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" V[o. Tin- same irirl in every port, in the fire, in 

i- ' *lr IMI ii in 1111 vt 

tlic moon mist. 


Yellow Typhoon 





Illustrated by 




Copyright, 1919, by Harper & Brothers 

Printed in the United States 01 America 

Published October. 1919 




FlRE, IN THE MoON-MlSTs" Frontispiece 

ALWAYS BENUMBS Us Facing p. 292 





A NAVAL officer, trig in his white twill, 
strode along the Escolta, Manila's 
leading thoroughfare. There was some- 
thing in his stride that suggested anger; 
and the settled grimness of his lips, visible 
between his mustache and short beard, and 
the hard brightness of his blue eyes em- 
phasized this suggestion. He was angry, 
but it was a cold anger, a kind of clear- 
minded fury which often makes calculation 
terrible. He had been carrying this anger 
in his heart for six bitter years. It was 
something like glacial ice; it moved always, 
but never seemed to lose either hardness or 
configuration. To-day it had the effect of 
the north wind that almost forgotten 
north wind of his native land in that it 
winnowed all the chaff from his mind and 

left one clear thought. He would settle the 



matter once and for all time. The face 
and form of an angel, and the heart of a 

He had known all along that some day 
she would turn up in Manila. It was im- 
possible for them to resist the temptation 
to view their handiwork. Tigers, they al- 
ways return to the kill. But he had her 
now, had her in the hollow of his hand. 
All the fear of her was gone. This after- 
noon he would teach her what the word 
meant. Civilians were lucky. These sor- 
did things could pop up into their lives, 
even get into the papers, and shortly be 
forgotten. But in the navy it was the 
knell of advancement. It never mattered 
if the wrong was wholly on the other side; 
the result was the same. But he had her, 
thank God! The world would never know 
what had turned Bob Hallowell into a 
misanthrope. The tentacles of the octopus 
had been lopped off, as by a miracle. He 
was a free man. 

Never would he forget the shame and 
misery, the horror of that night in the 
Grand Hotel in Yokohama. The brazen- 
ness of that confession on the first night 
of his honeymoon! He was free, yes, but 


he would never be able to blot out that 
infernal night. Well, he had her. She 
should leave Manila on the first ship that 
left port; it did not matter whether it went 
north or east. If she proved obdurate, he 
would have her arrested. He would fight 
her tooth and nail. The world had changed 
since that night. The old order had gone 
to smash since August, 1914. Traditions 
had been badly mauled by necessities. Such 
a scandal, in which he had been merely the 
dupe, would scarcely leave a ripple in pass- 
ing. Who would care, these tremendous 

He stopped abruptly. His thoughts had 
almost carried him past the hotel, one of 
those second-rate establishments which you 
find in all Oriental cities that are sea- 
ports, hotels full of tragic and sordid his- 
tories. He entered, ran up the first flight of 
stairs, scrutinized the numbers on two doors, 
and paused before the third. He raised his 
hand and struck the panel. A touch of 
vertigo seized him. Supposing his love for 
the Jezebel was still a living thing and 
needed only the sight of the woman to 
revive it? 

"Come in!" 



He opened the door and closed it behind 
him, standing with his back to it. He did 
not take off his hat. A cold little shudder 
ran over him. She was more beautiful than 

She rose from a dilapidated corduroy 
divan, pressed the coal of a cigarette into 
the ash-tray, and faced him, her air one of 
hesitance and timidity. What she saw was 
a squat muscular body, a beautiful head 
with a rugged, kindly face. She noted the 
hair, shot with silver. That was always 
a good sign. Still, there was something in 
the elevation of his jaw and the set of his 
powerful shoulders she did not like. 

What he saw was a woman of medium 
height, slender but perfectly molded, young, 
beautiful, exquisite. Her hair was the 
color of spun molasses, lustrous because the 
color was genuine. Her eyes were velvety 
purple. The skin was milk-white, with a 
hint of peachblow under the eyes and 
temples. The marvel of her lay in the 
fact that she never had to make up. The 
devil had given her all those effectives for 
which most women strive in vain. Inno- 
cence! She might have stepped out of one 
of Bouguereau's masterpieces. At one cor- 



ner of her mouth was the most charming 
mole imaginable. You might look at her 
nose, her eyes, the curve of her chin, but 
invariably your glance returned to the mole. 
The devil's finishing-touch; it permitted 
you to see the mouth indirectly, and you 
lost the salient a certain grim, cruel 

He waited with an ironical twist to one 
corner of his mouth. But in his heart there 
was great rejoicing. Aside from the initial 
chill nothing, not a thrill, not a tingle at 
the roots of his hair. He could look upon 
her beauty without a single extra heart- 
beat. He was free, spiritually as well as 

"Well?" he said. 

"I came to Manila, to you, because I am 
tired and repentant and want a home. I 
am growing old." 

He laughed and rested his shoulders 
against the door. There was a repressed 
volcanic flash in her eyes. That laugh did 
not presage well. 

" Is it so hard to forgive?" Vocal honey. 

"What is it you really want?" he asked, 
perfectly willing to see the comedy to its 



"A home . . . with you. I know, Rob- 
ert, that I was a wretch in those days. But 
the world over here . . . men . . . the 
temptation . . . the primordial instinct of 
woman to fight man with any weapon she 
can lay a hand to! ... Won't you take 
me back and forgive?" 

"Take care, Berta! Don't waste those 
tears! In your eyes they are pearls with- 
out price. Don't waste them on me." 

"Then you won't forgive?" 

"Forgive? What manner of fool have 
you written me down? Forgive! I gave 
you an honest man's love . . . and you 
picked my pockets! I would not give two 
coppers to place on your dead eyes. Take 
you home? Innocent child!" 

"Ah! Then it is war?" 

" War to the end, pretty cobra ! You don't 
suppose I came here with any other idea?" 

How she hated this man! Hated him 
because she had never beaten him, never 
seen him cringe nor heard him plead. She, 
too, would remember that night in Yoko- 
hama, six years gone. After the blow, si- 
lence, not a word or a look. Stonily he had 
packed up his belongings and gone to 
the Yokohama Club, whence he had gone 


aboard a cruiser in the morning. Since 
that moment until this she had never laid 
eyes on him. Every six months a check 
came; but even that lacked his signature 
a draft from Cook's. War! So be it. He 
would learn when she began to turn the 

"You will take me home and acknowledge 
me," she whipped back at him. 

"Acknowledge you . . . what?" 

"As your wife!" stormily. 

Again he laughed. "You are not my 
wife, and never have been." 

"And how will you prove it?" 

"That will be easy. Curious old world, 
isn't it? I thought, when I received your 
note, that nothing would satisfy me but to 
wring your neck. And all I want is a kiss 
. . . because I'm sure it would poison you! 
I know. You have in that head of jours 
schemes for my humiliation, scandal, and 
all that. A woman, known as The Yellow 
Typhoon, claiming to be the wife of one 
Robert Hallowell, rampaging the office, 
storming the villa gate, getting interviewed. 
No, Berta, it isn't going to happen at all. 
On the contrary, you will leave Manila on 
the first ship out " 


"And if I refuse?" 

" Bilibid prison. While we are very busy 
militarily, our civil courts have plenty of 
time to try a prime case of bigamy. War? 
You will jolly well find out!" 


"Sure. Lieutenant Graham is dead, and 
I had charge of his effects. I found some 
interesting letters. These led me to the 
Protestant Episcopal cathedral, where your 
name and his were neatly inscribed on the 
register ... six months before you laid your 
trap for me. You found, after you had 
married him, that he wasn't the Graham 
who had inherited a fortune. Marriage! 
It seems to be a mania with you. How 
many of us poor devils have you rooked 
with your infernal beauty? What's God's 
idea, anyhow? Or is it the devil himself 
who fits you out, covers your black heart 
with alluring flesh? No matter. The first 
ship out or Bilibid. I have warned you." 

Then he did something that he afterward 
regretted. But malice burned so hotly in 
his veins that he could not resist the im- 
pulse. He walked over to her and, before 
she could comprehend his purpose, swept 
her into his arms, held her tightly for a mo- 


ment, and kissed her, her eyes, her lips, her 
throat. Then he flung her roughly back 
upon the divan, stalked from the room, and 
closed the door with an emphasis which pro- 
claimed that it was to stand between them 
eternally. Once he reached the street, he 
spat and rubbed his lips energetically. 

He had been a fool to do that. He had 
slipped down to her level. But, hang it! 
it was the only way he could make her feel 
anything, the viper! 

A fool indeed; for later that act was going 
to cost him dearly. 

He left behind a tableau. Not until his 
footsteps died away did the woman stir. 
Then she sprang to her feet, a fury. She 
swept her hand savagely across her mouth. 
She, too, spat. 

"Oh!" she cried, through her teeth, in a 
kind of animal roar. She seized the divan 
pillow, tore at it, and sent it hurtling across 
the room. "Oh!" 

"There, there! Enough of that, Berta!" 

A man stepped from behind the screen. 
He was notable for three things, his bulk, 
his straw-colored hair, and the pleasant ex- 
pression of his smooth, ruddy face. The 
ensemble was particularly agreeable. But 

2 9 


in detail, somehow, the man lost out. There 
wasn't enough skull at the back of his head, 
his eyes were too shallow, there was a bad 
droop to his nether lip. For all these de- 
fects, everything about the man suggested 
power power never wastefully applied. 

The woman whirled upon him. "But 
you!" her voice thick with passion. "You 
saw what he did?" 


"And you let him go?" 

"I have told you. If there is one man 
in Manila I do not care to meet, it's the 

"I despise you all!" She flew about the 
room, gesticulating. 

"You will die of apoplexy some day, if 
you ever have the misfortune to grow fat. 
Enough of that nonsense. That goose is 
dead; but there are others, and larger golden 

" But I hate him ! I want him broken, dis- 
graced! Didn't you hear him order me out 
of Manila?" 

"Don't let that worry you. You'll stay 
here until I'm ready to leave. I'll hide you 
over in the Tondo." 

"What! Among the natives?" 


The man crossed the room and caught 
hold of her. "Be sensible. The captain 
will do exactly as he threatens. It's Bilibid 
if I don't hide you at once. You couldn't 
walk five blocks up the Escolta without run- 
ning into some one who knows you. You 
left a trail across these diggings, my tiger- 
kitten. They don't call you The Yellow 
Typhoon for nothing. You've got to keep 
under cover, since we can't get you into that 
villa of his. These are war-times and I've 
big work to do. You'll go to Tondo be- 
cause it is my will. I've let you play 
your game; now you'll help me play mine. 
When this job is done we'll return to the 
States and live like nabobs. I tell you, 
Berta, there's a fortune for the picking. 
Risks, yes; but not any more dangerous 
than we've been accustomed to. These 
American swine " 


"All right." The man switched into 
Danish. "These American swine don't 
shoot spies; they arrest them and let them 
out on bail. Ye gods! But I say, I've 
got a little surprise for you. Remember 
those sables I smuggled in last spring? 

Well, Wu Fang is making them into a coat 



that will be worth seven thousand in the 

" Manchurian !" disdainfully. 

"Real Russian." He smoothed her hair; 
but it was some time before she began to 
purr. "No nonsense. We'll clear out of 
here at once. I'll take you to the Tondo 
and you can rig up in that Chinese costume 
of yours. You can ride after sundown, and 
I'll be out frequently. I'll fix you up like 
the Sultan's favorite. You can wear a cap 
outside of doors. Inside, it won't matter if 
the natives see your hair." 

"For how long?" 

"Perhaps two weeks." 

"Something of naval importance," she 

"So big that the fatherland will pay a 
million. One of the biggest things in the 
world, here in Manila; and it's packed away 
in the brain of that experimental husband 
of yours. That's why I wanted you out 
there. There is a blue-print at that villa. 
If I can't land the big goose, I can land that. 
If we can't apply the principle, we can learn 
what it is." 

"And if he loses it, it will break him?" 

"Something like that." 



"Then I'll go peacefully into the Tondo. 
The thought of his being broken will keep 
me alive. Make him pay for those kisses!" 

The man held her off at arm's-length. 
" You're a queer hawk. I don't suppose 
there's a man on earth you really care for. 
You're afraid of me; that's my hold." 

11 Afraid of you? No. You are generally 
sensible and necessary. And I happen to be 
your wife. You're a port in the storm." 

" There seems to be only one idea in your 
head to break men, twist their hearts and 
empty their pockets." 

"I hate them. I have always hated 
them. As a child I fought the boys when 
they tried to kiss me. I was born that way. 
Analyze it? I've never tried to. Perhaps 
I am Nemesis for all the wrongs mankind 
has done womankind. I hate them. They 
never kiss me even you that I don't want 
to strike and cut." 

"And you've been successful for one rea- 
son only." 

"And what is that?" 

"Naval officers, English and American, 
proud and inherently afraid of scandal. You 
may thank God you never tried your game 
on a man of my kidney. Your pretty neck 



would have twisted long ago. Mark me, 
Berta, you are mine. Never try to play 
any of those tricks on me. If you do I'll 
kill you with bare hands. To you I am a 
reliable business partner; to me you're the 
one woman. Remember that. You hold 
me because you are always a bit of mystery. 
What's behind that day in San Francisco 
when you decided to cast your lot with 
mine? More than seven years gone, and 
I've never found out. Some man, and be- 
cause he did not give you a square deal all 
these wrecks." 

"Do you want the truth? You are the 
first man who ever laid his hand on me. 
I ran away from a humdrum world. I 
wanted adventure, swift, red-blooded. I'm 
a viking's daughter." 

"I can believe that. You don't care for 
money or jewels. It's the game, the sport. 
Typhoons! that's you. You come and go 
across men's lives exactly like a typhoon. 
Wherever you pass wreckage. But our 
captain seems to have escaped." 

"I have your promise in regard to him." 

The man laughed. "That's one of your 
charms you stick it out. What are you 
German, Dane, Finn? To this day I don't 



know. But always keep in your pretty 
head that you are mine. Marry them, kiss 
them, and say good-by ; but always recollect 
that I'm under the latticed window. After 
all, it's just as well that you didn't go out to 
San Miguel. The captain has a partner. 
He'd have been too much for you." 

"In what way?" 

"Your way. Handsomest man in the 
Asiatic fleet, and rich. He's to be trans- 
ferred shortly to the Atlantic. And if I've 
got the right of it, you and I are going to be 
very much interested in his journey." 

"Rich and handsome," she said, rumi- 

The man smiled ironically. "An officer 
who has never had an affair; ice, where 
women are concerned. I dig up their his- 
tories; part of my game. You would have 
about as much chance with him as I would 
in a sampan in the middle of one of your 
happy-go-lucky typhoons. A handsome, 
vigorous young man, who carries a Rajpu- 
tana parrakeet with him when he travels, 
a talking parrakeet. Everybody in Manila 
has heard about that bird." 

"A handsome young man with money 
and a talking parrakeet!" The woman be- 



gan to laugh. "I never heard anything 
like that before. I am interested. What's 
he look like?" 

The man took out a wallet from which he 
drew a newspaper clipping. ' i That's a good 

"He is handsome! . . . Good Heavens!" 


"But this isn't his photograph. It's a 
crook's 'Black' Ellison, wanted for dia- 
mond robbery and assault in San Francisco." 

"The two look enough alike to be useful 
. . . maybe. Not a physical likeness; it's 
merely photographic. I never overlook 
anything. If he takes the journey I have 
in mind, it may be of use. Photographi- 
cally, they look enough alike to be twins." 

The woman returned the clipping, her 
eyes somber. She walked slowly over to a 
window and stared down into the street 
without seeing anything of the busy life 


OUT San Miguel way there are many 
two-storied brick villas with Spanish- 
red tiles. Sometimes there are three or four 
almost neighborly, then one aloof and alone. 
Tn Manila most white folk live up-stairs, 
the servants down. It permits white folk 
to talk over their affairs without listeners 
and the servants to run away to cock-fights 
as often as they dare. 

One of these isolated villas was walled 
in, except on the river side, by a wall of 
rubble coated with whitewash. Rising 
above the chevaux de frise of broken bottles 
was a fringe of feathery bamboo. There 
was an alley of these trees from the gate to 
the door. There was also a garden ;_but the 
precise formality with which it had been 
laid out was a mute testimony of the ab- 
sence of womankind. 

Two Americans lived there bachelors. 
One of them lived there continuously; the 



other, whenever his ship was in port. They 
were officers in the United States navy. 
An odd pair, agreed official and social 
Manila; and after futile efforts to make 
friends with them, dismissed them. Odd, 
because bachelor officers who have incomes 
outside their pay are generally gay sailor- 
men. Off duty, these two formed an asso- 
ciation of hermits. They never went any- 
where except officially, and avoided women 
as other men avoided the plague. One of 
them was woman-shy; the other hated 
them, it was said. 

Captain Hallowell of the staff would in 
all probability never go to sea again, ac- 
tively. An experiment had severely in- 
jured one of his eyes, though the defect was 
not noticeable.. 

Lieutenant-Commander Mathison was an 
officer of the line a fighting sailor. They 
were as unlike physically as it is possible 
for two men to be. 

Hallowell was the dreamer, the thinker. 
He was short, thick, rugged, and a trifle 
gray. His head and short beard were shot 
with silver, though his mustache was still 
black. There was something about him 
that reminded you of the gorilla. You 



were likely to carry this idea in your head 
until you knew him; then you understood 
that he was in the same category as the 
St. Bernard the gentlest and friendliest 
dog in the world until thoroughly aroused. 
They called him a woman-hater with some 
justice, though no one in official Manila 
ever learned the true facts, not even Mathi- 
son, who surmised that Hallowell had run 
afoul some worthless woman and had got 
past the reefs by a hair. 

Mathison was the man of action. He 
was tall, slender, and handsome, with a 
smooth olive skin. This deep color gave 
conspicuity to his gray eyes, the whites of 
which were dazzling. Every line and turn 
of his face gave you the impression that by 
nature he was amiable in the extreme. 
Given cause, he could be as savage and re- 
lentless as the gorilla his friend resembled. 

Woman-shy, they called him, because 
they could find no other suitable name for 
the puzzle. He was always courteous when, 
by those accidents of chance called official 
receptions, he found himself among women. 
But there was always a cold reserve the 
brightest eyes could not batter down. Rest 
assured, there were many feminine cam- 



paigns. He was the combination of two 
things women prize highly, greedily or sen- 
timentally money and good looks. 

What had the aspect of shyness was 
merely an idea, held to with surpassing reso- 
lution. I shall tell you about this idea 
later on. There are, here and there across 
this world, men like Mathison, who are 
neither mollycoddles nor sanctimonious 
nincompoops. They are not gregarious 
the type from which explorers come, men 
who know how to live alone, to whom the 
most necessary and alluring thing in life is 
to overcome obstacles. 

This resolution had toughened Mathison, 
morally and physically. Packed away in 
that lithe body of his was tremendous vital- 
ity. He was perfectly willing to be called 
woman-shy. Such a reputation was a con- 
siderable barricade. He was content to 
rest behind it. There had been battles, 
bitter conflicts. There are certain fires 
which hypnotize; one must reach out and 
touch them. I might say that this idea of 
his was always in a state of siege. 

After this exposition, it sounds odd to 
remark that Mathison was as full of ro- 
mance as a Chinese water-chestnut is of 



starch,' that his day-dreams were peopled 
with lovely women. He never saw a beau- 
tiful woman that he did not immediately 
clothe her in his colorful imagination. He 
rescued her from Chinese pirates, he was 
shipwrecked and cast away on a desert 
island with her, he tore her from the hands 
of brigands or the latticed window of some 
rajah's haremlik; and he always married 
her in the end. Everything in him inclined 
toward the companionship of women, and 
he had built a Chinese wall around this 

Among men, however, he was companion- 
able, witty, humorous, and full of sound 
common sense. But no one ever called him 
Jack, not even Hallowell, the best friend 
he had. He was always John or Mathison 
to his equals and superiors, and "sir" to 
his subordinates. Hallowell, however, had 
compromised on "Mat." And yet Mathi- 
son bubbled with personal magnetism. 

