When the elevator reached the seventeenth floor, the passengers surged
forth. All except Kitty, who tarried.

"We don't carry to the eighteenth, miss.

"I am Miss Conover," she replied. "I dared not tell you until we were
alone."

"I see." The boy nodded, swept her with an appraising glance, and sent
the elevator up to the loft.

"You understand? If any one inquires about me, you don't remember."

"Yes, miss. The boss's orders."

"And if any one does inquire you are to report at once."

"That, too."

The boy rolled back the door and Kitty stepped out upon a Laristan
runner of rose hues and cobalt blue. She wondered what it cost Cutty
to keep up an establishment like this. There were fourteen rooms, seven
facing the north and seven facing the west, with glorious vistas of
steam-wreathed roofs and brick Matterhorns and the dim horizon touching
the sea. Fine rugs and tapestries and furniture gathered from the four
ends of the world; but wholly livable and in no sense atmospheric of the
museum. Cutty had excellent taste.

She had visited the apartment but twice before, once in her childhood
and again when she was eighteen. Cutty had given a dinner in honour of
her mother's birthday. She smiled as she recalled the incident. Cutty
had placed a box of candles at the side of her mother's plate and told
her to stick as many into the cake as she thought best.