had always admired Cutty from afar, shyly. Once in a blue moon he
had in the old days appeared for tea; and he and Mrs. Conover would
spend the balance of the afternoon discussing the lovable qualities
of Tommy Conover. Kitty had seen him but twice during the war.

"Every so often," began Cutty, "I have to find listeners. Fact. I
used to hate crowds, listeners; but those ten days in an open boat,
a thousand miles from anywhere, made me gregarious. I'm always
wanting company and hating to go to bed, which is bad business for
a man of fifty-two." Cutty's ship had been torpedoed.

To Kitty, with his tired eyes and weather-bitten face, his bony,
gangling body, he had the appearance of a lazy man. Actually she
knew him to be a man of tremendous vitality and endurance. Eagles
when they roost are heavy-lidded and clumsy. She wondered if there
was a corner on the globe he had not peered into.

For thirty years he had been following two gods - Rumour and War.
For thirty years he had been the slave of cables and telegrams.
Even now he was preparing to return to the Balkans, where the great
fire had started and where there were still some threatening embers
to watch.

Cutty was not well known in America; his reputation was European.
He played the game because he loved it, being comfortably fortified
with worldly goods. He was a linguist of rare attainments,
specializing in the polyglot of southeastern Europe. He came and
went like cloud shadow. His foresight was so keen he was seldom
ordered to go here or there; he was generally on the spot when the
orders arrived.