You never get deeply into a naval officer's 
character by rubbing elbows with him in 
wardrooms or officers' clubs. If you want 
to know the real man, go down into the 
boiler-rooms, the gun-rooms, anywhere but 

the quarter-deck. The rough-necks will tell 



you. They sometimes weigh you with a 
glance. Two things they require of you 
absolute justice and firmness. That was 
Mathison to his men ; and he always backed 
these attributes with a smiling eye. There 
was something in the snap of his voice that 
inclined men to obey him at once, without 
question; not that they were afraid of him, 
but that they knew he was right. In the 
navy in all navies there are underground 
wireless stations. A man's reputation trav- 
els from ship to ship, and when an officer is 
transferred the men try him out just to see 
if his crown is of tinsel or of gold. 

A fighting-sailor with red blood, with a 
born gambler's interest in chance, winning 
or losing with a smile, as you shall sec; thirty 
years of age, and no anchor to windward. 

He never forgot anything. They said of 
him that he could hide his collar-button 
during a dream and go directly to it in the 
morning. Hallowell, however, was very 
absent-minded. Often he would go about 
the living-room in search of his pipe, in the 
end to find it dangling in his teeth. Or he 
would wash his face with his spectacles on 
and wonder what in thunderation ailed his 
sound eye. 


Hallowell he, too, was full of romance 
miracles in steel, visions which cast into 
shape huge fighting-machines, tremendous 
guns, flying torpedoes. He was, aside from 
his official duties, a successful inventor. Few 
of the grim floating forts of the navy were 
without certain devices of his. He had just 
completed plans which eventually were go- 
ing to cause the German Admiralty a good 
deal of anxiety. 

There were still two or three points he had 
not cleared up to his own satisfaction. The 
plans were absolutely complete as they 
stood; and he believed he saw a chance to 
reduce the complexity of certain phases; 
and he was hammering away at this prob- 
lem after hours, often far into the night. 

Mathison, Hallowell and Company (the 
Company being the Rajputana parrakeet) ; 
an odd pair of men, rather misunderstood, 
with few intimates, sharing a deep, abiding 
love, never spoken of, but tacitly understood. 
They were jocularly known as "The Two 
Orphans" and the villa as "The Orphan- 
age," as both men were without immediate 
family ties. 

Lately Hallowell had formed the habit 
of going to the Botanical Gardens for a 


half-hour's ramble, between four and five. 
He had discovered that this mild exercise 
cleared his mind of all routine and left it 
free to creative musings. He tramped 
about the paths at a moderate gait, his 
hands behind his back, the tip of his short, 
gray-peppered beard projecting like a bow- 
sprit over his collar. I doubt if during 
these pleasant peregrinations he ever saw 
anything but the white markings on blue- 
prints. Half an hour to the minute, then he 
would shake off the spell, set his shoulders, 
and hurry away for the trolley to San Miguel. 

Having delivered his ultimatum to the 
woman known as The Yellow Typhoon and 
having learned, on the following day, that 
she had left the hotel in the Escolta, all 
thought of her went out of his mind com- 
pletely. It was an unhappy page turned 
down for good. But to-day, one week later, 
as he came out of his day-dreams, she 
popped into his head. 

A wave of shame ran over him. He 
would never forgive himself for that vio- 
lence. Not that he felt any pity toward 
the woman. The act had lowered himself 
eternally in his own eyes; the luster was 
gone from his self-esteem. He had kissed 



another man's wife, not his own. And 
what was worse, she might interpret the 
act as a sign that he still cared for her and 
try to re-enter his life at some later day. 
Fool! A mad impulse to hurt her, and he 
had hurt only himself. Well, the damage 
was done; berating his folly would not wipe 
it off the slate. 

Suddenly his sound eye lost its introspec- 
tive look and became alert. Coming down 
the path toward him was a woman. She 
was dressed in pongee, a sola-topee on her 
head. Round this sun-helmet ran the folds 
of a gray veil which could be lowered or 
raised at will. At this moment the wom- 
an's face was clear. It was young and 
vividly beautiful. Her hair was a ruddy 
gold, like the tips of ripe wheat after rain. 
The sun, directly behind her, cast a golden 
nimbus on each side of her head. Her eyes 
were purple-blue, like wooji-violets, and her 
skin was the tint of pale amber. She walked 
with a free stride of one who loved the air 
and sunshine. She saw Hallowell only after 
he had deliberately stepped in front of her, 
blocking the way. 

Her mouth opened slightly and a vague 
bewilderment took the zest out of her face. 

3 25 


"Still in town, then?" 

"Sir . . .!" 

He interrupted with a laugh. " You're 
magnificent; I'll always grant you that. You 
should have gone on the stage. But I'm no 
longer to be fooled. The pearl is gone from 
the oyster, the juice from the orange; so why 
tarry, pretty blackmailer? I warned you 
to clear out, and I thought you'd have sense 
enough to do so. To-morrow morning I'll 
hunt for you; and if I find you I'll have you 
locked up. God knows how you women do 
it! Here you are straight out of perdition, 
with more beauty than ever. And inno- 
cence! That's the pitfall; your look of 
innocence. That's what draws us poor, 
trusting fools. Well, the night to clear out 
in. If I find you to-morrow I'll stamp 
on you as I would a cobra. The Yellow 
Typhoon! Some poor devil named you 
well. But you'll never break another white 
man, not in these parts. I apologize for 
those kisses. I forgot you weren't my wife. 
I'm giving you until morning." 

Insolently he swung on his heel and 
marched down the path. 

The woman remained exactly where he 
had left her, in the center of the path. Have 



you ever seen a clean, upstanding flower 
suddenly beaten down by a squall of rain? 
Her bodily attitude resembled that, at least 
for a space. One hand went slowly to her 
eyes, then fell limply to her side. But soon 
she stiffened, and there were volcanic flashes 
in her eyes. As Hallowell vanished behind 
the clove-trees she turned. Near by she 
saw a marine and he was eying her curiously. 
Evidently he had witnessed the scene. She 
approached him. 

What followed, the marine himself re- 
counted at mess that night. 

"I was amblin' along at a safe distance. 
My orders were t' keep ol' Pop Hallowell 
under eye s' long as he was in th' Gar- 
dens. Hennessy picks him up outside an' 
follows him until he gits safe on th' trolley. 
Well, he was goin' along, when down the 
path comes a lady. She walked as if she 
didn't know where she was goin', either. 
An' out steps Pop in front of her, like he 
was a gay bird with the ladies. Th' dame 
gives him th' haughty. But he comes back. 
Her mouth opens a little, but she don't make 
no move. I couldn't hear nothin', but Pop 
was layin' down some law or other, which 
he winds up with a bang on his palm, an' 



marches off, with the lady starin' after him 
like I'd stare if I saw a flyin'-fish come int' 
th' mess port an' ask for whitebait. 

"I kind o' thought I'd move on, when she 
pipes me an' comes over. 

"'Who was that officer?' she asks me. 
Bo, believe me, she had all the little Marys 
an' Normas an' Paulines in th' movies laid 
away with the long-cruise eggs. Gee! You'll 
gimme th' ha-ha, but I on'y needed a look 
t' tell that she was straight. 

'" Well,' I says, 'that's Captain Hallowell, 
miss,' I says. 

'"Captain Hallowell,' she repeats after 
me. 'Where does he live?' 

" 'He has a villa out in San Miguel, on th' 
Pasig,' I says. 'He an' Lieutenant-Com- 
mander Mathison live there together.' 

"'He's not married, then?' 

"I laughs. 'No, lady. Both of 'em are 
gun-shy.' She looks puzzled an' I adds, 
'They don't have nothin' t' do with the 
ladies, miss.' 

'"Oh! Then he's th' inventor?' 

" ' That's him, miss.' Then I freezes up 
a bit, rememberin' orders. I'm t' report 
anybody who asks questions about oP Pop. 
But I tumbles that she ain't no officer's 



wife or nothin', an' I asks what he'd said 
to her. 

"'He mistook me for some one else/ she 
says. So help me, if there's two like that 
in Manila, th' place is due t' go on th' blink 
in a week. Then she lowers th' veil an' 
goes off toward th' exit, me trailin'. Had 
t' find out where she was puttin' up. An' 
hang me if she doesn't go plump into that 
joint in th' Escolta where Murphy an' me 
was thrown out last month an' just missed 
restin' up in th' brig. Which shows that 
you can't dope a woman out by her looks." 

The young woman she was possibly 
twenty-six eventually reached her room. 
Her maid welcomed her effusively. 

" Sarah we must leave here at once. 

" Another hotel before we sail?" cried 
the astonished maid. 

"Yes. And until I give you further or- 
ders never speak my name. Always call 
me madame. Be on your guard about this. 
I'm very fond of you, and I've let you have 
your way often. It may be a matter of life 
and death. We shall dine here in the room. 
Have a carriage at the curb at six-thirty. 



Fortunately our heavy luggage went on. 
When you pack the steamer-trunk, lay all 
the darker and heavier things on top. And 
the box of make-up where I can reach it 
handily. I have decided to grow old quick- 
ly. I understand, Sarah. You are becom- 
ing bewildered. No less so am I." 

"Madame's nerves . . ." 

"They happen to be steel now. Don't 
worry about me. Only, be sure always to 
obey me ... if you love me!" 

"If I love you! Oh, madame, a mother 
could not love her daughter more than I 
love you! You left America so gaily and 
happily to see this Orient. The sea voyage 
built you up. And then, that dreadful 
night in Shanghai. You came and woke me 
and clung to me all night, and you would 
not speak. And then it began. We move 
from one place to another, not like persons 
touring like people who have done some- 
thing wrong. And I know that you have 
done nothing wrong. Ah, madame, what 
is happening to us?" 

"So strange a thing, Sarah, that your 
poor brain would not accept the facts if 
I told them. Be patient with me." 

"Oh, madame, who would not be patient 



with you? I am French; we know what the 
word gratitude means. Command me; I 
obey. But yes! Here is a cable for you, 
madame. I will go order the dinner and 
the carriage." 

Her mistress took the cablegram ab- 
sently. She was not at all excited over the 
receipt of it, for the simple reason she knew 
exactly what it would contain a single 
word. Hurry. Once a week, often twice, 
this same distracted word. Hurry. It was 
always at Cook's or at the American Ex- 
press. The poor man! He would soon be 
pulling his hair. When she heard the door 
close behind the maid, instinctively she 
picked out a channel 'twixt the bed and 
chairs and proceeded to navigate it back 
and forth. 

The Yellow Typhoon! They called her 
that, strange men, in Yokohama, Tokio, 
Hong -Kong, Shanghai; and always with 
that air men use toward women of a certain 
type. Everything in her called out wildly 
for vengeance, reprisal; and she was bound 
tragically, inconceivably, like a dreamer in 
the mesh of some monstrous nightmare. . . . 
To stamp on her as he would a cobra, if 
he found her! Helpless; all she could do 



to defend herself would be to move on, 
hide. That was what galled her; she could 
not retaliate. But one thing she could do 
forestall, anticipate, nullify. And oh! she 
would do that with all the strength and 
cunning she possessed. 

Horrible as it was, that meeting in the 
Gardens was fortunate. She now possessed 
hand hold. Hallowell, a naval inventor, 
living in a villa out in San Miguel, on the 
Pasig. Blue-prints. There was sense to 
all those broken sentences which had come 
through yonder door a few days gone. 
Danish words her own blood-tongue! She 
had not seen the man, so she could not 
describe him. But his companion! 

She stopped before the mirror and studied 
her face carefully. What an incredible 
thing it was! Mirrors, once so pleasant to 
gaze into, had now become chambers of 
horror. She no longer saw herself she saw 
a grave open and the dead arise. After 
eight years! And to stumble upon the truth 
through the agency of strange men address- 
ing her familiarly! The Yellow Typhoon! 
Drawn by instinct, repelled by intellect and 
breeding, she felt as if invisible wild horses 
were rending her 



In that room there, within reach of her 
voice and hand ! Whither had she gone, this 
ghost? Terror and cowardly fear had held 
her back from making her own presence 
known; and now it was too late. She had 
fallen asleep somewhere, back there in China, 
and hadn't yet waked up. That must be it ! 
The Yellow Typhoon! And she had stum- 
bled across the wrecks innocently across 
an open grave which had never been filled! 
Berta, in the next room! Who, then, was 
in the grave in Greenwood? The malicious 
cruelty of it! 

Very well. She would telephone this 
Captain Hallowell. She would warn him. 

She became conscious of the unopened 
cablegram. She tore off the edge of the en- 
velope. For a moment she thought there 
must be some mistake. Jargon. Then she 

"Oh!" she cried. She ran over to her 
steamer-trunk and things flew about for a 
space. The result was a diary-book from 
the rear pages of which she took a folded 
square of tissue-paper. She sat down, 
cross-legged, and laid this square carefully 
upon a knee. Ten minutes later she had 
the message decoded. 



Mathison. Hallowell's blue-prints. Nippon 
Mam. He may be followed. Sail with him. Keep 
in touch with Washington wireless. This is your 

She sprang up, found a match, and ap- 
plied it to the cablegram, powdering the 
ashes. Alive! She was alive again. What 
she had stumbled upon disconnectedly was 
now made clear. Her chance! She had a 
great debt to pay, and here was the oppor- 
tunity to pay it. Pay it she would, through 
fire and water. She would show them that 
there was one who could be grateful. Fame 
and riches and honor, she owed for these. 
She would pay the debt. 

Singular thing! In these months of 
wandering in this bewildering maze of dark 
and yellow peoples no one had ever recog- 
nized her. And yet it wasn't so singular, 
if one thought it out. Her world was at 
home, busy with war. 

She would telephone Hallowell at once 
and warn him that he was in danger. And 
the thought of him brought back the 
thought of Berta. The colossal irony! So 
be it. If Berta stood in her way, she would 
crush her, relentlessly, inexorably. And 
what was Berta? Only a wandering ghost, 



a lie. A phantom men called The Yellow 

Her telephone call, however, was not 
answered. There was no one, apparently, 
at the villa in San Miguel. She would have 
to drive out and leave a note. Either the 
captain or Mathison, his friend, would find 
it when he returned. She found a Tagalog 
boy with a tough Manchurian pony, and 
she went clattering away into the night. 
The dry monsoon carried the dust along 
with them. 

Just about this time a man in civilian 
clothes, but with authority written dis- 
tinctly on his tanned face, entered the hotel 
in the Escolta. The proprietor began obse- 
quiously to dry-wash his hands. 

"The Senor Morgan!" 

"Where's Berta Nordstrom, the woman 
known as The Yellow Typhoon?" 

"She?" A gesture. "She went away a 
week ago, senor." 

" She is here now. She was seen to enter 
here a little after five. " 

"That is impossible." , 

"I say she did. Bring her down. She 
wore pongee and a white pith helmet." 

"She? Oh, that was not the Nordstrom 



woman. No one here has seen this woman's 
face. She wears a veil always, and dines 
in her room." 

"Bring her down." 

"But, senor, she left at six-thirty." 

"What? Where did she go?" 

"That I don't know." 

"The devil! Any man with her?" 

"No, senor. Shall I take you to her 

"No. She fooled you." 

"That is not possible, for the two women 
were here at the same time. I can prove 
that, senor." 

"I have seen the Nordstrom woman. 
The description of the woman in the pith 
helmet agrees absolutely." 

"I cannot help that, senor. They were 
here at the same time, though they did not 

"All right. If I find you haven't told 
me the truth, we'll lock up the place. You 
are not very good Americans around here. 
Good night." Outside in the street Morgan 
of the Intelligence who switched from uni- 
form to mufti frequently pushed back his 
hat, perplexed. "Two? Impossible! A 
trick. I'll set a man to watch. I'll quiz 



that marine again. If he didn't describe 
the Nordstrom woman, I'll eat my hat!" 

Could he have peered into one of the 
thousand huts of bamboo and nipa palm, 
in the Tondo, he might have been convinced 
of one thing that there was still a thrill left 
in the dizzy old world for men even as blase 
as himself. A woman, wearing the gay 
little costume of a high-caste Chinese wom- 
an, sat on a cushion, her legs curled under 
her. She was smoking a cigarette. From 
a brass bowl at one side of her rose faint 
spirals of smoke. Into this bowl she flicked 
the ash. There was a smile, inscrutable, 
on her lips the smile particular to one god 
and one woman, Buddha and Mona Lisa. 
By and by she picked up a fresh cigarette; 
but she did not light it. She broke it in 
two. In fancy it was a man. 

The little Tagalog serving-girl, squatting 
on the floor and blowing chaff from rice, 
could not keep her wondering gaze off this 
exquisite creature whose hair shone like 
the gold bangles on the ankles of the danc- 
ing-girls. There would be a good deal of 
chaff in that rice when the time came to 
cook it. 


IMMEDIATELY after "chow" that 
1 night Mathison and Hallowell entered 
the living-room, filling their pipes. They 
were both smiling, each with the idea that he 
was bucking up the other. For they were 
at the parting of the ways, these two, and 
they might never meet again. At dinner 
they had talked of everything but that 
which was uppermost in their thoughts. In 
the center of the living-room was a long 
trencher-table a slab of wonderful mahog- 
any propped by enormous boles of Cal- 
cutta bamboo. One end was stacked with 
books and magazines. The blank space at 
the other end was HallowelTs pet abiding- 
place. Here, after the day's work was 
done, he would wrestle with his mechanical 

Hallowell fired his pipe and held out the 
flaming match toward Mathison, who man- 
aged to catch the last flicker. 



They waited until Paolo, the Spanish 
servant, went below with the dishes. Of 
late they had become a little suspicious of 
the Spaniard. He loitered in the dining- 
room when there was no legitimate excuse. 

"Well, you lucky son-of-a-gun," said 
Hallowell, "in a few weeks you'll be ram- 
paging up the Main, with proper sea-boots 
on your feet and a drab terrier under them. 
Lord! how I wish I were thirty instead of 
forty-five! But I've walked my last bridge. 
This is my chart-room. Of course, if I 
wanted to pull a wire or two, I could get 
to Washington. But I've certain ideas 
about the navy, and I don't want them 
actually touched. In Washington a chap 
sees the seams of the service, wires, time- 
serving, and all that. But out here it's 
the fighting - machine. We can't all go 
potting subs, but some of us can make the 
potting easier." 

Mathison put his hands on the other's 
shoulders. "Bob, you're the most lovable 
man God ever gave to another for a com- 
rade. And I'm going to miss you like 
the devil. And more, I'm going to worry 
over you, you're such an infernally absent- 
minded dub." 

"That's a gift, that. We absent-minded 
dubs are always too busy to waste time 
wailing. Lord ! but this coming and going 
of yours has been pleasant to me! I know, 
sometimes I have been moody and grumpy; 
but I believe you always understood." 

"Yes. A woman somewhere who wasn't 
worth it." 

Hallowell nodded. 

"And she's gone, vanished," went on 

"How do you figure that out?" asked 
Hallowell, curiously. 

"For some days now you have been going 
about with a tune on your lips airs from 
old light operas we went to in the happy 
days. I've never asked questions 5 I'm not 
going to now." 

"A nightmare, and I've just waked up," 
said Hallowell, staring at the coal in his 
pipe. "It wasn't natural for me to gloom. 
I'm cheerful by nature, the same as you. 
I'd tell you the whole story if I thought it 
worth while. Women are all right. It was 
my misfortune to become interested in the 
wrong one. I wonder if Cunningham would 
come up and share the place with me?" 

"That's odd! This very day I tapped 



him on the subject and he's crazy to get 
out here." 

"That's fine! Two years, and they've 
been the happiest I've ever known." 

"God bless you, Bob! Remember, I 
made no pull for this." 

"You poor lubber! The whole lot of us 
have been watching you eat your heart out. 
You had to go. And they had to send you. 
Saturday. It's a great adventure; an ad- 
venture the moment you step on board the 
Nippon Maru until you march up Fifth 
Avenue in the Peace Parade ! Funny thing. 
You'll get through. Feel it; one of those 
old wives' hunches. Made all your plans?" 


"How are you going to carry them?" 

Mathison laughed. "Not even to you, 
Bob. But these little blue-prints of yours 
are going to Washington. Fire and water 
and poison gas won't stop me. This is go- 
ing to be rather an unusual stunt. The 
moment I land in San Francisco I shall be 
under the friendly shadow of the greatest 
organization of its kind in the world the 
Secret Service. When I step from the ship 
I shall wear a little green ribbon; from train 
to train I shall wear it. I sha'n't know 

4 41 


anything about it, but those boys will 
have their eyes upon me. Simple; can't 
fail. At any time, if I'm in trouble, all I've 
got to do is to set up a yodel and the trouble 
is eliminated. On the other hand, I'm go- 
ing to stay snug in my cabin. I'm not go- 
ing to stick my head out until I step from 
one train to another. On board the Maru, 
however, I've got to depend upon myself. 
The thing has got about, Bob. I don't 
mean my end of it. It's got about that 
you've done a big thing. I've a strong idea 
that I'm being watched." 

