Kitty Conover was going to have some queer recollections to tell her grandchildren, providing she had any.

That morning she had risen to face a humdrum normal day.
And here she was, at midnight, hobnobbing with quiescent murder and sudden death! To-morrow Burlingame would ask her to hustle up the Sunday stuff, and she would hustle.

She wanted to laugh, but was a little afraid that this laughter might degenerate into incipient hysteria.
There was still in her mind a vivid recollection of her dream--the fire of diamonds and the blonde girl with the tiara of rubies.

Olga, Olga! Russian; the whole affair was Russian.

She shivered.