inclinations had been toward the aristocracy; at least, that had
been the impression. A Bolshevik would not seek haven with a man
like Gregor, as this young man had. But Two-Hawks bothered him;
the name bothered him, because it had no sense either in English or
in Russian. And yet he was sure he had heard it somewhere. Perhaps
his notes would throw some light on that subject, too.

When he arrived home Miss Frances, the nurse, informed him that the
patient was babbling in an outlandish tongue. For a long time
Cutty stood by the bedside, translating.

"Olga! . . . Olga! . . . And she gave me food, Stefani, this
charming American girl. Never must we forget that. I was hungry,
and she gave me food.... But I paid for it. You, gone, there was
no one else.... And she is poor.... The torches! ... I am burning,
burning! ... Olga!"

"What does he say?" asked the nurse.

"It is Russian. Is it a crisis?" he evaded.

"Not necessarily. Doctor Harrison said he would probably return to
consciousness sometime to-morrow. But he must have absolute quiet.
No visitors. A bad blow, but not of fatal consequence. I've seen
hundreds of cases much worse pull out in a fortnight. You'd better
go to bed, sir."

"All right," said Cutty, gratefully. He was tired. The ball did
not rebound as it used to; the resilience was petering out. But
look alive, there! Big events were toward, and he must not stop to