"No doubt of it. You're the only inti- 
mate friend I have. Those damned Ger- 
mans! They're as thick as flies in this town. 
And how the devil is a man to know? 
Swedes, Danes, Norwegians, Finns Teu- 
tonic, all of them. But so long as their 
papers are correct we can't lay a hand on 

"When will you have the extra stuff 

"To-night. I'll have it all out on old 
No. 9 print. And you'll carry that along 
with you." 

"Honestly, Bob, I'm worried about that 
print being here in the house. I don't trust 



Paolo. He's Spanish; and while the Euro- 
pean Spaniard has forgotten, the Philippine 
Spaniard still covertly hates us." 

" Nonsense! No. 9 is utterly worthless 
without the key-print. But if anything 
should happen to me before you go, don't 
forget that little red book in the wall safe. 
Morgan of the Intelligence gave me those 
names. They'll be worth looking at. Sus- 
pects, too clever to handle." 

"To hell with the Ki!" came raucously 
from the darkened dining-room. 

The two men laughed. 

"You'll be taking Malachi along with 
you?" asked Hallo well. 

"Would you like him?" 

"Like him? Why, God bless you, I'd 
be having you to talk to, with that bird 
around. He's a wonder. The way he picks 
up things is uncanny." 

"He's yours." 

"Honestly? WeU, by George! That's 
mighty fine of you." 

"He's served his turn. He amused me 
when I hadn't any one to talk to. He's 
yours as much as mine, anyhow. He talks 
for you as much as he does for me. Besides, 
the poor little begger hates the sea. If I 




took him aboard the destroyer he'd break 
his neck trying to keep on his perch." 

"That bucks me up a lot, Mat. I'm very 
fond of that parrakeet. Going out?" 

"Tailor. I'm buying a cits. Best for me 
to travel incog, if I can. Last fitting. I'll 
be back." 

"Fire and water and poison gas; you'll 
pull through." 

"You bet I will! Think of the yarn- 
spinning when I'm off duty! I can tell the 
wondering gunners that I saw the begin- 
ning of the idea, that I know the old son- 
of-a-gun who invented it. Nine o'clock." 

"I'll be here," replied HaUoweU, "wait- 
ing for you. Though I may turn in any 
time later than nine. So long." 

Mathison went down the' path. Half- 
way to the gate he turned and stared at the 
lighted windows. He could see the shadow 
of Hallowell's huge shoulders on the cur- 
tain. The dear old stick-in-the-mud ! What 
would he do without some one to watch 
over him? He strode on, closing the gate 
behind him with a musical clang. 

His tailoring required more time than 
he had made allowance for; the Chinaman 
hadn't made the coat^sleeves quite short 



enough. Thus, when he stepped off the 
trolley-car which bisected the street less than 
a quarter of a mile from the villa a five 
minutes' walk, tonicky on glorious nights 
like this it was nine-twenty by his wrist- 

He swung along with a jaunty stride, 
whistling the latest tune that had "come 
out," "Oh, boy, where do we go from here?" 
He felt like a butterfly that had just cut 
through its cocoon and found the world 
a pretty good place to live in. In two 
months' time he would have his drab little 
terrier under his sea-boots. But for the 
thought of leaving Bob behind, he would 
have been the happiest man on earth. 

These cogitations came to an abrupt end. 
He stopped. A picture had flashed into 
range. A carriage, driven like mad, had 
swooped under an arc-light; and the ve- 
hicle was coming in his direction. A golden 
fog of dust rose up under the lamp. As 
there was another arc -light opposite to 
where he stood, Mathison decided to wait. 

The carriage came thundering on. The 
driver was standing up. As it rattled past 
on the two port wheels Mathison had a 
glimpse of the passenger. A woman! And 


she was holding on for dear life. He gathered 
one vague impression that she was young. 

"What the dickens is her hurry?" He 
drew his hand across his chin. "No boat 
or train at this hour. Drunken Tagalog, 
probably. Too late for me to do anything." 

He continued on. He began whistling 
another tune. "Where's the girl for me?" 

"She may pass me by and never know 
She was the girl for me!" 

When he reached the villa gate he looked 
up inquiringly. The incandescent lamp 
projecting from the keystone was out. 
Usually this burned until dawn. Mathison 
gave it a passing thought wires burned out, 
probably unlocked the gate and marched 
down the bamboo-lined path to the villa 
door. Here again he paused. No lights. 

"I see. Beggar's gone to bed, and that 
rogue Paolo has sneaked off to a cock-fight. 
Bob ought to give him the boot." 

He climbed the stairs silently and went 
to his room. He did not cross the center of 
the house to accomplish this; he merely fol- 
lowed the veranda corridor. He tossed his 
cap on the bureau, yawned luxuriously, for 
he was tired, and sat down on the edge of 



the bed to take off his shoes; but he imme- 
diately ceased all movement. The parra- 
keet was talking vulgar Hindustani and 
equally vulgar English. 

"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco? 
Chup!" Which is Hindustani for "Stop 
your noise!" 

Mathison stared, his expression one of 
puzzlement. Malachi never made a racket 
at night unless he was profoundly disturbed. 
What ailed the bird? And where the devil 
was Bob? He decided to investigate. 

"Mat! . . . Bahadur Sahib! . . . Chota 
Malachi! . . . Bounder, take that ace out of 
your sleeve! ... To hell with the Ki! . . . 
Mathison, Hallowell, and Company, and be 
damned to you! . . . Malachi!" in a singular 
kind of wail. 

A word about this parrakeet. He was well 
known in Manila, at least among the younger 
officers in the navy and the army stationed 
there. Certain parrots and parrakeets talk 
fluently. The brain, about the size of your 
finger-tip, is memory in the concrete. Men 
of science are still pulling their beards over 
the talking parrot, but their phrases haven't 
fooled anybody; they are just as much in 
the dark as you and I. The birds are child- 



like in some respects. You teach the feath- 
ered emeralds this or that; and then, some 
day, in trying to show them off, they con- 
found you (and regale your company) by 
rattling the family skeleton. Like children, 
they store away a good many things not 
intended for their ears. 

Malachi I believe they named him af- 
ter Mulvaney's elephant had been taught 
many phrases which pass in wardrooms but 
are taboo in parlors. Only, Malachi did 
not know it. Why men teach birds to 
swear I don't know, unless it be that a 
ribald oath uttered by innocence in the ab- 
solute is a man's idea of humor. Malachi 's 
masters had taught him to memorize the 
names of a few cronies who occasionally 
dropped in for poker or bridge: and there 
was always a hilarious uproar when the bird 
gravely and unexpectedly demanded that So- 
and-so drop the ace he was hiding in his sleeve. 

But he had the habit of all talking parrots, 
big or little, of shutting up shop for hours 
at a stretch and not even a plantain or a 
plump mangosteen would tempt him to 
break his silence. A truculent little green 
bird, no bigger than a robin, but with the 
spirit ot a disgruntled Bayard. 



There were no doors up-stairs except to 
the cement shower. All the other doorways 
were hung with bead-and-bamboo curtains. 
Mathison parted the one which fell between 
the corridor and the dining-room. It tinkled 
mysteriously as it dropped behind him. 
Where was Bob? He listened. He could 
hear the parrakeet moving about in his cage. 
When agitated, Malachi had a way of pull- 
ing himself up to the swing and solemnly 
clambering down to the perch, repeating 
the maneuver over and over. 

Mathison's glance trailed to the curtain 
between the dining-room and the living- 
room. A broad band of moonshine entered 
through one of the windows, broke against 
objects, splashed the lower fringe of the 
curtain, and ended in a magic pool on the 
grass matting. 

It seemed to him as if every nerve and 
muscle in his body winced and pressed back. 
It was almost like a physical blow. It took 
a full minute for the vertigo to pass, and 
when it passed it left his tongue and lips 
dry, his throat hot. 

In the center of that magic pool of moon- 
shine was a hand, sinisterly inert. 


MATHISON fought nausea, terror; 
fought the paralysis gathering in his 
legs, and pushed through the curtain, feel- 
ing along the wall for the key-button to all 
the lights. He blinked a moment in the 
glare that followed. Then, whichever way 
he looked havoc! 

The long table, the stands and chairs 
overturned, the phonograph - record files 
empty and flung about, the glass in the 
bookcases shattered and the books in a hel- 
ter-skelter, the top of the piano swept clear 
of HallowelTs antique bronzes, drawers out, 
papers and blue-prints scattered every- 
where and the quiet form of his friend on 
the floor! 

"Bob?" cried Mathison, the anguish of 
that moment the greatest he had ever 
known. "Bob? . . . God in heaven!" 

He knelt. Dead. The body was still 
warm. Fifteen or twenty minutes ago 



Hallo well had been alive. . . . The length of 
a pair of coat-sleeves an infinitesimal thing 
like that! Mathison strangled the great, 
heaving sob. A pair of coat-sleeves. . . . 
The irony of it! But for a trifle like that 
he would have been home in time, and this 
would never have happened. . . . Bob! 

Slowly Mathison rose. The anguish, the 
tenderness, slowly left his handsome face. 
It became hard, a little older, and there 
flashed from his eyes a relentless fury. He 
neither cursed nor gesticulated; all his sub- 
sequent acts were quiet ones. He prowled 
about the room, his scrutiny that of a man 
who knew how to hunt for little things; but 
he found nothing which would indicate the 
identity of the assailants. 

A foot or so beyond the Bokhara lay a 
small bronze elephant, one of HaUowelTs 
paper-weights. Mathison did not touch it; 
he would never be able to touch that again. 

Bob Hallowell, matey, straight and loyal 
and brave! done to death in this fashion! 
Mathison leaned against the jamb of the 
door, his face in the crook of his elbow. The 
one human being he had loved in years as 
men sometimes love each other! And while 
he had been fussing over the sleeves of a 



civilian's coat, Bob had sobbed out his life 
on the floor there ! It was not the end itself, 
it was the manner of the end that was so 
horrible. Bob, who had always prayed that 
he might die at sea! 

Mathison flung his arm from his eyes. 
The woman in the white pith helmet ! But 
immediately he dismissed this idea. There 
had been no woman here. Only three men 
or more could have beaten down Hallowell, 
who was tremendously strong and active. 
God, what a fight it had been ! and in the end 
probably as he was getting the best of it- 
some one had struck him down from behind. 
And he had crawled toward the dining- 
room; for there was a sinister trail across 
the n^ass matting. Dying, he had crawled 
toward the dining-room. Why? 

In God's name why had he not let them 
search? The uselessness of it! He had 
thrown away his life to justify an instinct 
the active resentment of a brave man against 
permitting alien hands to meddle with his 
belongings. Bob had always been without 
guile, moral resiliency; like a bulldog, he 
had never retreated, stepped back. 

"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco? . . . 

Malachi !" Once more that singular wail. 



Mathison shuddered. It was horrible to 
hear the bird scream these familiar words. 
All at once he was struck by an oddity. 
Malachi had never wailed his name like that 
before; whenever he uttered it he did so 
briskly and cockily. The sight of a blue- 
print, however, caused Mathison's thought 
to switch instantly into another channel. 

No. 9! Now he understood why Bob had 
fought. Swiftly Mathison sifted the prints 
old ones Hallowell had probably been 
mulling over. No. 9 was not among them. 
Still, to make sure, he opened the wall safe 
behind the piano. This was empty except 
for a small red book such as men use to 
carry addresses in. He restored the prints 
to their hiding-place, but he retained the 
book. No. 9, with all HallowelTs new 
annotations and computations, in the hands 
of the enemy! What if they had no key- 
print? What mattered it if they could not 
apply the principle, so long as they under- 
stood that this menace existed, of what it 

"Damn them all into the blackest depth 
of hell the low, murderous sneaks!" 

Once more the militant sailor, he stepped 
to the telephone which was attached to the 



wall and took down the receiver. He stared 
blankly into the black cup of the transmitter 
and slowly replaced the receiver on the 
hook. Wires cut, outside somewhere, and 
all official Manila to be notified at once of 
the double catastrophe! He would be 
obliged at once to run down to the govern- 
or's bungalow. 

A sickening weakness swept over him 
again. He reached blindly around for a 
chair, righted it and sat down, with his 
head in his hands. He would have to get a 
good grip on himself before starting out. 
After a while he raised his head and kept 
his gaze upon the walls of the room, with 
strange detachment noted many of the 
curiosities which sailors pick up in Oriental 
ports, not for their intrinsic value, but for 
their associations. A good deal of it was 
junk, from a collector's point of view; but 
Mathison knew that there was not money 
enough in the world to buy a single blade, 
pistol, bird wing, butterfly, claw. He would 
keep them always. 

It was dreadful to sit there, blinking and 
choking and trying not to look. It was 
almost as if the body cried out: "Look at 
me! Look at me!" A terribly compelling 



attraction! Damn them! They had ran- 
sacked the room while Bob lay there sob- 
bing out his life. 

Air! The room was stifling him. He 
staggered out to the east veranda. Here 
he fell to pacing and gradually his strength 

"Malachi!" cried the parrakeet, but 
briskly now. The sound of one of his 
masters moving about reassured him; for 
these odd little ringnecks recognize their 
friends even as dogs recognize theirs. 

But the living master no longer heeded. 
Up and down the veranda Mathison strode, 
his step now springy and noiseless. He was 
in full command of his faculties. From 
time to time he made gestures; they were 
catlike. To tear, bruise, rend! A cold 
berserker rage had taken possession of him, 
one of those upheavals of hate which, in- 
stead of blinding, clarify, the fires of which 
burn steadily until the end is attained. 
Only strong natures are capable of sustain- 
ing it. Mathison saw the future with as- 
tonishing clearness. An eye for an eye. 
a tooth for a tooth! 

"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?" 
called Malachi. 



This time Mathison heard with com- 
prehension. He paused, struck by a sin- 
gularly bizarre thought. Malachi! Sup- 
posing that was it? Supposing Hallowell 
had called out to Malachi the name of the 
man? A chance shot in the dark that the 
bird might remember and repeat it? 

This trend of cogitation was interrupted 
by a furious ringing of the gate bell. 

The visitor proved to be Morgan of the 
Intelligence. He was out of breath from 

"Anything wrong in these diggings?" 

"Hallowell is dead," said Mathison, 

"The devil! Murdered?" 


"I knew it! I felt it in my bones. Al- 
ways something on this order when she 
passes. And like a yokel, I let her slip 
through my fingers! . . . Hell!" 

"No woman did this." 

"Actually, no; potentially, yes." 

"How did you learn anything was wrong? 
The telephone wire has been cut." 

"She came along in a carriage. Stopped 
just as I was about to enter the governor's 
bungalow. Said she'd seen men fighting 



here shadows on the curtain. And I let 
her get away!" 

"In a white pith helmet?" asked Mathi- 
son, with the first sign of eagerness he had 

"Yes. Been hunting all over town for 
her. You saw her, then?" 

" Just as I left the trolley." 

"Get a good look?" 

"No. Light clothes and pith helmet 
gave me the impression that she might be 

"Young," mused the Intelligence man, 
ironically. "Well, yes; young and beauti- 
ful and the innocent expression of a child, 
with the heart of a hell-cat. I pick up 
lots of odds and ends in my business, unoffi- 
cial stuff. This female once tried to wreck 
Hallowell; and she never forgave him for 
having a spine." 


"Yes. Ever heard of a woman called 
The YeUow Typhoon?" 

"No," said Mathison, after a moment. 

"Well, perhaps a man like you wouldn't. 
But ask the gay lads from Yokohama to 
Shanghai, and they'll tell you Typhoon is a 
happy choice. . . . God's name, look at this 

5 57 


room! What a fight! . . . And I stood 
yawping while she ran away again! Well, 
she sha'n't get outside the Bay. You may 
lay to that. Now then, anything missing?" 

"A blue-print, relative to the U-boat 

"But I thought that completed and out 
of the way!" 

"It is; but Bob had some ends to tighten 
up. . . . My God, Morgan, they struck him 
from behind! He was beating them off, 
and they struck him from behind!" 

"Buck up, Mathison! You mustn't let 
this get you. There's a whale of a man's 
job in front of you. Uncle Sam's depend- 
ing on you to get to Washington. Don't 
let this get to your nerves . . . Old Bob Hallo- 
well! I'll round up the suspects. I'll 
crucify them, but some one will speak. How 
valuable was the print?" 

"It will give them an idea of what they'll 
be up against, and that will rob the thing 
of fifty per cent, of its value. The surprise 
will be gone." 

"I see. Bad business. They'll try to 
get East; Mexican wireless. Well, it will 
take a clever man or woman to slip through 
my net; and I'll settle it inside an hour. 



I suppose they came by the river. We'll 
take a look-see there later. Remember 
this is ordinary burglary with murder. It 
won't do to let the public know that any- 
thing serious has happened to our war 

"My friend! . . . And he was so happy to 
have done something for his country!" 

"But keep hold of yourself. Don't let 
this break you down. It's up to you to 
make Hallowell's plans good. Keep that in 
your head." 

"The YeUow Typhoon/ 

" That's the name. I'll describe her later. 
Where's your servant?" 

"Out. . . . An eye for an eye!" 

"That's the way to talk!" said Morgan, 
patting Mathison on the shoulder. "And 
nothing will hurt the Hun so much as your 
safe arrival in Washington. . . . Poor devil!" 
he added, under his breath. 


MATHISON, his pipe dead in his teeth, 
leaned against the starboard rail and 
stared with unseeing eyes. It was Sunday, 
the first day out of Manila. The north- 
east trade was blowing briskly and the blue 
Pacific flashed and tumbled. 

Loneliness. Never had he known any- 
thing like this before. A sudden inexplic- 
able craving for crowds, talk, laughter . . . 
women! With Bob at his elbow, night 
after night, he hadn't been conscious of a 
void in his life. Woman. No doubt he 
was a madman, a kind of super-madman, 
to have held out as long as he had. Nerves. 
It was quite possible that the craving would 
subside and he would become normal, once 
his raw nerves had steadied down. 

His errand was in jeopardy. He would 
soon need all of his cunning, all his strength, 
to pull through. He had set for himself 
something more than the mere role of a 



secret messenger. He had buckled on the 
sword of Nemesis. An eye for an eye, a 
tooth for a tooth. He was letting his grief 
dig in too deeply. He must find some di- 
version shortly or he was done for. 

He had had to fight Morgan bitterly to 
win his point. Morgan maintained that 
the arrival of the blue-print in Washington 
would be vengeance enough for^any reason- 
able man. In the end, however, he had 
surrendered, reluctantly agreed not to dis- 
turb the passengers beyond careful scrutiny 
of their passports. But why had the taci- 
turn Morgan chuckled, thwacked him jovi- 
ally on the shoulder, and continued chuck- 
ling as he went down the gang-plank just 
before it was hauled aboard? Mathison 
was still mystified over this peculiar con- 

Anyhow, one thing was off his mind. 
That long, thick manila envelope was in 
the purser's safe. It did not matter that 
the purser might still be cudgeling his 
brains as to the why and wherefore of the re- 
markable decorations on the face of that 
envelope for which the owner had not re- 
quired a receipt of deposit. 

There were twenty-one first-class passen- 



gers and eighty steerage. Mathison had 
applied himself intensively to the memori- 
zation of the twelve descriptions in that 
little red book of HallowelTs. None of the 
first-class passengers tallied. It was con- 
ceivable that his enemies would keep under 
cover until they were ready to strike; and 
nowhere could they keep hidden so well as 
in the steerage, among the Chinese, Japan- 
ese, Filipinos, and Russians. 

They had found Paolo in the Pasig River, 
a hundred gold in his pocket, conclusive 
evidence of two things that the servant had 
betrayed his master and had known too 
much for the safety of the men who had 
bribed him. 

Mathison knocked the dottle from his 
pipe, turned toward the smoking-room, 
when he saw a book coming along the deck, 
flopping and bumping like a gull with a 
broken wing. He recovered it. Probably 
it belonged to some passenger aft the smoke- 
room. The Life of the Bee: Maeterlinck. 
There was nothing on the fly-leaf to indi- 
cate the ownership, however. He tucked 
it under his arm and walked aft. 

