He stared off into space. He might have heard the name in a tongue
other than English.

A sound. It came from the lips of the young man. Cutty frowned.
The poor chap wasn't breathing in a promising way; he groaned after
each inhalation. And what had become of the old fellow Kitty called
Gregory? A queer business.

Kitty came in with a basin and a roll of absorbent cotton.

"He is groaning!" she whispered.

"Pretty rocky condition, I should say. That handkerchief in his cap
doubtless saved him. Now, little lady, I frankly don't like the
idea of his being here. Suppose he dies? In that event there'll be
the very devil to pay. You're all alone here, without even a maid."

"Am I all alone?" - softly.

"Well, no; come to think of it, I'm no longer your godfather in
theory. Give me the cotton and hold the basin."

He was very tender. The wound bled a little; but it was not the
kind that bled profusely. It was less a cut than a smashing bruise.

"Well, that's all I can do. Who was this tenant Gregory?"

"A dear old man. A valet at a Broadway hotel. Oh, I forgot!
Johnny Two-Hawks called him Stefani Gregor."