot. I'll return in a
moment" - still gruffly. The secret-service man pushed his
prisoners into chairs and left the bedroom.

Kitty did not care how gruff the voice was; it was decidedly pleasant
in her ears. Gingerly she picked up one of ,the revolvers. Kitty