In a steamer-chair between the port and 


starboard projections of the deck-house 
was a woman. He recognized her as the old 
lady who occupied the cabin opposite to his 
on the main deck. A gray cashmere shawl 
was wrapped about her head and shoulders. 
The rest of her body was snug in the folds 
of a plaid rug. A wisp of gray hair, the 
sport of the wind, was fluttering, now across 
her forehead, now above the edge of the 
shawl. She wore a pair of mandarin spec- 
tacles with amber lenses. Mathison could 
not tell whether she was asleep or awake. 
Nevertheless he approached. The craving 
for companionship was not to be denied. 

"I beg your pardon," he began, "but per- 
haps this book is yours. It came galloping 
around to starboard from this direction." 

"Thank you. I saw it start on its jour- 
ney, but I was too lazy to go after it." She 
held out her hand concealed in a gray 
cotton glove and he laid the book on it. 

It did not occur to him then, but it did 
later, that the voice was singularly rich 
and full for one who appeared to be well 
along in the 'sixties. But he was not un- 
aware of the fact that breeding and educa- 
tion may preserve the tonal quality of a 
voice through life. 



"You ought to have a chair in a more 
comfortable place," he suggested; "out 
where the sun is." 

"That's just my difficulty. The sun 
bothers my eyes, and I'm obliged to find 
nooks where it cannot reach me. We old 
folks have to be careful. Won't you sit 

He opened a chair and sat on the foot- 
rest, conscious of a vague exhilaration; it 
was the human look of her and the human 
sound of her voice. 

"My name is Mathison." 

"And mine is Chester Mrs. Hattie M. 
Chester. My cabin is opposite yours. If 
a submarine should pop up, you'll promise 
to come for me?" 

" I promise. But there won't be any subs 
over here except in dreams." 

"Something to scare naughty children 
with. I see." 

The hint of raillery convinced Mathison 
that there was a vigorous, fearless person- 
ality under the shawl and the rug. What 
a curious spot to select! Swinging gray 
shadows that passed and repassed, baffling 
scrutiny in a most amazing manner. 

The conversation turned upon the war, 



and here again she surprised him by her 
clear understanding of what was happening 
to the world. 

" You've a son over in France?" he vent- 

"No, unfortunately. But if I had a 
thousand sons, I'd disown them one and all 
if they weren't over there. Once upon a 
time white men worshiped many gods. 
To-day where are they? To-morrow we 
shall laugh when one speaks of kings. The 
Teuton idea did not invade Belgium so 
much as it dug its own grave. . . . Oh, if I 
were a man!" 

Mathison smiled something he hadn't 
expected ever to do again! He asked her 
what she was doing alone in this part of the 
world. She had had a nervous breakdown 
in the spring, and her doctor had advised 
her to take a long sea voyage. 

"And where else could I take a sea 
voyage? I always wanted to see India, 
China, Japan. I suppose you are going 
back to enlist?" 

"No, I am going home to fight. I am 
already in the service." 

"What arm?" 

"The navy. I have been transferred to 



the Atlantic/' he admitted, frankty. "I'm 
to command a destroyer in British waters." 

"Splendid! And you are traveling in 

"A special dispensation." He sought a 
safer channel. "You are rather brave, 
to tour this part of the world these days." 

"Gray hairs go safely anywhere. Besides, 
I've a French maid who is something of a 
grenadier. I am not afraid of anything . . . 
except ghosts!" 

This time Mathison laughed. He was 
positively enjoying himself. Then he recol- 
lected that he hadn't fed Malachi. He rose. 

"I've a little parrakeet in the cabin, and 
I've forgotten to feed him." 

"Does he talk?" 

"In three languages Hindustani, Span- 
ish, and Yankee." 

"Bring him up. One like those I saw 
in Agra, flying about in the ruined fort?" 

"Yes; green, with a lemon collar. I'll 
bring him up this afternoon at tea." 

"To-morrow morning. The sun is in 
this corner in the afternoon." 

"You ought to walk." 

"I shall ... at night." 

"I'll bring the bird up to-morrow, then." 



"And thanks for returning the book." 
This was the beginning of what may be 
written down as one of the most amazing 
situations ever devised by Fate. The wom- 
an behind those amber spectacles was 
young, and it was the youth of her that 
drew Mathison, though he was utterly un- 
conscious of this fact drew him morning 
after morning as the magnetic pole draws 
the needle of the compass. 

By the time the ship reached Honolulu 
and went on his depression was a thing of 
memory; his nerves became normal; he was 
more alive than he had been in years. With 
all the cunning of her superb art she made 
her lure one of motherhood, so irresistible 
that he no longer bothered his head over 
her avoidance of sunlight or the fact that if 
he saw her at night it was by the port rail, 
her back to the moonshine. There was one 
clear thought regarding her: what a com- 
rade she must have been to the man she 
once called husband! Whimsical, deeply 
learned, sound in philosophy, humorous, 
and unafraid: she made him think of his 
mother; and all the tenderness he had bot- 
tled up in his lonely heart these fourteen 
years went out to her. Lightly he fell into 



the habit of calling her Mother, and in her 
turn she called him Boy. 

For all the pleasure and satisfaction he 
found in this companionship, there was a 
line and he never crossed it. Of his own 
affairs he was remarkably reserved. Sev- 
eral times merely as a test she laid traps 
for him, but each time he evaded them. 
Morgan to whom she had gone sensibly 
with a frank confession had summed up 
this odd handsome young man: "He is 
likely to fool you. Under that amiable 
exterior there is a lot of blood and iron 
stuff. Always keep that in mind. Just 
now he is in a bad shape. Get him out of 
it. He's a bit of a mollycoddle where 
women are concerned, but among men he 

is an ace." 

Had Mathison been of her world a world 
to which she was returning gladly, though 
she had left it indifferently enough he 
would soon have seen through her art, clever 
and vigilant as it was. She could not dis- 
guise the slender youthfulness of her foot. 
No hand sixty-odd years old could be so 
firmly fleshed. The gray glove hid nothing. 
But his guilelessness served to carry her 
over a rather shaky bridge. 



On the third night out of Honolulu it 
was near eleven Mathison stood in the 
little shelter between one of the life-boats 
and the rail, whence he could look down into 
the waist, at the recumbent forms of the 
steerage passengers who were sleeping on 
deck. Night after night he had watched 
from_this lookout; but moonlight and star- 
light had a way of dissolving and blotting 
out salients. 

To-night, however, his persistence was 
rewarded. From the black rectangle of the 
companion door a Chinese woman, appar- 
ently of high caste, stepped forth. She 
stood poised for a moment, then trotted 
across to starboard and laid her arms on 
the broad teak rail. She wore a radiant 
jacket, full of gold thread which caught 
the moonshine and threw it back a spider- 
web hung with dew. She was smoking a 

He knew China; and suddenly he sensed 
something wrong, and discovered the flaw. 
No Chinese woman, high or low, ever wore 
such a thing on her head. Mathison 
couldn't have named it; but a white woman 
would have had no difficulty. It was a 
dainty boudoir cap. 

One of the recumbent forms on the deck 
rose slowly. A big man, with blouse, boots, 
and cap of the Russian soldier; the peak of 
the cap was drawn well down. He lounged 
over to the Chinese woman, and the two 
began to talk. Presently Mathison heard 
the woman laugh. It was unmistakably 
Occidental laughter. 

So! For a long time Mathison stared, 
but he was too far away to gather an im- 
pression such as might count in the future. 
Sooner or later he would see the face of 
this Chinese woman who laughed white. 
He would never forget Morgan's descrip- 
tion of the woman called The Yellow Ty- 
phoon . . . the woman who had tried to 
break Bob Hallowell and might have been 
one of the contributing causes of his death. 
Old Bob! An eye for an eye, a tooth for 
a tooth ! Let them begin the play. He was 

He had reasoned, and with sound logic, 
that his enemies might not strike at all while 
crossing, to lull him into a false sense of 
security, so that once they stepped ashore 
they might find he had grown careless, over- 
confident. One thing, they would never be 
able to get into his cabin when he was out 



of it. The night and day stewards de- 
pendable Japs had been liberally subsi- 
dized. One or the other was invariably on 
guard up to the hour Mathison turned in 
for the night. With the Manila envelope 
in the purser's safe, the human wall around 
his cabin, an attack would have small chance 
of success. No doubt they were already 
aware of his precautions. 

On the night before making San Fran- 
cisco, however, he was given an insight as 
to the patience and Machiavellian range of 
the Teuton forces opposing him. It was 
twelve when he turned in an hour later 
than usual. As he came abreast his cabin 
companionway, he stopped, rocked to the 
bottom of his soul. The Japanese steward 
was plunging toward him at top speed. 
Mathison spread out his arms, but the little 
brown man dipped, eluded him, and flashed 
up the main companion. 

Against the opposite side of the cabin 
companionway stood the gray lady . . . 
Malachi's cage hugged tightly to her bosom! 


WITH the blood pounding in his throat, 
Mathison rushed to her side. He saw 
that the lights were on in his cabin. 

"Just a moment . . . until I get my 

"The steward . . . ?" 

"No, no! Ran out to identify the man, 
if possible. I'm afraid there's something 
deadly in your room." 

"But Malachi!" The bird was huddled 
on the bottom of his cage, a bad sign. 

Mathison dashed into the cabin, inhaled 
sharply, and his inhalation thrilled him. An 
unknown but pleasant odor tingled his 
nostrils. His glance roved quickly. On 
the floor, under the port, was a brown box, 
perforated. He seized it and tossed it 
through the port-hole, beyond the rail, into 
the sea. Then he stepped out into the 

"Come! . . . Outside, where the air moves. 



. . . Malachi!" Mathison's voice broke. 

She followed him, still clutching the cage 
and wondering if he would remark her eyes, 
now without the baffling spectacles. He 
led her to a spot where the rail opened, 
took the cage from her, and set it on the 
deck. He sat down beside it, and she 
imitated him. 

"The poor little bird!" she murmured. 
Was the wig on straight? She dared not 
put up her hand to feel. 

Mathison stared at Malachi. He should 
have taken a cabin in the lower deck. Still, 
he couldn't understand how the port had 
been opened. He had kept it locked, de- 
spite the stuffiness. No matter. Inspec- 
tion would solve that. Thought he had 
turned in. He had, until to-night, gone to 
the cabin regularly at eleven; and they had 
planned the stroke accordingly. Their only 
hope of entering the cabin was after mid- 
night, when he was in it. He had liberally 
subsidized the two Jap stewards. Day and 
night the companion was guarded. But 
after midnight the companion was empty. 

Clever. To stupefy him, to send him into 
a deep, artificial slumber, force his door and 

6 73 


ransack his belongings leisurely. He was con- 
fident the fume was innocuous beyond the 
sleep-producing effect. But Malachi . . . 
it would have been the death of Malachi. 

He still clung to that idea. He had read 
of such things, but until now had never con- 
sidered them in the light of facts. If 
Hallowell had called to Malachi, the little 
bird knew. But would he ever speak? 
Had he understood that one of his masters 
had been trying to tell him something? 

Every morning for an hour Mathison 
had worked patiently to get the bird to 
speak; but, aside from grumbling hi parra- 
keetese, Malachi refused to utter a word. 
All this confusion annoyed him. There was 
a strange swing to the world, now up, now 
down, now from side to side. It kept his 
temper, normally irascible, in a state of 
feverish vindictiveness. True, he would 
climb up Mathison's arm, nip his master's 
ear gently the only way he had of express- 
ing affection; but he was generally unhappy. 

"I don't know why," said the gray lady, 
when Mathison's silence began to get upon 
her nerves, "but my first thought was of 
Malachi. I ... you have told me so often 
how much you loved him." 



"And you have probably saved him. In 
ten minutes he would have been dead." 

Malachi turned slowly head-on to the 
wind. The beak was closed. This was a 
good sign. 

"Malachi, old boy?" 

The woman stifled the sob that rose in 
her throat. A strong, vigorous man, young, 
handsome beyond ordinary, all alone but 
for the little green bird. Why? What was 
the meaning of this self-imposed isolation? 
"A mollycoddle so far as women were con- 
cerned." Why, there was nothing about 
him to suggest bashfulness. She had not 
studied him through all these hours without 
learning that fundamentally he was light- 
hearted in temperament and tremendously 
interested in living. No woman in the 
background, for he was not cynical. And 
here he was, his sole companion a Hindu- 
stani parrakeet. 

Mathison thrust a finger into the cage, 
and Malachi struck at it drunkenly. 

"He'll come around. I can't thank you; 
I haven't the words. But it would have 
broken my heart if anything had happened 
to him. Won't you please tell me exactly 
what happened?" 



She did not begin at once. She had to 
weigh her words. She must never let him 
suspect that, night after night, she never 
went to bed until she heard him enter his 
cabin. What a coil ! He would never know 
who she was! To-morrow, after land- 
ing, the gray lady would vanish forever. 
Only a few months gone her existence had 
been joyous, if strenuous; and now there 
would be always at her side a shadow and a 
fear. She had stepped upon a whirligig, 
and perspectives were no longer clear. The 
horizon of the future was dark with com- 
plications. She dreaded New York, and 
she was honor-bound to return. Berta in 
New York? The kite in the dove-cote? 
Escapades which would become the talk 
of the town and which the public would 
naturally lay at her door. She shivered. 

Yes, to-morrow she must vanish com- 
pletely, even though she would always be 
close at hand, all the way across the conti- 
nent. The Yellow Typhoon! Her heart 
swelled in bitterness. He would never 
know. Filled with the grim business of 
war, he would be rushing in and about 
Washington or the great naval yards. He 
would spend his leave in activities which 



concerned his future. There would be only 
one chance in a thousand of his stumbling 
upon the truth and finding her. Ah, but 
if he should! 

"I could not sleep," she began. "I left 
my door open and knelt on the lounge to 
watch the sea. I don't know how long I 
remained in that position. Suddenly I 
observed a man stealing along the rail. His 
face was in a complete shadow. I watched 
him. He stopped in front of your port- 
hole, then approached it. This looked so 
suspicious that I stepped into the compan- 
ion. Your door was open the width of the 
hook, and I could see the port-hole clearly. 
I saw the glass swing inward. There was 
plenty of moonshine. I saw an arm reach 
into the port-hole and something was 
dangling at the end of the shadowy hand. 
Quickly I threw up the hook, opened your 
door, and turned on the lights. Saki, the 
steward, came running up. In a word I 
told him what had happened. There was a 
peculiar odor in the air. I caught up the cage 
and rushed out . . . just as you appeared." 

"All my life I shall be grateful. I can't 
explain anything to you, much as I'd like 
to. You will never realize what your com- 



panionship has done to buck me up. I 
came aboard very nearly a broken man." 

"Boy, you don't have to confide." She 
laid a hand on his arm. 

"I'm an odd duffer. They used to call 
me mollycoddle, back at Annapolis, until I 
had whipped half the class. And all the 
while I've been just as normal as the aver- 
age man." There was a pause. "You 
know Kipling?" 

"His books? Yes." 

"Then you remember that yarn called 
'Love o' Women'? My father ... he was 
like that. Handsome and lovable and weak 
in fiber. He was also in the navy. For a 
hundred years we Mathisons have been in 
the army or navy. We had money. We 
were soldiers and sailors from choice. My 
father died when I was sixteen. He died 
terribly. He broke my mother's heart. 
But I knew nothing of that until after his 
burial. Then one day she called me to 
her. ... I wish you could have seen and 
heard her. Tender and plucky and beauti- 
ful ... and unafraid. She talked to me as 
fathers always should talk to their sons. 
Frankly and truthfully she drew life. I 
had the example of my father. She told 



me that somewhere in the world there was 
a mate for me. Should I take her a clean 
heart or a muddy one? Should I know real 
happiness or should I choose a bed like my 
father's? I listened, dulled and appalled. 
Then she asked me to promise to go clean. 
There's a point. We Mathisons always 
keep our promises. It is the motto on the 
shield. But we never give our promises 
hastily. My mother knew that. My fa- 
ther had never made her any promises of 
reformation. He knew he would have 
kept them. She told me to fight it out, 
then come and tell her what I had chosen 
to do with my soul and body." 

"And you promised!" 

"Yes. And I've kept it. She died shortly 
after. The wild streak was in my blood. 
I've had to fight. I have sown my wild 
oats in work and adventure. This took 
away a good deal of the gregarious in- 
stinct. I have fought wild beasts on foot; 
I have explored poisonous swamps; I have 
climbed precipices and always the thing 
tugged at me." 

"And the dream-woman?" 

"I'm afraid she's been a little too long 
in coming." 



"But how would you know?" 

"I'd know. I can't tell you how or why. 
Only, I shall know. Something will tell 
me. I wonder, am I a mollycoddle?" 

"Boy," she said, pressing his arm, for 
she hadn't taken her hand away, "I did 
not believe that there was such a man in 
all this world. Why, you have won your 
Marne! . . . And she will come, this mate, 
for God is just. If I had a son, I'd want 
him like you. All mothers long for sons 
like you. . . . She will come!" 

"She'll have to hurry," he replied, lightly. 
"I'm heading into the war zone. I may 
never come back." He laid his free hand 
on hers. "I wonder if I can make you 
understand what your kindness has done 
for me? When I came on board I was all 
but done for. I had just lost the one human 
being I loved. May I come and see you in 
New York?" 

"I shall be waiting for you. You have 
my address." 

Later, in her cabin, while sleepy Sarah 
brushed and aired the wavy coils of hair 
which had been confined all day beneath 
the hot wig, she turned with shining eyes 
eyes like purple grapes in the rain. 



"Sarah, am I beautiful?" 

"Ah, madame, all the world ..." 

" Bother the world. What do you think?" 

"I? Madame is more than beautiful. 

She is famous. She is good. She is worthy 

of a good man, of many healthy children." 
Her mistress laughed. "Thanks, Sarah. 

That is all I wished to know." 

"Will madame continue wearing this 


"I shall change it for another in the 

cab that takes us from the dock to the 

train to-morrow." 

When the ship lay alongside her pier the 
following afternoon Mathison put in his 
buttonhole the bit of green ribbon. Then 
he rang for the steward, assigned the cage 
and one of the two kit-bags to his care, 
took the other himself, and went up on 
deck to bid Mrs. Chester good-by. 

"Good-by," she said from behind a 
heavy veil. "You will not forget me?" 

"Never in this world! I have your ad- 
dress. I'll dig up New York from one end 
to the other but I'll find you, little mother!" 

"Take care of yourself. And please 
come and find me!" But she went down 



the gang-plank with a queer, empty feeling 
in her heart. He might find her, but the 
gray lady would shortly vanish forever. 

Had she been mothering him? Or had 
sne been attracted from another angle? 
She had never met a man like this before, 
worldly in his understanding, handsome, 
virile, a man's man, but an utter child in 
the presence of a woman. Perhaps the at- 
traction was its novelty. Hitherto she 
had looked upon men cynically. She was 
like one who had been chasing a mirage 
across the desert, to find a water-hole un- 

It had been so easy to deceive him. Her 
voice, the roundness of her body, the firm- 
ness of her hand and foot, these hadn't 
told him anything. How many times had she 
almost reached out to rumple his hair? Why 
hadn't she? Why did she want to? She 
carried this riddle with her for many days. 

Mathison walked down the gang-plank 
into the vast shed. Almost at once a man 
approached him and handed him an en- 
velope. He made off without a word. 
Mathison, without glancing at the envelope, 
stuffed it hi his pocket and proceeded toward 



the customs barrier. He passed this with 
little or no delay, got into a taxicab and was 
driven to the ferry. Over in Oakland he 
found the train made up, so he went into 
his compartment immediately. He put 
away the green ribbon and rang for the 

"Screens in the window," he said 

"Yes, suh." 

"I shall ring for you whenever I need 
you. Knock three times shortly on the 
door when you answer." 

"Yes, suh." 

"I shall have my meals in here. Always 
bring the waiter to the door yourself." 

"Yes, suh," said the porter, the whites of 
his eyes growing. 

"Follow these instructions and you will 
be ten dollars richer when we draw into 
Omaha. That will be all." 

Mathison left the door wide open until 
the arrival of the conductor, when he pro- 
duced the envelope he had so mysteriously 
received. It contained his tickets. After 
surrendering these, he closed and locked the 
door and took inventory. Imitation ma- 
hogany steel. Above the little door in the 
lavatory was an electric fan. He discovered 



that one of the windows went up easily. 
When his bunk was made up he would be 
able to reach the light and fan buttons 
without difficulty. 

