Ordinarily Cutty would have declined to come through this shell,
thin as it was; he liked these catnaps between great activities.
But this lovely creature was Conover's daughter, and she would
have the seventh sense-divination of the born reporter. Something
big was in the air.

"Go on!" he said, briskly. "I'm at your heels. And stoop as you
pass those hall windows. No use throwing a silhouette for somebody
in those rear houses to see." . . . Old Tommy Conover's daughter,
sure pop! . . . There you go, under the ladder! You've dished the
whole affair, whatever it is.... No, no! Just spoofing, Kitty. A
long face is no good anywhere, even at a funeral.... This window?
All right. Know where the lights are? Very good."

When Cutty saw the man on the floor he knelt quickly. "Nasty bang
on the head, but he's alive. What's this? His cap. Poughkeepsie.
By George, padded with his handkerchief! Must have known something
was going to fall on him. Now, what's it all about?"

"When we get him to my apartment."

"Yours? Good Lord, what's the matter with this?"

"They tried to kill him here. They might return to see if they had
succeeded. They mustn't find where he has gone. I'm strong. I can
take hold of his knees."

"Tut! Neither of us could walk backward over that fire escape. He
looks husky, but I'll try it. Now obey me without question or
comment. You'll have to help me get him outside the window and in