had heard of him; and in either case it signified that Gregor was
something more than a valet. And decidedly Two-Hawks was not of the
Russian peasantry.

By the time she was ready to leave for the office the Irish blood
in her was seething and bubbling and dancing. She knew she would
do crazy, impulsive things all day. It was easy to analyze this
exuberance. She had reached out into the dark and touched danger,
and found a new thrill in a humdrum world.

The Great Dramatist had produced a tremendous drama and she had
watched curtain after curtain fall from the wrong side of the lights.
Now she had been given a speaking part; and she would be down stage
for a moment or two - dusting the furniture - while the stars were
retouching their make-up. It was not the thought of Cutty, of
Gregor, of Johnny Two-Hawks, of hidden treasure; simply she had
arrived somewhere in the great drama.

When she reached the office she had a hard time of it to settle down
to the day's work.

"Hustle up that Sunday stuff," said Burlingame. Kitty laughed.
Just as she had pictured it. She hustled.

"I have it!" she cried, breaking a spell of silence.

"What - St. Vitus?" inquired Burlingame, patiently.

"No; the Morgue!"