"Well, Malachi, old scout, this is America. 
How do you like it?" 

Malachi teetered on his perch grouchily. 

"I'm beginning to think that you're 
Irish a Sinn-Feiner. You don't like any- 
body, anything, or anywhere. Poor little 
beggar! I wonder if you'll ever chatter 
again. I suppose I'd better break the news 
to you. When we get to New York I'm 
going to give you away. Yes, sir. To the 
dearest old lady a chap ever had the good 
fortune to meet. To have met a woman 
like that . . . when she was young! My luck ! 
They call us idiotic Yankees, these Huns, 
Malachi ; but we're going to fool them. 
Ever see a spider weave his web and then 
wait for the fly to walk in? Wait and see!" 

Mathison turned slowly and faced the 
rear partition. He stretched out his arms 
and curled his fingers sinisterly, his jaws 
set, a savage luster in his eyes. 

"With these two hands, by God! ... All 
right, Bob. Trust me to see it through." 

But how was he going to secure that blue- 



print No. 9? He possessed the power to 
search every human being on this train. That 
would, if used, serve to recover the print; 
but it would set Messrs, the Flies winging 
to parts unknown the moment they sus- 
pected what was on foot. The long arm oi 
the Secret Service at his beck and call, and 
he would not dare to use it! Beyond iden- 
tifying himself to the watching agents by 
the display of the green ribbon, he would 
never dare call for help. His enemies would 
be in this train, probably in this very car: 
they would be on the same trains all the 
way to New York, whither he must draw 
them. Once there, he would not have much 
difficulty in recovering No. 9. But if they 
mailed it! If it entered their calculations 
to mail it! 

How many against him? He would never 
know until the end. The Yellow Typhoon? 
Let the vipers beware! Morgan had de- 
scribed her minutely, but Mathison doubted 
he would recognize her unless she entered 
some extraordinary situation. 

To live in this infernal bulkhead for days, 
eating, sleeping, reading that would be 
the supreme test, that would prove whether 
the metal in him was iron-casting or forged 



steel. Never to question the porters, to 
confuse his enemies by a grim silence, to 
force them into offensives out of sheer 

"We idiotic Yankees!" 

That night as he lay in his berth it was 
after one o'clock solving mathematical 
problems which had to do with jumps be- 
tween trains, he became conscious of a 
pleasant odor. He recognized it. Instantly 
he sat up and hauled away at the window. 
Next he brought over Malachi and lowered 
the covering of the cage. The cold night 
air came in at the rate of a gale. Then he 
remembered the fan. He groped for the 
button, and the fan began to hum. Still 
he could smell the fumes. Suddenly he 
laughed. It was the cold, tranquil laughter 
of a man who had lived among men. He 
pressed the porter's bell. If there was any 
one waiting in the corridor, he would have 
to move on. But if the porter did not 
arrive ! 

The porter, however, came almost at 
once. Mathison, holding his automatic 
behind his back, opened the door full wide. 

"Any way of getting a cup of coffee?" 

"No, suh." 



"Sorry to have bothered you, then." 

All Mathison wanted was an open door 
for a minute or two a clearing draught. 
When he shut the door there was only a 
vague taint. Clever work. Not a lethal 
fume; neither his heart nor his lungs were 
troubled in the least. A sleep fume. There 
had been an almost irresistible desire to 
curl up and let the world go hang. 

Malachi's feathers were ruffled, but he 
clung to his perch, his eyes beaming with 
their usual malignancy. 

How had they gotten the fumes Into the 
compartment? Forward there was no dan- 
ger, as he was occupying No. 1. He went 
over every square inch of the base of the 
rear partition. In the corner under the 
berth & difficult spot to get to he found 
an oily thimbleful of steel filings. He 
drenched a towel and dammed the aperture. 
Compressed air had forced the fumes into 
the compartment. Evidently they were 
going to keep him awake nights ! 

So his friends were next door! Some- 
thing to find that out. But what was the 
idea? They could not force that door 
without dynamite. Had they speculated 
upon his running out into the corridor? 



Or was this the beginning of a series of night 
attacks to break him down physically and 
mentally? ... To keep him awake until he 
threw caution to the winds! There vrere 
big storms forward; there would be delays. 
Very well; he would sleep afternoons and 
stand watch through the night. A man's 

The next offensive came while they were 
crossing the Rockies. It had caliber. It 
convinced Mathison that he was dealing 
with a man of brains, a man who was not 
untrained in psycho-analysis. They ran 
afoul a tremendous storm in the mountains 
and became stalled for several hours be- 
cause of a fallen snow-shed. It was near 
eleven o'clock when the porter came along 
and announced what had happened. 

Though Mathison was sleeping as much 
as he could through the day, he undressed 
at night, propped himself up under the 
reading globe and studied navigation pecul- 
iar these days to British waters. Round 
about midnight he heard a pistol-shot, 
another, then a fusillade from opposite 
directions. He jumped out of his berth 
and got into some of his clothes and sat 
down suddenly, grinning. Had he been 



dressed they would have got him! What 
would be surer to call forth a fighting-man 
than the sound of shots in the night? They 
were going to keep him thinking fast. They 
wanted him out in the open. 

Before the train reached Omaha a day 
and a half late Mathison began to feel the 
strain. Sleep in the afternoon is never 
energy-producing- a number of minutes 
pass into oblivion, that is all; body and 
brain stand still; they do not recuperate. 
Mathison, upon coming out of these naps, 
felt as if he had been playing cards for 
hours. He had to apply cold water to shake 
off the lethargy. _ He was full of confidence, 

There wasn't any doubt at all that they 
were after his nerves. The door-knob 
rattled mysteriously during the small hours 
of the night. Whenever the train stopped 
there was clicking on the window-pane. 
But he never opened the door nor raised 
the window-curtain. The vantage was still 
on his side of the net. While he knew what 
they were attempting to do, they hadn't the 
least idea where their endeavors were get- 
ting them. 

At Omaha passengers for Chicago would 

7 89 


be transferred to another train. Mathison 
was last to leave. He put the green ribbon 
hi his buttonhole, picked up the kit-bag 
which contained the manila envelope, and 
sauntered forth. The freshness of the win- 
ter air and the joy of swinging his arms and 
legs freely! 

The porter preceded him with the bag 
and Malachi. He did not hurry. He was 
among a dozen or so moving in the same 
direction. As he reached the platform of 
the new car two men broke away from the 
group and hurried off toward the gates. 
Negligible and unnoticed, unless you knew 
what it signified. On the lounge in his 
compartment which was still No. 1 he 
discovered some novels and a bundle of the 
latest magazines. A present from the Se- 
cret Service. He would look through them 
all with particular care. There might be 
a message. 

A point in passing. If Mathison was 
confusing his enemies he was also confusing 
the various chiefs of the Secret Service 
along the route. Here, the latter reasoned, 
was a man who temporarily possessed colos- 
sal power. Orders had come from Washing- 
ton to obey him absolutely. He could 



commandeer a car for himself, a diner, put 
operatives in the cars fore and aft, order 
the arrests of suspects, knock railway sched- 
ules galley-west; and to date he had issued 
but two orders to engage No. 1 compart- 
ment on all trains and to have three taxi- 
cabs at the station in Chicago. And these 
orders had come from mid-Pacific by wire- 
less. On the other hand, they appreciated 
the fact that if Mathison could make it on 
his own, so much the better. Still, they 
were puzzled. 

There were three novels. As Mathison 
idly riffled the pages of one he saw a word 
underscored. He followed this clue, and 
at length came upon the message: "You 
understand your powers? Car straight to 
Washington if you order it." Mathison 
chuckled. If the Secret Service was baffled, 
what was going on in the minds of the men 
following him? He had determined from 
the start to send no wires. The green 
ribbon must suffice. Telegrams passing to 
and fro might create confusion, alarm the 

There were two empty compartments 
on this car 4 and 5. Mathison had 
No. 1. No. 2 was occupied by a man with 



straw-colored hair and a ruddy complexion 
and a woman with a charming mole at one 
corner of her mouth. In No. 3 were two 
men, playing canfield. In No. 6 there were 
two women. 

Both women had entered the car heavily 
veiled the woman in 6 and the woman in 
2. Neither removed the veil until the con- 
ductor passed. From San Francisco to 
Omaha, all on the same car; and they would 
be on the same car from Omaha to Chicago. 
Mathison nor the woman in 2 had stepped 
outside their compartments until this trans- 
fer from one car to the other. But the 
woman in 6 walked the corridor at all hours 
of the day and night, her face hidden behind 
a thick gray veil. Her maid, however, 
brought all the meals to the compartment. 

The blond man stood up and put a cigar 
between his teeth. 

"Well, once more luck is with us. And 
yet I am vaguely puzzled." 

"Over what?" snapped the woman with 
the mole, irritably. 

"It is almost too easy" scowling. 

'The stupid Yankee pigs!" 

"Not this one, Berta. We haven't got 
him clear in the open yet." 



"Ah! Then you are beginning to doubt 
that superior efficiency of yours? . . . I'm 
tired. To keep me cooped up like this!" 

"You may open your wings as wide as 
you please, once we are in New York." 

"But if he goes on this way?" 

"I have still some traps. There will be 
a little journey in Chicago between one 
station and the other. Who knows what 
may happen?" 

"But why coop me up?" 

"The hour may come when I shall need 
you. If he saw you it would not be possible. 
Did Hallowell have a photograph of you?" 

"In his watch-case. . But he destroyed 
it the night he left me." She frowned. 

"Nevertheless, he must never see you. 
On board the ship it was your impatience 
that caused me to fail. We merely put him 
on his guard. The blue-prints were in the 
purser's safe, and his signature was not in 
the receipt-book. Have patience. No man 
is perfect. Patience often overcomes skill. 
Sooner or later the skilful man grows care- 
less, or he forgets, or he comes to believe 
he is a godson of luck. And then, there is 
the lack of sleep. Somewhere along the 
route I'll find a weak spot." 



"I hate all Yankees!" 

"So do I, Berta. I hate them because 
some of them are not boasters. Have pa- 
tience. A small city east of Chicago, a 
chief of police who likes newspaper noto- 
riety. A couple of hours; we sha'n't need 
any more than that. New York!" jovially. 

"Champagne and beefsteak!" she re- 
torted, contemptuously. 

"Well, and why not? Haven't I prom- 
ised you ah 1 the dresses you can pack in two 
trunks? I haven't had a decent meal or 
a good cup of coffee since the war began." 

"New York! . . . after all these years!" 

"Bah! Who in the world will recognize 
you? We are a good many miles away 
from that gambling-house in the Honan 
Road. You're moody. You've missed the 
parade for nearly five weeks. You'd be all 
right if you could walk through the cars to 
the diner and have them gape in wonder at 
you. Somewhere between Chicago and 
Buffalo we'll use that crook scheme. Now 
I'm going in next door for a few rubbers at 

She did not reply. She turned her face 
toward the window and stared out into the 
night. New York! What was the matter 



with her that she did not blaze with pleasure 
at the thought of New York? Fifth Ave- 
nue, Broadway, the theaters, the brilliant 
restaurants, the shops why did the thought 
of New York set a little chill in her heart? 
Were they alive or dead? In all these years 
she had not made the least effort to find 
out. New York . . . youth that had known 
nothing but poverty! With a repellent 
gesture she cast out these thoughts and 
picked up a fashion magazine. 

In compartment 6, the young woman 
read a manuscript, while the elderly maid 
with the broad, stolid countenance of the 
Breton peasant, brushed the golden hair 
tenderly. By and by the manuscript flut- 
tered to the floor. She knew it so abso- 
lutely, even after these months. She stared 
at the partition. She saw in fancy a window- 
curtain, forms swaying back and forth, 
then darkness. She would never be able 
to identify the men. She had cried and 
shaken the iron bars of the gate until her 
palms had peeled. 

"Sarah, dear, am I tiring you out?" 
"I love to brush your hair, madame." 
"I mean the slaving I've set you to." 
"No, madame. The only happiness I 



know rests in serving madame faithfully. 
Besides, madame has told me that all this 
is for France; and that is enough for me, who 
am Breton." 

"Then I am still beautiful to you?" 

The maid smiled. " Madame, that hand- 
some young man with the little green 
bird . . ." 


"Madame is not offended?" 

"No, Sarah. Speak on." 

"Well, it would appear that madame 
and madame knows that I am observing 
no longer despises mankind." 

"Oh, but he isn't a man, Sarah!" 

"But yes, madame!" 

"No. He is an anachronism a half-god 
who has lost the way to Olympus." 

"Ah! If madame is not interested?" 
with a sigh of relief. 

"Men! How well I know men! The 
sameness of them! What do they offer 
me? Orchids, hothouse grapes, jewels that 
I return. Never a flower that is free and 
wild. What is it I want, Sarah? Romance! 
A whirlwind, an avalanche, to sweep me up, 
to carry me off berserker love! A man 
who'll take me if I'm what he wants, with- 



out pursuing me in circles. I am a viking's 
daughter! This man? . . . We shall wait 
and see. Get me to bed. I am weary." 

Meanwhile Mathison went through his 
magazines, taking in the pictures first. Then 
he fell upon a good story. It was illustrated 
by photographs, and one of the photographs 
made him forget the story. What was it? 
What was it that stirred in the back of his 
head at the sight of this bit of dramatized 
photography? He studied it near and 
afar, from this angle and that, but the lure 
remained tantalizingly beyond reach. 

Fate never hurries. She takes time in 
writing her human scenarios; she can afford 
to. She knows that inexorably they will be 
enacted, without deviation. She had chosen 
this moment to place before Mathison's 
eye the photograph of a beautiful young 

The train from Omaha arrived in Chicago 
exactly twenty -four hours late. Great 
storms were raging across the land. 

As Mathison was passing through the 
gate the green ribbon in his buttonhole 
a man approached him covertly and thrust 
an envelope into his hand. More tickets. 1 


Mathison did not accelerate his stride in 
the least. He knew that everything was 
prepared for him. Upon reaching the cab- 
stand he stopped. At once three taxis 
rolled up. Mathison bundled his luggage 
into the middle cab, rested Malachi's cage 
on his knees, shouted an order, and the 
three cabs started off rapidly. 

The snow was coming down in thick 
sheets. A blizzard was in the offing. 

Just outside the regular cab-stand stood 
a private car, a heavy, powerful limousine. 
As the three taxis rolled away into the 
storm a man dashed up to the limousine, 
jumped in and called to the chauffeur: 

"The middle car; follow that. Smash it 
or tip it over. In a storm like this acci- 
dents will happen." 

The limousine shot forward. The going 
was heavy. The man in the limousine saw 
the three taxis string out a little as they 
went on. What he did not see was the 
fourth taxi which followed him. 

Almost in a kind of military maneuver 
the three taxis forward veered together 
suddenly and shot down a side-street. It 
took the limousine two minutes to pick 
them up again. There were plenty of arc- 



lights, and by the aid of these the pursuer 
saw that he had gained a little. They 
were strung out again, about fifteen feet 
apart. They held this formation for several 

To the occupant of the limousine this 
was baffling as well as maddening. He 
saw that until they separated it would be 
impossible to ram the middle taxi. He 
decided to draw up broadside. 

The woman in the fourth taxi laughed. 

" Sarah, that young man knows how to 
take care of himself. If I should happen 
to fire a pistol, you promise not to 

"Yes, madame." 

The young woman laughed again. "Oh, 
this is glorious! I feel all my youth com- 
ing back. I'm alive! alive! alive! The 
fates have appointed me his godmother, 
Sarah. My duty is to watch over him 
until ... he grows up!" 

The maid smiled in the dark. 

Presently the man in the limousine cried 
out joyfully. The forward cab swooped 
north, the rear one south, while the middle 
car continued east toward the railway 



"Now! Beat into it! Anything to stop 

A block farther on the private car and 
the taxi collided. The latter reeled toward 
the curb and stopped. 


AS the man in the limousine jumped out 
/~\ his chauffeur pointed his hand menac- 
ingly at the chauffeur on the taxicab seat. 
That individual raised his arms without 
resistance. He could not see the gun, but 
he knew it was there. 

The man with the straw-colored hair swung 
open the door of the taxicab ferociously to 
find the cab empty. He whirled back into 
the limousine, which was already moving. 
The right mud-guard was badly crumpled. J 

" Station all the power you've got!" 

Tricked. He understood what had hap- 
pened. When the taxis had maneuvered 
into the side-street the original middle car 
had gone either to the front or to the rear. 
There was nothing for it but to play his last 
card mistaken identity. To get Mathison 
away from his luggage for an hour or two. 

The occupant of the fourth taxi, also 

comprehending what had taken place, 



picked up the speaking-tube and ordered 
full speed ahead. 

"Sarah, this young man will bear watch- 
ing. He has ideas. I doubt if I shall be 
necessary to him at all." 

"If madame should be hurt ..." 
"No bridges' until we come to them. 
Keep your veil down. He might be watch- 
ing from his car- window when we arrive. 
He must never see you." 

Mathison was extremely pleased with the 
result of his exploit. To have thought out 
all these moves in mid-Pacific, and to find 
them moving without a hitch! He closed 
the door of his compartment and drew the 
window-curtains. He pulled down the cov- 
ering of Malachi's cage. 

"Malachi, you're likely to think cross- 
eyed all the rest of your days. But to- 
morrow night at this time you'll have 
peace and quiet." 

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw 
a bit of paper come jerkily under the door. 
He pounced upon it. v 

All compartments 2 on train bought out in ad- 
vance; unknown persons. Want anything done 
about it? Answer window. 


After a minute's wait Mathison raised 
the curtain a little and gave a negative 
sign with his hand. Then he dropped upon 
the lounge. So that's how it had hap- 
pened ! Luck and accident in San Fran- 
cisco because travel East had been light, 
but a matter of foresight and calculation in 
Omaha and Chicago. Confident that he 
would always occupy No. 1, that he would 
travel a given route as rapidly as transpor- 
tation facilities permitted, they had bought 
out No. 2 compartments on both trains. 

There would be real action from now on. 
They would begin to realize that they hadn't 
any time to lose. Very well; they would 
find him ready. He smiled. The Secret 
Service agents were beginning to fidget, the 
best possible proof that his plans were 
moving forward like clockwork. To-morrow 
night the climax! Only a few more strands 
and the web would be complete. 

"We idiotic Yankees!" 

He went to bed early. He was confident 
that there would be no more gas. He was 
dead for the need of a few hours of recuper- 
ative sleep. The jolting ride across town 
had helped to dissipate most of the bodily 
numbness; but now his brain was crying 



out for oblivion. He fell asleep almost 

And yet a cessation of movement brought 
him out of this profound slumber. It was 
as if his subconsciousness had stood on 
guard. He peered out from the side of 
the curtain. They were in a railway yard 
somewhere. Stalled. Freights were all 
about and yard engines puffing and whis- 
tling. He looked at his watch. Two. He 
had slept four hours. He resisted the in- 
tense craving to bury his head in the pillow 
again. No doubt he had been refreshed act- 
ually, but he was still drunk for the want of 
sleep. He slipped out of his berth, drenched 
a towel and slapped it over his face. Then 
he turned on the lights and dressed. When 
the right tune came he would sleep forty 

The train went on at four. At dawn it 
came to a standstill again and did not stir 
until nine. They were on a side-track, and 
along the main line freight was roaring and 
thundering. What was happening to the 
world? A limited, one of the fastest known, 
side-tracked for freight! From six until 
nine the freight rolled by. 

A newspaper! It was almost unbeliev- 



able. He felt rather stunned. He hadn't 
held a newspaper in his hands since leaving 
Honolulu! He did not actually know 
whether the Germans were in Paris or the 
Allies in Berlin. So held by the chase 
across the continent, giving his every 
thought to the affair, he had forgotten that 
the world was going on outside this particu- 
lar orbit and great events were toward. 

Twice again that day there were long de- 
lays at sidings, east of towns barely men- 
tioned on the map. All the freight in Amer- 
ica seemed to be moving east. On schedule 
time the train should be passing through 
central New York; and here they were, 
miles and miles west of Buffalo, the next 
real stop. The reporter brought him a 
sporting page from one Chicago newspaper 
and the editorial page from another. He 
was vaguely able to learn that nothing new 
had happened Over There, and that there 
was a coal famine and a great congestion 
at ports for lack of ships. 

