Kitty's laughter rang down the corridor. "I'll remember that whenever I want to make you mad. Who's here?"
"Nobody but Harrison and the nurse. Both good citizens, and I've taken them into my confidence to a certain extent. You can talk freely before them."
"Am I to see the patient?"
"Harrison says not. About Wednesday your Two-Hawks will be sitting up. I've determined to keep the poor devil here until he can take care of himself. But he is flat broke."
"He said he had money."
"Well, Karlov's men stripped him clean."
"Have you any idea who he is?"
"To be honest, that's one of the reasons why I want to keep him here. He's Russian, for all his Oxford English and his Italian gestures; and from his babble I imagine he's been through seven kinds of hell. Torches and hobnailed boots and the incessant call for a woman named Olga—a young woman about eighteen."
"How did you find that out?"
"From a photograph I found in the lining of his coat. A pretty blonde girl."
"Good heavens!"—recollecting her dream. "Where was it printed?"
"Amateur photography. I'll pick it up on the way to the living room."