He began to fuss and fume and fret. He 
endeavored a thousand times to find a fresh 
angle for his weary shoulders. It couldn't 
be done. Pullmans were built for divi- 
dends, not comfort. 

8 105 


He wore a gray traveling-suit and a cap 
to match. The suit, though new, was in 
an astonishingly disreputable state. The 
solution is apparent; it does not signify 
carelessness. The fact is that you cannot 
loll and twist and curl up and at the same 
time keep the warp and woof of Scotch 
worsteds shipshape. 

He yawned, stretched his arms until the 
sockets cracked, turned wrathfully and 
struck the top of the seat that rolling 
lopover which is still one of the mysteries 
of modern times. Perhaps, in making the 
original car there had been a few yards of 
plush and excelsior left over. "Splendid! 
Just enough for a pillow on the top of the 
seat-back, where no human head might 
reach it reposefully. 

Mathison jumped to his feet and went 
through a bit of setting-up exercise. It 
was wasted effort. When a man is bored 
to the point where his soul aches along with 
his body, what he needs is a mental jolt, 
not a quickening of his respiratory organs. 
Nothing except that which attacks the eye 
surprisingly will serve to pull a man out of 
the bog of such lethargy. 

Within the compartment, a pressed-steel 



imitation red mahogany, green plush" and 
a bluish haze which was the essence of 
many incinerated cigars and consumed 
pipes; outside, snow, thick and dusty and 
impenetrable. A great rimless, earthless, 
skyless world. But for the clatter of 
wheel upon rail, the train might have been 
speeding through the clouds; the illusion 
was almost perfect. Darkness was falling. 
Winter! After all these years of tropical 
climes ! 

The confinement was really heartbreak- 
ing. Never had he been shut up like this. 
And the craving for sleep was becoming a 
menace. It wouldn't have been so bad 
had he dared move about freely, eat his 
meals in the diner, and smoke his cigar or 
pipe among men. 

On the opposite seat were the magazines 
which had been given him in Omaha. He 
reached for one of them. He had long since 
read all the stories and advertisements. 
Whenever monotony reached that point 
where it threatened to become insupport- 
able he dove for these magazines. He could 
keep himself awake with them. 

Odd, but he was always returning to that 
posed photograph. It haunted him: a 



wonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt 
in tone. It was a restaurant scene. The 
woman's arms and shoulders were lovely, 
but her face was a leaden silhouette, tantal- 
izing, until you chanced to look into the 
wall mirror at the far side of her. Even 
this reflection was dim; but you caught the 
beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of 
the nose and chin; a rare face, not only 
beautiful, but intellectual. For a long time 
Mathison stared at it; and then he discov- 
ered something he had missed in previous 
scrutinies. In the lower right-hand corner, 
in very small type, he read, "Posed by 
Norma Farrington." Some new actress. 
As for that, many new ones had come and 
gone since he had visited New York. He 
tore out the picture. He couldn't have 
told why. Norma Farrington. He smiled. 
An idea had come to him, a charming 
idea such as often tickles the imagination 
of young men when they see the portrait of 
a beautiful woman. The more he mulled 
over the idea the more fascinating it became. 
Certainly she would not have him arrested 
for wanting to meet her. He folded the 
picture and put it away. Supposing he 
really started out upon such an adventure 



in earnest, not in imagination? Danger? 
Scarcely, with the little time he had at his 
disposal. Soon he would be in the waters 
that were full of slinking death. And it 
was this fact that let down the bars to the 
spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport 
before the death grapple. Why not? Why 
not? Why not? pulsed his father's blood. 
No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild 
blood he might have in his veins, but it was 
also the blood of unbroken promises. 

What had started this rather sinister 
idea in his mind, or rather reawakened it? 
The photograph of the actress? No. The 
gray lady. The charm of her companion- 
ship, the hint of the things he had missed. 
Queer things, human beings! 

No, he would not bother Norma Farring- 
ton. He would build one of his exciting 
romances around her and let it go at that. 
But he would hunt up Mrs. Chester before 
his leave was over, have tea with her, pre- 
sent her with Malachi, and tell her the story 
in detail. 

Another human inconsistency. Hallowell 
had become strangely remote. As though 
the thing had happened months instead of 
days ago. And yet every move he made 



was in the service of Bob to bring his great 
dream to fulfilment and confusion to his 

He heard some one knocking on the door. 
He rose quickly and stood listening. Two 
taps, a pause, followed by two more taps. 
Mathison released the lock, and with his 
foot ready and his shoulders hunched he 
drew back the door about an inch. He 
saw the shining black face of the porter. 

"What is it?" 

"Bad news, suh." 

" Come along inside." The porter slipped 
through the opening, and he winced as he 
heard the door close and the lock snap. 
"What's the trouble?" 

"Dey's a big freight wreck beyon' de 
nex' town, an' we'se t' be stalled ontil 
mo'nin', suh." 

"What!" explosively. 

"Yes, suh. Freight ovah de passenjah 
rails. An' den dey's dat new rule coal 
an' freight fust. We can't get by dat 
wreck onless dey side-tracks de freight; an' 
de freight goes whoozin' by while we twiddle 
thumbs. It's dat Gahfield awdah; an' dey 
ain't no use buckin' ag'in' it, wah-times. 

Dey takes the diner off, too. No fish. So 



yo' will haff t' eat in de station aw go t' 
one o' de hotels in town." 

"How big a town is this?" 

"Middlin'; but dey's got a fine hotel 
called de Watkins, jus' a little ways f'm 
de station. Bath in all de rooms, suh." 

"Bath hi all the rooms," repeated Mathi- 
son, meditatively. 

"I can bring yo' sumpin' in," suggested 
the porter, but without much enthusiasm. 
"Dey won't be no trimmin's like yo'd get 
at de hotel." 

"How long will we be stalled?" 

"Dey calc'lates ontil nine in de mo'nin', 

"What are the other passengers going to 

"Dey's all climbin' out fo' dinnuh." 

Mathison pulled at his lip. His decision 
came in a flash, one of that caliber which 
only true adventurers dare make. The 
blind Madonna of the Pagan, Chance! 
With a vave of the hand, to consign the 
burden to her! Perhaps it was the green 
plush, the red paint on the four steel walls; 
anyhow, he decided to spend the night at 
the hotel. He would immediately deposit 

the manila envelope and the little red book 



HallowelFs in the hotel safe and advise 
New York by wire his positive whereabouts. 
If anything happened to him, they would 
know where to find his personal effects. 
There would be no Secret Service opera- 
tives at his beck and call here; he would be 
on his own. 

This decision reacted upon him mentally 
and physically like champagne. All his 
craving for sleep, all his depression, went by 
the board magically. He began to thrill 
and bubble with gaiety. And there would 
be Malachi. In the quiet of the hotel 
room he might be inveigled into talking. 

"All right, George; I'll climb out, too. 
The Lord help me, but I can't stand this 
damned green plush any longer! I'll spend 
the night at your Watkins. Now listen. 
When the train stops wait half an hour be- 
fore you come for my kit-bags. Engage 
a taxi. If you can get me into that taxi 
without being observed, there'll be a five- 
spot for you. You didn't tell the waiter 
this morning about knocking. When I 
finally got the meal it was cold. " 

"I done fo'got. I sure is busy dis trip." 

"Will you be aboard aU night?" 

"Yes, suh. I ain't allowed to leave in a 


case like dis. Dey won't nobody see yo' 
in all dis rampagin' snow. All right; 
thutty minutes aftuh de train stops." 

The porter backed out. Almost instantly 
he heard the lock snap into the socket. He 
scratched his woolly poll ruminatingly. 

"Well, suttinly dis niggah nevah struck 
a bunch like dis befo'. Two women hidin' 
behin' veils w'en I makes up de beds like 
dey jes' got ovah smallpox. An' dis chap 
makin' me signal on de do', an' totin' 
a parrot! Well, politeness is mah middle 
name. I'se goin' t' do jes' es dey tells me. 
W'en I gits t' New York I'll buy dat Ford 

In the fourth compartment sat three 
men, playing cutthroat auction. One of 
them had just bid "two without" when 
the porter knocked. 

"Come in !" shouted the blond man. "Ah, 
George, what's the news?" 

The porter became a very mysterious in- 
dividual. He shut the door softly and 
leaned toward the blond man's ear. 

"He's goin' int' town, suh." 

"Going to take his things with him?" 

"Yes, suh. I'm t' call fo' him thutty 
minutes aftuh de train stops. Dey's sum- 



pin' I fo'got t' tell yo', suh. It's de way I 
has t' knock on his do' befo' I can git in. 
I hits two times, den I waits a moment, den 
I hits two times mo'." 

One of the men started to say something 
angrily, but the blond man silenced him 
with a gesture. 

"You should have told me that before, 
George," reproachfully. 

"I know, suh; but I done fo'got." 

"Remember my instructions. A mis- 
step on your part and you land in jail." 

"Yes, suh." For George knew these men 
to be Secret Service men. He had seen the 
magic shields. "Dey sure fools yo' some- 
times, don't dey? He don't look it." 

"That's why I'm taking all these pre- 
cautions. I can't arrest him until we cross 
the New York state line. The less they 
look like it the more dangerous they are. 
Always remember that, George. He hasn't 
ordered anything to drink, has he?" 

"No, suh; nuthin' but watah an' coffee." 

"He hasn't sent or received any tele- 

"No, suh." 

"What made him decide to risk leaving 
the car?" 



George thought for a moment. "I 
reckons it was de green plush. He said he 
couldn't stand it any longer." 

The blond man laughed. "Hush! Well, 
I'd risk it myself if I were in his boots. 
That's all, George." 

The porter bobbed and went away. The 
moment the door closed the blond man 
got up. 

"Out in the open at last! Ah 1 things 
come to him who waits. Sleep. That's 
what he is after. Since the fumes I'll wager 
he has kept an eye open every night; and 
it's beginning to tell on him. Everything 
is turning out beautifully: the wreck, the 
storm, his restlessness." 

"If that black fool had only told us about 
that knocking!" 

"Never mind the spilled milk. We all 
know what to do; let us see that we do it. 
I'll notify the local police at once. This 
may be the end of the chase. This porter 
is telling us the truth. I believe now that 
the other porter told the truth. Mathison 
isn't relying upon anybody to help him out. 
He hasn't sent any telegrams or received 
any. At least, not from his own car. It 
may be ... No; he never leaves the com- 



partment. Yet there's those three taxis. 
How could these turn up if he hadn't tele- 
graphed? Never mind. Here is where we 
shall trip him up. I'll go and tell Berta." 

Shortly after he rapped on the door of 
the second compartment. The door was 
opened cautiously. 

"Oh!" said the woman with the mole. 

The blond man stepped inside. "Good 
news! He's going into this town for the 
night. There's a wreck ahead, and we'll be 
stalled all night. He's going to risk it in 
the open at last. Sleep. He's going to 
pieces for the want of it. Out in the open !" 

"It is time. I am dead. I'll never get 
the cramp out of my poor body. Nearly 
three thousand miles cooped up like this! 
You were free. I had to stay packed away 
in this suffocating box." She stooped and 
peered out of the window. The suburb 
lights were flashing by. ' ' A horrible night !' ' 

"On the contrary, I should call it beauti- 
ful. We are and have been perfectly pre- 
pared against a move like this. He carries 
two things I must have." 

"I shall be glad when it's over." 

"To-night. It will depend upon you. 
Be careful. He is very strong and clever. 



I thought the chase would be over in Chi- 
cago last night. He tricked me neatly. But 
green plush !" _ The blond man laughed 

"What are you laughing at?" 

"He's going into this town, he's going to 
trust to his luck, because he can't stand the 
sight of green plush any longer. It's acting 
upon him psychologically, like red upon the 
righting toro. On the other hand, he will 
not act impulsively again." 

"He hasn't gone yet." 

"A fig for that! He'll go with the police, 
then. His way or mine; he'll go into town 
to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly . Look 
the part." 

Mathison put on a fresh collar and 
brushed himself carefully. He packed his 
kit-bags and patted them affectionately, 
as a hunter might have patted his faithful 
hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerful- 
ness, pretty women; a room big enough to 
turn around in, a bed big enough to turn 
over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot 
water; a theater, perhaps, drama, opera, 
burlesque, whatever the town had to offer. 
He would play the game to the hilt. His 
danger would be maximum, whether he 



stayed in the hotel or walked abroad. So 
he might as well get all the fun out of it 

He lifted the cotton-flannel bag. " Mal- 
achi, we'll both have a bath to-night. Only, 
we're probably doing a fool thing. There 
won't be any one to watch over us; we'll 
have to go it on our own. But I'm done. 
I've got to get outside. You poor little 
beggar! Are you ever going to talk again? 

A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently, 
but immediately the lids dropped. 

Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room 
where everything was silent and motionless, 
he might find his tongue. For days he had 
known nothing but the strange swing 
of the sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet 
room in which he could wander about and 
claw up the curtains. 


AT precisely six -thirty the porter re- 
turned. He announced his arrival in 
the peculiar manner previously described. 

"De taxi is waitin' fo' yo', suh," he 

"Good for you, George. Some snow- 
storm !" 

"It sure is. Yo' can't see yo' hand befo' 
yo' face. I tol' de cabby t' take yo' straight 
t' de Watkins. On'y a sho't ways. De 
Watkins is fash'nable an' has a cobbyray 
leastwise dey did befo' we got int' dis wah. 
Anyhow, dey'll give yo' all de comfo'ts o' 
home, an' I reckon dey's whut's achin' 

"The nail on the head, George. But I 
mustn't miss this train. Remember that." 

"I'll telephone, suh, ef dey makes up any 

Passenger and porter hurried from the 
car to the station platform, crossed two 



tracks, passed through the waiting-room, 
thence to the street, which you could not 
see across for the curtain of driving snow. 
There was a line of taxis at the curb. It 
appeared that everybody had deserted the 

Mathison knew that he had committed a 
blunder. There was even now a chance to 
run back; but stubbornly he faced the di- 
rection toward which he had set his foot. 
A blunder which, before the night was 
over, might become a catastrophe. Well, 
one thing was certain: they should never 
lay hands upon that manila envelope. He 
would deposit it in the hotel safe. Once 
that was done, they could come at him 
from all directions, if they cared to. He 
knew exactly every move he was going to 

"Boss, I wish I was whah dese bags come 
f'm. Pineapples an' melons; oh, boy! Say, 
I ain't nachelly inquis'tive, but what's in 
dat cage?" 

"A ghost, George, by the name of 
Palceornis torquatus" 

"I pass!" 

Mathison laughed. "It's a parrakeet, a 

hop-o'-my-thumb of a bird." 




" Almost as much as you do, George." 

The porter grinned and helped stow the 
luggage inside the cab. Mathison climbed 
in and slammed the door. The porter 
watched the taxicab until the gray, swirling 
pall swallowed it up. He pocketed the bill. 

"Dey ain't no reason why, but I sure 
hates t' take dat young man's money," he 
mused, remorsefully. "De undah dawg; 
I s'pose dat's it. W'en dey don't look like 
it dey is. What's he done, I wonduh? A 
parrot! Fust time I ev' seen a white man 
tote a parrot. An' he don't look like a 
henpeck, neither." 

He turned and jogged back to the train. 

The taxicabs began to straggle along. 
The streets were full of ruts and drifts, 
and the vehicles looked like giant beetles 

Gloomy town, thought Mathison, as he 
peered first from one window then from the 
other. Not a cheery, winking electric sign 
anywhere. Then he recalled the reason, 
as explained by the porter. A coal famine 
had forced a temporary abandonment of 
this wonder of American cities. 

It was stinging cold, somewhere around 
9 121 


zero. He threw the lap-robe over the cage. 
Malachi wasn't used to the cold. The 
shop-windows gleamed like beaten gold, so 
thick were they with frost. The cab lurched, 
staggered, and skidded. 

" Lord ! but the smell of clean snow !" He 
dipped his chin into his collar. He had 
been away from this kind of weather so 
long that it bit in. 

Cabs in front and cabs behind. Were 
they following him? Likely enough. They 
would be fools if they didn't. A hot bath 
and a bed for himself and a room to rove 
about in for Malachi. The thing was 
written, anyhow; and deep down in his soul 
he knew that he was going to pull through. 
Fire, water, and poison gas. 

In about ten minutes the cab came to a 
halt. The door was opened and a bellboy 
grinned hopefully and hospitably. Mathi- 
son stepped down from the cab, gave a 
dollar to the driver, and reached for Malachi 
and one of the kit-bags, leaving the other 
for the boy. He sprang up the hotel steps, 
keenly exhilarated. He felt alive for the 
first time in days. He swept on to the 
desk, planted the kit-bag strategically and 

ordered a room with a bath. But as the 



clerk offered the pen Mathison frowned. 
He hadn't planned against the contingency 
of signing his name to hotel registers. His 
slight hesitancy was not noticed by the 
clerk. Mathison was not without a fund 
of dry humoir, and a flash of it swept over 
him at this moment. 

He wrote " Richard Whittington, Lon- 
don." He chuckled inwardly. The name 
had popped into his head with one of those 
freakish rallies of memory; but presently 
he was going to regret it. 

"Room with bath; number three hundred 
and twenty. Here, boy! How long do you 
expect to be with us, sir?" asked the clerk, 

"Until morning. Train stalled on ac- 
count of wreck. You have a good safe?" 

"Strong as a bank's." 

"Very good. I'll be down shortly with 
some valuables." 


"A parrakeet." 

"That'll be all right. We bar dogs and 

The door of the elevator had scarcely 
closed behind Mathison when a man walked 
leisurely over to the desk and inspected the 



freshly written signature. He seemed 
startled for a moment; then he laughed. 

"A room, sir?" 

"No. I was looking to see if a friend 
of mine had arrived. He hasn't." 

The stranger walked away; he strolled 
into the bar, looked into the restaurant, 
mounted the first flight of stairs and wan- 
dered into the parlor, which was empty and 
chilly. Next he hailed an elevator and 
asked to be let out on the third floor. Here 
he walked to the end of the corridor and 
returned, took the next car down, and went 
directly into the street. At the north side 
of the hotel was an alley. The man stared 
speculatively into this, jumped into a wait- 
ing taxicab and made off. 

Half an hour later a woman entered the 
hotel parlor, selected a chair by the corridor 
wall, and sat down. You might have gone 
into the parlor and departed without no- 
ticing her. 

Meanwhile Mathison set the cage by the 
radiator, went into the bathroom, came back 
and felt of the bed, and smiled at the bellboy. 

"This will do nicely. How big a town 
is this?" 

"About seventy thousand, sir." 


"What's the name of it?" 

The boy grinned. Here was one of those 
"fresh guys" who were always springing 
wheezes like this because they thought the 
"hops" expected it. 


Mathison caught the point immediately. 
"Boy, on my word, I haven't the least idea 
what the name of this town is. I'm off 
the stalled flyer, and I forgot to ask the 
porter. I wanted a bed instead of a bunk. 
Now shoot." 

The boy named the town. 

"What have you got in the line of 

"This is Tuesday," answered the boy. 

"I know that. Is there a comic opera or 
a good burlesque?" 

"Are you guying me? Where'd juh 
come from?" 

"The other side of the world." 

"I guess that's right. Why, this is show- 
less Tuesday, all east of the Mississippi. 
Even little Mary Pickford ain't working 
to-day. New York, Boston it's all the 
same. Nothing doing. The new law; all 
the theaters, movies, billiard-parlors, and 
bowling-alleys dark." 



"Well, I'll be haDged!" 

"It's the war, sir," said the boy, soberly. 
"I'm in the next draft. I don't want to 
kill anybody; but if I've got to do it I'm 
going to learn how." 

Mathison held out his hand. "That's 
the kind of talk. It's bad, bloody work, 
but it's got to be done. Here's a telegram 
I want sent. Don't bother bringing back 
the change. But don't fail to have this 
wire sent." 

"I won't fail, sir." 

"Now, I want you to give this order to 
the waiter." 

After a word or two the boy interrupted 
Mathison. "No meat. Fish, lobster, oys- 
ters, chicken." 

"All right; make it chicken, then. And 
tell him to bring a banana and some al- 
monds. And mind this particularly. Tell 
the waiter to knock once loudly. Make no 
mistake about that." 

"Yes, sir"j but the boy's eyes began to 
widen perceptibly. Here was a queer bird. 

After the boy had departed Mathison 
double-locked the door. Then he liberated 
Malachi. The bird came out and stood 
before the door of his cage indecisively. 



Then he reached down and whetted his beak 
on the carpet. 

"Chup!" he muttered. 

" You little son-of-a-gun !" cried Mathison, 
delighted. It was the first time Malachi 
had spoken since leaving Manila. Mathison 
stooped and extended his index finger. By 
aid of claw and beak, the bird mounted the 
living perch and slowly worked his way up 
the arm. "The little son-of-a-gun, he's 
alive again! Malachi, are you cold?" 

Malachi grumbled in his own tongue. 
Mathison approached a curtain, and the 
bird at once transferred himself to that, 
clawing his way up to the pole, where he 
began to preen himself. His master watched 
him for a few minutes contentedly. Then 
he looked out of the window. He saw the 
dim outlines of a fire-escape. He could 
also see a cross-section of the street beyond 
the alley: clouds of snow, spouts, whirl- 

He turned from the window swiftly and 
tiptoed to the door. Some one had turned 
the knob cautiously. Mathison waited pa- 
tiently, but the knob did not turn again. 
Door-knobs they had a mysterious way of 
turning in the night. 



There would be no going out this night; 
so he might as well make himself comfort- 
able. He turned to the kit-bags. He 
opened them both, took a pair of slippers 
from the top of one and a dressing-gown and 
toilet articles from the top of the other. 
The general contents of both bags were 
as neatly and as compactly arranged as a 
drummer's case; but always on top there 
would be pick-ups. By the time he had 
bathed, changed, put on the slippers and 
gown a heavenly blue silk-brocade such 
as aristocratic Chinese wear the waiter 
arrived with the dinner. He announced 
his arrival by a single knock. 

The door was opened in a singular fashion. 
Mathison kept totally behind it. An Orien- 
tal trick; it gave one the opportunity to 
strike first, if it were necessary to strike; 
moreover, it prevented any one in the hall or 
corridor observing the occupant of the room. 
The moment the waiter stepped inside the 
door was closed and double-locked again. 

"I shall require no service, waiter. Here's 
a bill; keep the change for your tip." 

''Thank you, sir." 

The lock and the latch were released 
simultaneously. So adroitly was this ac- 



complished that the waiter never suspected 
that he had been locked in or that he was 
immediately going to be locked out. 

Mathison crossed over to the table, peeled 
a banana, lopped off a bit, and jabbed the 
fork into it. This he took to the parrakeet. 
Malachi sidled along the pole solemnly and 
reached down a coral-red claw. 

On going back to the table Mathison felt 
top-hole in spirit. The telegram was off. 
If anything happened they would know 
where to find him. After he had finished 
his dinner he would find a hiding-place for 
that manila envelope. 

Suddenly he became seized by an ironic 
whimsy, an impulse which in normal times 
he would have analyzed as idiotic. Never- 
theless, he proceeded to materialize it. He 
searched in his coat-pocket for the picture 
of the actress, sliced off the non-essentials, 
and propped it against the water carafe. 
With his hand on his heart he bowed. 

" Paper lady, I am at once gratified and 
deeply chagrined to offer you a repast so 
poor. I had planned a club steak* I've 
been planning it for six long years, and 
patriotism compels me to eat chicken 
which I abominate! You are disappointed? 



I'm sorry. You won't look at me? Very 
well. That's not your fault; it's the fault of 
the fool photographer, the way he posed 
you. Crazy? Well, perhaps. But, Lord's 
truth, I wish I did know somebody like you. 
I'm the lonesomest duffer in all this God- 
forsaken world!" 

So, while he munched his chicken and 
Malachi his banana, the clerk at the desk 
was having his worries. 

"A queer bunch got off that stalled train," 
he said to the manager. 

"What's the trouble?" 

" First a tanned chap with two bags and 
a parrot signs his name and beats it for 
the elevator as if he were afraid the room 
would vanish before he got to it. Another 
man comes up and looks the book over. 
He laughs. Then he walks off. Right 
away comes a veiled woman who does the 
same thing. Only she signs. A coat that 
would pay next year's taxes, but no hat. 
She wants room two hundred and twenty. I 
ask where her luggage is, and she says she 
left it on the train. But she hands me a 
twenty. I let her have the key. Then up 
comes Sanford, of The Courier. When he 
pipes those two names he yells." 



"What's the matter with them?" asked 
the manager. He was not particularly 

"Why, look at this. Richard Whitting- 
ton, London. Sanford says there was only 
one man ever had that name, and he was 
Lord Mayor of London five hundred years 

"Oh, pshaw!" 

"Wait a minute. Here's the name the 
woman wrote. Manon Roland. Sanford 
says her head was cut off in the French 
Revolution in 1793. One alone, all right; 
but two!" 

"So long as they pay the bill and behave 
themselves there's nothing for us to do. 
Perhaps they are celebrities and don't want 
to be bothered by reporters." 

"A new brand, then. I never saw this 
kind before. Anyhow, I thought I'd put 
you wise." 

From afar Mathison heard the shrill, pro- 
longed blast of a railway whistle. Then 
a rush of cold air struck him. The paper 
lady rose suddenly and began a series of 
violent spiral whirls toward the door. 
Mathison sprang to his feet, turning, his 



automatic ready. He remembered now 
that he had forgotten to examine the win- 
dow lock. 

Through this window came a woman. 
She stumbled and fell to her knees, but she 
got up instantly. She wore no hat. Her 
hair, like Roman gold, sparkled with melt- 
ing snow-flakes. Under this hair was a 
face which had the exquisite pallor of 
Carrara marble. Her eyes were as purple 
as Manila Bay after the sunset gun. From 
her shoulders hung a sable coat worth a 
king's ransom. 

Mathison's heart gave a great bound; 
then his brain cleared and his thoughts be- 
came cold and precise. He knew who she 
was. Beautiful beyond anything his fertile 
imagination had conceived of her: warm 
and fragrant as a Persian rose. Small won- 
der that poor old Bob Hallowell had gone 
to smash over her. But what Hid The 
Yellow Typhoon want of John Mathison? 

"You are John Mathison?" she asked, 
her voice scarcely audible. ''Richard 

"Yes." His eyes still marveling over 
the beauty of her. It was unbelievable. 
A wave of poignant regret went over him. 



The tender loveliness of a Bouguereau 
housing the soul of a Salome! 

"Then take heed. You are in grave 
danger. You carry something certain men 
want desperately Don't go into the hall; 
don't leave your room under any circum- 
stances to-night. The hall is watched. I 
dared not come to your door. They must 
never know that I have aided you. I had 
to climb the fire-escape. I dared not trust 
the telephone. Hide whatever you have 
and hide it well." 

It is possible that Mathison presented 
a unique picture to the woman. The blue 
robe fluttered, bulged, and collapsed in the 
wind. It fell to his feet, shimmering. But 
for the color of it had it been yellow 
Mathison might have posed as a priest of 
Buddha. His handsome, bronzed face, the 
cold impassivity of his eyes and mouth, 
might have passed inspection on the plat- 
form of the Shwe Dagon pagoda in Ran- 
goon if one overlooked the healthy thatch 
of hair on his head. 

She broke the tableau by taking from the 
pocket of her gray coat a gray veil which 
she wound about her head, turban-wise, 
dropping the edge just above her lips. 



"One word more. I am a creature of 
impulse. I may regret this whim shortly. 
I may even return. I don't know. But if 
I do, watch out! . . . Beware of me!" 

She backed to the window, stepped 
through to the fire-escape and vanished into 
the night. 

FOR a space Mathison did not stir. There 
was something hypnotic in this singu- 
lar visitation, but it was physical rather than 
mental. He stared at the blank square of 
the window as Medusa's victims must have 
stared at her stonily. Morgan had de- 
scribed the woman minutely, and out of 
these substances and delineations Mathison 
had created a blonde Judith, something at 
once beautiful and terrifying. And yet he 
recognized the woman almost immediately. 
The mind often acts inconsequently in 
crises. At the back of his brain something 
was clamoring for recognition. He was 
conscious of the call, but there seemed to 
be a blank wall in between. It was conceiv- 
able that the sheer loveliness of the woman 
dazed him. On his guard, yes, alert and 
watchful, but otherwise nonplussed. His 
confusion was doubtless due to the fact 
that he could not out the two salients to- 



gether. It was utterly illogical that any 
woman so tenderly beautiful should be 
called The Yellow Typhoon. 

He recalled Morgan's description. "A 
passionless, merciless leopardess. She 
would have curled Saint Anthony's beard 
and taken Michael's flaming sword away 
from him. A destroyer. Don't get the 
impression that she is what we call on the 
loose. That's the most singular part of it. 
Her reputation isn't along that line. Breaks 
men for the pure deviltry of it; honorable 
men, men too proud to fight back. Under- 
stand? Always the poor devil who has 
something or everything to lose. A biga- 
mist, because that seemed to be the most 
exciting game she could apply her arts to. 
And always just beyond the reach of the 
law. I don't suppose there's a court in the 
world that could convict her of bigamy. 
So, keep your eyes open and your guard up. 
Remember, I wanted to ransack the ship." 

And what kind of a game was she about 
to spring? She had warned him. But she 
had added that she might return } and in 
that event, let him beware. He thought 
keenly for a moment, and presently he saw 
a way out of the labyrinth. Very clever! 



His enemies were in the adjoining rooms, 
watching him from some peephole or other. 
A trick to make him take the manila en- 
velope out of his kit-bag and hide it anew 
where they could find it when they wanted it. 
He had made his first mistake. He should 
have deposited the envelope in the safe be- 
fore coming up. The hesitance over inscrib- 
ing his name any name on the register 
had befogged him temporarily. His whole 
carefully built campaign depended upon 
getting that manila envelope to New York. 

What followed was a revelation in clear 
thinking, acted upon swiftly. 

He pulled down the window, locked it, 
and drew the shade. He got into his clothes 
again, dropped the automatic into the right 
pocket of his coat, all the while taking in- 
ventory of his surroundings in panoramic 
glances. Not a step wasted, not a thought 
that needed readjusting. Under the tele- 
phone was a waste-basket. In this there 
was a discarded newspaper. He crossed 
the room and turned off the lights. What 
he did now was done in the dark. From 
one of the kit-bags he procured the manila 
envelope and the little red book, which he 
strapped together with a rubber band. He 

10 137 


tiptoed over to the waste-basket and slipped 
his precious packet into the folds of the 
newspaper, which he returned to the basket. 
He turned on the lights and took down the 

"Hello!" he caUed, softly. "This is 
room three hundred and twenty. Will you 
kindly ascertain for me if rooms three eigh- 
teen and three twenty-two are occupied by 
passengers from the stalled flier from Chi- 
cago? . . . Yes, I'll hold the wire." Two 
minutes passed. "They are not? Thank 
you. No; nothing of importance. Didn't 
know but they might be friends from the 
train." So there was nothing to fear from 
the adjoining rooms. That was a weight 
off his mind. 

But it was also a new angle to the puzzle. 
Had the woman really tried to do him a 
service? Was it inspired by some vague 
regret for Hallowell? Out of one laby- 
rinth, but into another. He ran to the 
windows and threw up the shades. The 
fire-escape was empty. He went back to 
the telephone. It was barely possible that 
she had come up from the room below. 
That would be 220. 

"Is the lady still in room two twenty? . . . 



Oh, never mind the name. Is she still 
there? . . . She isn't? Gave up the key a 
moment ago? . . . No, there isn't any trouble. 
She came from the stalled train . . . She said 
she would not return? Thanks." 

A blind alley. He couldn't solve the 
riddle at all. And because he couldn't 
solve it he sensed danger, a danger which 
ran around him in a circle. 

He glanced up at the bird on the curtain- 
pole. Malachi had finished his dinner and 
was polishing his beak. 

"Malachi, they've got me guessing!" 

"Chup!" said the little green bird, spread- 
ing out his clipped wing. It was warm 
and cozy up there near the ceiling. He 
loved window-curtain poles. "Mat, you 
lubber, where's my tobacco?" 

That phrase! It seemed to Mathison 
that a hand had reached out and caught 
him by the throat. Bob ! The dear, absent- 
minded Hallowell! How often had he 
teased him by putting his tobacco-canister 
on the other end of the table! Bob, blind 
if you stirred anything on his end of the 
table from its accustomed place, would 
start hunting about the room, swearing 



Mathison began to pace the room. The 
infernal beauty of her! Negative for good 
and positive for evil; somehow it hurt him. 
He felt outraged that God should give all 
these lovely attributes to a daughter of 

Down-stairs, the clerk went into the man- 
ager's office. 

"I tell you something queer is going on 
in this hotel." 

"What now?" 

"The Lord Mayor of London makes 
waiters signal on his door before he'll let 
them in. Then he begins asking questions 
about the people on either side of him. To 
cap the climax, he asked about the woman 
who had her head cut off in 1793." 

"What? Oh yes, I see; those names on 
the register. Well?" 

" Something fishy . The woman just sur- 
rendered her key and waltzed out." 


"With last year's cabbages." 

"Maybe it's an elopement," suggested 
the manager, hopefully. Elopements were 
first-rate advertisements. 

"Nix on the elopement. The real article 
gets married before they come to a hotel 



like the Watkins. She went up to the room 
I gave her and came down again. No com- 
plaints. Just surrendered the key and 

" Didn't ask any questions about the 

" Nope. There's where the mystery comes 
in. Mind, we'll have a robbery or a murder 
on our hands before morning." 

"Piffle! If the woman is gone for good 
we can't risk meddling with this Lord 
Mayor chap. I'm not courting suits for 
damages these days; not me. You've been 
going to the movies too much. Anyhow, 
she paid five for the room. It's none of our 
business if she doesn't sleep in it." 

"All right. Only, don't jump on me if 
anything happens." 

"Tell your troubles to the house detec- 
tive. That's what he's here for." 

The clerk acted on this advice at once. 
"Michaels," he said, "you take this key 
and look around room two twenty. See if 
the woman took or left anything. There's 
a queer game going on here to-night." 

The house detective returned shortly. 
He doubted if any one had been in room 
220 at aU. 



" Better stick around, anyhow." 

"All right." 

At the police-station the night captain 
rocked in his swivel-chair and chewed his 
cigar. There had recurred to his mind an 
old phrase, which applied to the crook as 
well as to the honest man, "He travels 
fastest who travels alone." Well, so long 
as it was fish to his net, he had no right to 
complain. On his desk lay a stack of those 
sinister handbills which the police send 
hither and thither across the continent 
under the caption "Wanted." From time 
to time he referred to a letter which he had 
just received by messenger. A fall-down 
on the divvy, and the pal blows the game. 
But a thousand dollars, a real bank-roll, was 
worth trying for these hard times. All he 
had to do was to call up the Watkins. If 
there was anything to the information, the 
hotel clerk would be able to tell. He drew 
the telephone toward him. 

"This the Watkins? . . . Police-station 
talking. Man by the name of Richard 
Whittington registered? . . . He is? Good! 
Listen to me. Describe him." The cap- 
tain smoothed out a handbill and kept his 
eye on it obliquely. "All right. Tall, 



very dark, good-looking, blue eyes, smooth, 
no beard. Yes, that sounds like him . . . 
'Black' Ellison, wanted in San Francisco 
for diamond robbery and assault. . . . There 
was a woman? Gone? That's tough. She 
may have taken the swag. Well, it can't 
be helped. Get the man down-stairs to the 
private office. I'll send Murphy over in 
fifteen minutes. Better call in a patrolman. 
This man Ellison is a strong-arm, for all 
his good looks." 

Up in room 320 Mathison found it impos- 
sible to keep that lovely face out of his 
thoughts. Something was wrong with the 
world. If ever he had looked into a counte- 
nance upon which was written honesty . . . 

"The voice!" he cried, stopping suddenly. 
"The voice! That's the thing that's been 
hammering in the back of my head. I've 
heard that voice before. Where? How?" 
He rumpled his hair. "Where have I heard 
her voice?" 

He had heard her laugh that night when 
she had come on deck in the Chinese cos- 
tume. But the speaking voice! Where 
had he heard that? 

Malachi, sensing his master's agitation, 
sidled back and forth along the curtain- 



pole, grumbling as his feet came into con- 
tact with the cold brass rings. 

By and by Mathison saw the paper lady 
on the floor; saw it with eyes busy with 
introspection. He stooped; the act was 
purely mechanical. He went on with his 
pacing. He folded and refolded the slip 
of paper many times and at length stowed 
it away in a pocket, without having glanced 
at it once, without recalling his desire to 
meet her, if she happened to be in New 
York when he arrived there. 

He heard a sound. It came from the 
window. He wheeled quickly, his hand 
going into his pocket as he turned. He had 
almost forgotten! 


Dimly he saw a woman's face against 
the pane. She had comeback! The monu- 
mental nerve of her! On the way to the 
window he formed his plan of action. He 
would give her all the rope she wanted; he 
would act as if he had never seen her be- 
fore, play her as a fisherman plays a trout. 
She had warned him, and he would not ig- 
nore her warning. He ran to the window, 
unlocked it, and threw it up. 

The woman stumbled into the room, the 



expression on her face one of great terror. 
Hair like spun molasses, sparkling with 
melting snowflakes, skin like Carrara mar- 
ble, with an odd little mole at the corner of 
her mouth, and eyes as purple as Manila 
Bay at sunset. From her shoulders hung 
a sable coat worth a king's ransom. Mathi- 
son raised her to her feet. "What is it? 
What's the trouble?" he asked, pulling 
forward a chair. Terrified. Had they dis- 
covered what she had done and had she 
flown to him for protection? "Beware of 
me!" she had said. 

She sank into the chair and covered her 
face with her ungloved hands, rocking her 
body and moaning slightly. 

"What's the trouble?" It took some 
effort to keep the ironical out of his voice. 
What a queer little mole! he thought. He 
hadn't noticed it before. 

She let her hands fall. "I'm in the most 
horribly embarrassing situation," she pant- 
ed. She clasped her hands on her knees and 
the fingers began to snarl and twist, as they 
will when a body is under great mental 
stress. "You won't mind if I stay here 
a few minutes?" 

"Not in the least, provided you give me 



an idea what's happened to drive you into 
this room." Mathison put both hands 
into the side-pockets of his coat. 

" Couldn't it be possible to stay without 
explaining?" she pleaded. 

Not a sign that she had been in this room 
less than half an hour gone. What was 
her game? Mathison, from the ironical 
spirit, passed into one of bewilderment. 
Her voice wasn't quite the same, either; it 
was higher, thinner. He was giving her rope, 
but so far she wasn't making any especial 
effort to gather it in. Very well ; he would 
continue to play up to her lead and see where 
it led. But stretch his imagination to its 
fullest, he could not figure out what her 
game was. 

He answered her query. " Supposing 
you were found here? I don't object, mind 
you; only, I'd like to know how to act^should 
occasion arise." 

"I ... I don't know how to begin! It 
will sound so silly and futile!" she faltered. 
Her gaze roved rather wildly about. "My 
husband ... he has the most violent temper 
and is most insanely jealous. Somehow he 
learned I was here in the restaurant. I 
saw him as he entered the main entrance. 



I tried to slip out at the side . . . but I was 
not quick enough. By this time he will 
have had the whole hotel by the ears. Oh, 
it is degrading shameful!" The woman 
turned her head against her shoulder and 
closed her eyes. Mathison noted the plain 
gold band among the gems on her fingers. 
"I haven't done anything wrong. I like 
amusement; I like clothes. ... I can't stand 
it much longer! . . . He keeps me shut up 
all the time. What's the good of clothes 
if you can't wear them? I can't go any- 
where, I can't do anything! I wish I were 

Maddening! He wanted to take hold of 
her and shake her. But he said, soothing- 
ly: "You don't wish that. You ought not 
to have run away." 

"I know, but I couldn't stand a scene 
among all those people. I see now I've 
only made it worse by running! ... I got 
into the parlor somehow. Then I saw the 
fire-escape. I stepped out and closed the 
window, but I found I didn't dare drop 
twelve feet or more to the sidewalk." 

Mathison nodded. There was nothing 
else to do. 

"And I made the fire-escape just in 



time. He came storming into the parlor, 
followed by a clerk and a bellboy. The 
shame of it! None of them thought to look 
out. I'd have been frozen but for this 
coat. Then it came to me I was so des- 
perate! that I might find a window open 
if I climbed up ... And I saw you. I 
shaVt bother you more than ten minutes 
. . . Just enough time to get my nerves 
steadied. If he doesn't find me soon he'll 
go home. I can stand a scene there. " 

"Where's the other man? A fine chap, to 
leave you in the lurch like this!" cried 
Mathison, indignantly. 

Her eyes opened; they expressed dismay. 
"Oh, but I wasn't with any one!" 

"Alone? Good Lord! why did you run 

"He would have made a scene just the 
same. He would always swear that there 
was another man somewhere. I suppose 
he'll kill me some day. I ought not to have 
run; but I simply could not stand a scene 
in the restaurant!" She hunted about for 
a handkerchief, found one, and rubbed her 
cold little nose with it. "It sounds so 
silly, doesn't it? I don't know what to 



"Stay as long as you like. Shall I send 
for a cup of coffee? You must be frozen." 

"No, no! You mustn't take the least 
trouble. I'm sorry. I just opened the 
window and stepped inside. I really had 
only one idea to escape." 

"Suppose you describe your husband. 
I'll call up the office and see if he has gone." 

"Good Heavens, no!" her terror return- 
ing. "I am really lost if it should become 
known that I had taken a risk such as this. 
Besides, it might get you into trouble. 
Please no ! Just a few minutes ten fifteen. 
He'll go when he can't find me. I'll return 
to the parlor by the way I came." 

Why didn't she take out a revolver, cover 
him in the conventional style, and open 
the door for her friends in the hall? Or had 
she noticed that his right hand was still in 
the pocket of his coat? As a test he with- 
drew the hand. She did not appear to 
observe the movement. The word "baf- 
fled " had always appealed to him as blood- 
and-thunder stuff; but now he began to 
understand that it was a serious and sub- 
stantial condition of the mind. 

"'You're welcome, any way you desire it. 
I'll tell you what. I'll write a letter I had 



in mind. It will serve to relieve you of 
your embarrassment. It certainly will re- 
lieve mine." 

He opened one of the kit-bags and dug 
out his letter-portfolio. He cleared a space 
on the table and sat down, facing the young 
woman, though apparently giving her no 
more attention. He started the letter, 
paused, tore up what he had written, and 
tossed the bits to the floor. The next at- 
tempt seemed to be successful, for he wrote 
several pages, finally sealing it in an envelope. 
Had the woman been able to read the con- 
tents of this letter she would have been pro- 
foundly astonished. It was a minute de- 
scription of her, from the tortoise-shell comb 
in her hah- to the white sandals on her feet. 

He re-read the document ; and as he came 
to the end of it he missed something, an 
essential which impressed him previously. 
Covertly he ran his glance over her again. 
Something was gone, but he could not tell 
what it was. 

For all that she did not appear to be do- 
ing so, he knew that not a single move he 
made escaped her. Often he gazed at the 
kit-bags, but never did he let his glance 
stray anywhere near the waste-basket. 


He wondered. Supposing the two visita- 
tions, the second ignoring the first as though 
it had never happened supposing they had 
been launched for the express purpose of 
baffling and bewildering him, eventually 
causing him to lower his guard? Here at 
last was a solution that had a grain of sense. 

Mathison rose and filled his pipe. 

"You won't mind if I smoke and jog 
about a bit? I'm restless. I've had a long 
attack of insomnia." 

"Please pay no attention to me." 

After a glance at his watch he fell to pa- 
cing once more. But he paced in a peculiar 
manner up and down the corridor wall. 
That is to say, he had the window and 
The Yellow Typhoon always under covert 

As for the woman, she now relaxed. Her 
lovely hands lay limply on her knees and 
her eyes were closed or seemed to be. But 
each time the elevator door slammed she 
started nervously. Good acting, Mathison 
admitted. The jealous husband ! He fought 
the desire to walk over to her, to smother 
her with the storm of words burning his 
tongue. < There must be an overt act on 
her part first. The infernal beauty of her! 



"Mat, you lubber!" 

Even Mathison received a shock. He 
had forgotten Malachi. The woman sprang 
to her feet and whirled about, expecting to 
see some one behind her chair. She saw 
nothing. Bewildered, her gaze came back 
to Mathison, who pointed to the curtain- 

"A little parrot!" She sank back into 
the chair weakly. "I thought some one 
was behind me!" 

"I had forgotten him." 

"Chupl Chota Malachi!" 

"What does he say?" 

"That's Hindustani. He's telling me to 
be still and that he is a little bird." 

"A Hindu parrot!" The woman gazed 
at the bird, frankly interested. "What a 
funny little bird! You have traveled far?" 

"Half -way around the world. My train 
was stalled to-night; so Malachi and I con- 
cluded to spend the night in peace and 
quiet. I rather wanted to hear him talk. 
Boats and trains bother him, and he hasn't 
spoken for days." 

"A parrot!" 

"A parrakeet," he corrected. 

"I never knew that men carried them} 



about. I thought it was always fussy old 

"I'm a deep-sea sailor; and we sailors are 
always lugging around pets for mascots. I 
have lived in the Orient for six years." He 
spoke with engaging frankness. Why not? 
Was there anything concerning John Mathi- 
son that she did not know? 

"What do you caU him?" 


"What does that mean?" 

"You have me there. It was the name of 
an elephant in one of Kipling's yarns." 

"I see. . . . What's that?" she broke off. 

Mathison stood perfectly still, chin up, 
eyes alert. The elevator door had slammed 
with unusual violence. This sound was 
followed by another hurrying feet. Then 
came a blow of a fist on the panel of the 

"What's wanted?" demanded Mathison, 

"Open the door!" 

"Who is it and what is wanted?" 

"Open, or we'll break in!" 

The woman flew to the window. While 
she was lifting it Mathison spoke to her. 

"You are leaving?" broadly ironical. 

11 153 


"My husband! . . . He will kiU me!" 

" Which husband? Hallowell, Graham, 

She sent him a glance that radiated ven- 
om. It was almost as if she had suddenly 
poisoned the air. 

"The Yellow Typhoon! And you sup- 
posed I would not recognize you, never 
having seen you? I don't know what your 
game was in warning me. No matter. 
Morgan was right. He said you were a 
beautiful mirage at the mouth of hell." 

"Open the door!" came from the hall. 

The woman stepped through the window, 
sent it rattling to the sill; and that was the 
last Mathison saw of her for many hours. 
He walked to the door. 

"I will open the door only upon one con- 
dition that you inform me who it is and 
what is wanted of me," he declared, still 
in level tones. 

"It's the house detective, and you're 
wanted, me Lord Mayor of London!" 

Mathison thought rapidly. He attacked 
the affair from all angles. The house de- 

Against the door came the thud of a 
human body. 



"Never mind breaking in the door," 
Mathison called. "Til open it." 

He did so ; and four men came rushing in 
the house detective, the manager, the in- 
quisitive clerk, and a policeman. 
* "The Lord Mayor of London, huh?" 
bellowed the house detective. He carried 
a revolver. "Put up your hands!" Mathi- 
son obeyed promptly. Michaels ran his 
hand over Mathison's pockets and gave a 
cry of delight as he brought forth the heavy 
Colt automatic. "A gat! I thought I'd 
find one." 

"Now then," said Mathison, still able 
to hold his rage in check, "be so good as 
to explain what the devil all this means?" 

"We'll explain that in the office." 

"We'll explain it here and now, or you'll 
have to carry me. And in that event I can 
promise you some excitement." 
. "All right, me lud. Word comes from 
the police headquarters to hold you and 
hold you good. You're 'Black' Ellison, 
and there's a thousand iron boys waiting 
to be paid over on your delivery. We'll 
carry you, if you say so." 

So that was it! Mathison saw the whole 
thing in a flash. Clever, clever beyond 



anything he had imagined. To get him 
out of the room in a perfectly logical way, 
and then search it. He saw clearly that 
his own mysterious actions would be held 
against him. Caught! He couldn't help 
admiring the method. The woman to keep 
him interested and puzzled until they were 
ready to fire the train. 

"Is there any reason why we can't remain 
here? You've got to prove that I'm the 
man you want." 

"Orders are to take you down to the pri- 
vate office," said the policeman. 

"No objection to my taking my things 

"Your things, bo, will stay right where 
they are until Murphy looks them over." 

"How am I to know that no one will 
enter this room while I'm down-stairs?" 

"I can promise you that," said the man- 

"Don't open the window. There's a 
little bird up there on the curtain-pole; 
and he might fly out or try to." 

The visitors stared at Malachi inter- 

"He sha'n't be touched," declared the 
manager, a fit of trembling seizing him. If 



this turned out wrong and the victim came 
back with a suit of damages! "It's no fault 
of the hotel, sir. The order comes from the 

A few words, the exhibition of a paper or 
two, and Mathison knew that the tide would 
have turned immediately in his favor. But 
this step he stubbornly refused to take. 
The spirit of the gambler who scorns to 
hedge. Upon leaving the security of the 
train he had laid his offerings at the feet 
of Chance. He would follow through. At 
any rate, he determined not to disclose his 
identity until he had to. 

"Very weU; I'll go with you. But I'll 
put the bird back in his cage if you don't 

After a bit of coaxing Malachi came down 
from his perch and Mathison bundled him 
into the cage, which he set beside the radia- 
tor. He then stepped into the corridor. 
But he waited to see if the manager locked 
the door. The manager did more than that. 
He gave the key to Mathison, who marched 
over to the elevator and pressed the button. 

"A cool one," whispered the excited clerk. 
"Didn't I tell you there was something off- 



The manager made a gesture. He wasn't 
at all happy. People would have smiled 
over an elopement; but the arrest of a 
dangerous criminal always reacted against 
the hotel. "You need not worry about 
your belongings, sir," he said to Mathison. 

"I'm not worrying. I'm going to leave 
that for you to do." 

"Bluff won't get you anywhere," growled 
the house detective. 

"It seems to have landed you a soft 
job," countered Mathison, smiling as he 
entered the elevator. 

The clerk grinned. He and the house 
detective were not exactly friendly. 

Once in the manager's private office, 
Mathison coolly appropriated the mana- 
gerial chair. He kept his eye on the desk 
clock and appeared oblivious to the low 
murmurings behind his back. Five minutes 
ten fifteen; he could feel the sweat rising 
at the roots of his hair. Trapped ! They had 
come at him from an original angle, and the 
only counter for it was the disclosure of his 
hand. No doubt the woman was already at 
work. If they took him to the police-station 
for the night; if the maid cleaned out the 
room thoroughly in the morning! 



"Got him, I see!" cried a cheery voice 
from the doorway. 

Mathison turned. He saw a small, brisk 
Irishman, with a humorous mouth and a 
pair of keenly intelligent eyes. He gave a 
sigh of relief . Here was some one who fooked 
as if he had the gift of reason. Pray God 
that he had! 

" Stand up!" 

Mathison obeyed. 

"Humph! Got anything to say?" 

"No; except if you'll come to the room 
with me I'll give you the stuff. I know 
when I'm beaten." 

"Who's this woman, Manon Roland?" 

"Roland? Don't know anybody by that 


"The woman you were asking questions 
about over the 'phone." 

"So her name was Roland!" 

"Ah 1 right; we'll come back to her again. 
You used to travel alone. Why did you 
hook up? Pals always blow." 

"No man is perfect. Come to my room 
and I'll turn the stuff over to you." Mathi- 
son wondered what it was he had stolen. 
"You'll never find it without my help. You 
and I alone. Is it a bargain?" 



'Til look you over first." 

" Here's his gat, Murphy," said the house 

Murphy thrust the automatic in his 
pocket without comment. He ran his keen 
glance over the prisoner. "Hold out your 
hands, fingers spread; I want to look at 
them. That's the way. Now turn your 
face toward the light. Uh-huh. You ad- 
mit you are 'Black' Ellison?" 

"Yes." Anything to get back into the 

"All right. I'll go up with you for the 
swag. But walk carefully. I'm excitable 
by nature." 

"Better take me along," urged the house 
detective. He was anxious to be in the 
newspapers on the morrow. 

"You folks stay right where you are, 
I'm running this. Step along, Mr. Ellison." 

Murphy pushed Mathison toward the 
door. The two crossed the lobby to the 
elevator and were shot up to the third 

"I'll be right at your elbow, so play it 
straight. There's something about your 
hurry that interests me, bo." 

Mathison rushed to the door, unlocked 



it and pushed it in violently. He sent a 
lightning glance about the room and leaned 
dizzily against the door-jamb. 

"For the love o' Mike, they never told 
me you'd put up a scrap like this!" 

"I didn't put up any scrap," said Mathi- 
son, dully. 

" What's hit this room, then an earth- 

"A typhoon." 

Malachi was all right, but the waste- 
basket was empty. 


MATHISON accepted the blow quietly. 
He had the air of a spent athlete, 
but that was all. He was a good loser. 
To have rushed about, sending out alarms, 
advising the Secret Service, all would have 
been a waste of time. The damage was 
complete, irremediable. Beaten that was 
the word; he knew it. 

Havoc! The bedding was strewn across 
the floor, mattress and bolster; the pillows 
had been shaken from their cases. All the 
drawers in the bureau and commode had 
been pulled out and their paper linings 
tossed about. The two kit-bags had been 
slashed completely across and their entire 
contents scattered. Even the pockets of 
the coats and trousers had been turned 
inside out. Nothing had escaped. 

Beaten! Until to-night he had had a 
perfect defense. He tried to reach back to 
analyze the cause which had emboldened 



him to leave the security of the car, but 
it wasn't reachable. The want of sleep? 
The craving for exercise? Mere bewilder- 
ment? He couldn't solve it; just one of 
those moves which continue to render 
human beings fallible. Why hadn't he left 
the envelope in the safe? What idiocy had 
inveigled him to carry it to his room? 
A lone hand. He had tried the superhuman. 
One trained mind against three or four 
trained minds, and the odds had been too 
great. He had left the realm of absolute 
mathematics for the impositive, chance, 
with this tragic result. 

With infinite care he had contrived a 
web; so had they. They had broken through 
his, and now he found himself in theirs. 
Flight. They would be gone like the winds. 
They had done something more than beaten 
him at the game; they had shattered his 
self-confidence. Doubt ; all his future moves 
would be under the shadow of doubt. 
Should he do this, or should he do that, or 
should he ask advice? The commander 
of a destroyer should have supreme confi- 
dence in himself; and at present it did not 
look as if John Mathison would go abroad 
with that. He might re-establish this qual- 



ity, but only by passing successfully through 
some vital conflict. 

Hallowell! Old Bob Hallowell! It was as 
if he had broken faith with his friend. 

"Mat! . . . Malachi!" 

Thunderstruck, Mathison jumped to his 
feet, while Murphy, the detective, looked 
wildly about for the third man. Mathison 
seized him by the arm. 

"For God's sake, hush! Be still! It's that 
little green bird." 

"Mat! . . . Malachi!" It was the same 
wailing accent of that dreadful night in 
Manila. It was Hallowell himself speak- 

Malachi, tremendously agitated, was 
climbing up to his swing and down to his 
perch. The incredible had happened. Sug- 
gestion. Once before the bird had wit- 
nessed a confusion in the making, something 
like this. 

"Mat! . . . Malachi!" he wailed. 

Then came a jumble of phrases in poly- 
glot, sailors' oaths, scraps of Hindustani 
and Spanish. But after a few minutes he 
began to mutter in parrakeetese. That 
peculiar cell in Malachi 's head had closed 
up again. Mathison urged and coaxed in 



vain. Malachi rolled his yellow eyes and 
continued to mutter. The irony of it lay 
in the fact that his fear had subsided. 
Wasn't this his master? 

"Well, I be damn!" exploded Murphy. 
"A talking parrot! Say" wrathfully 
"why did you give me that bunk about 
being Ellison?" 

" Quickest way I could get back to this 
room. All this was accomplished while they 
were holding me down-stairs." 

"A frame-up! I knew the moment you 
held out your hands that you weren't 
Ellison. The forefinger of his right hand is 
missing. Look at those grips! Bo, what 
did you have?" 

"They got it." 

"All right. Come on. I'll send out a 
general alarm. We'll run a comb over the 
town. Off your train, too, I'll gamble. 
Get a move on!" 

"Thanks, Mr. Murphy; but it wouldn't do 
a bit of good. The damage is done. And ten 
to one they've already boarded a freight." 

"Going to let 'em put it over without a 

The thing they took was valuable only 
so long as it remained in my possession. 



The Chinese have a saying you can't pour 
water into a shattered jar." 

"Are you trying to get my goat?" 

"No. I'm stating bald facts." 

"You're a queer kind of a guy. What 
was it, a diamond toothpick?" Murphy 
began to wander around the room. "A 
frame-up, and a bully one. The only way 
they could get you out of this room for a 
while until your identity was established. 
Why didn't you set up a holler?" 

Mathison shook his head and sat down. 
"Am I your prisoner?" 

"Prisoner my eye! Only, I'm naturally 
a curious cuss. Crook stuff?" 

"Not in the sense you mean." 

"Would it do any good to arrest them?" 

"You couldn't arrest them." 

"The heU I couldn't! What are they, 
pro-Germans from that dear Chicago?" 


"Well, I'U nose about." 

"It won't do you any good." 

"You don't know this Roland woman?" 

"Never saw her before in my life." 

'Then you saw her?" quickly. 

"Go ahead and see what you can find," 
said Mathison, curtly. 



The infernal beauty of her! It would 
haunt him as long as he lived. The strength 
of those beautiful hands! This havoc all in- 
side of an hour! Mathison lighted his pipe. 

Murphy did not touch anything. He 
seemed to be thinking rather than observ- 
ing. By and by he went to the window, 
opened it, and stepped outside. He was 
absent perhaps ten minutes. He came 
back, stamped the snow from his shoes, and 
put away the pocket-lamp. 

"Find anything?" 

"You're not much on the gab-fesfc, are 
you?" said Murphy, amiably. "Two 
women! One of 'em wore arctics and the 
other sandals; and the one with the sandals 
wrecked the place ! Bo, was it love-letters 
divorce stuff? Good-lookers?" 

"There was only one woman," wearily. 

"Two. My job is noticing things. When 
I say that two women went up and down that 
fire-escape I know what I'm talking about." 

Mathison shrugged. It wasn't worth 
while arguing. 

"The woman with the arctics came first, 
then the woman with the sandals. While 
the latter was in the room tidying up 
things the other was hiding behind the fire- 



escape stairs. Easy on a night like this 
with the snow high on the steps. All in the 
tracks as plain as the nose on your face. 
Arctics came from the room below; sandals 
got out of the parlor." 

Mathison listened politely. "Very in- 
teresting; all in the tracks." He had de- 
termined not to dissent. The man had a 
right to his theories; but it happened that 
John Mathison knew all the facts. 

"Bo, this is queer business," said the 
detective. "What you've lost don't seem 
to curl your hair any. Love-letters! The 
fool woman is always writing them and then 
bawling to heaven to get them back. . . . For 
the love o' Mike, what's this? Is this coat 


"You are an officer in the United States 

"I am." 

"Well, well! Now there's some reason 
to all these fireworks. War stuff!" 

"You might caU it that." 

"Need any help?" 

"You might tell them in the office to send 
up two pairs of shoe-strings and a leather- 
punch. I'll have to patch up those bags." 



Murphy pushed back his hat. "Well, 
I'll be tinker-dammed!" Then he laughed. 
"I'd like to play poker with you. Two 
pairs of shoe-strings! That'll kill 'em cold 
in the office. They'll think I've forgotten 
my handcuffs. War stuff! No use asking 
you what it was the woman took." 


"Well, it's your funeral." 

"Exactly. And when you order the 
shoe-strings you might send out for an 
oak wreath with a purple ribbon." 

"Glad you struck the town. There 
wasn't even a movie to-night. Bo, I'll give 
you all the help I can without asking ques- 
tions. I know a fighting-man when I see 
him. A fighting-sailor with a talking par- 
rot! Well, I'll shoot that order for the shoe- 
strings. And when the bird began to talk I 
thought there was some one else in the room !" 

"There was," said Mathison, in an odd 

"Huh? Spirits? You don't look like a 
man who would waste any time with the 
ouija-board. Well, here's for the shoe- 
strings and the punch." 

When the clerk received the order he 
made the sender repeat it. 

12 169 


"Shoe-strings!" he yelled. 

"What now?" demanded the house de- 
tective, surlily. 

"Murphy wants two pairs of shoe-strings 
and a leather-punch! I tell you, the whole 
house has gone bug. You run up. Murphy's 
been hypnotized or he has had a punch of 
dope. Here, boy; run down to the Mace- 
donian shoeblack and get two pairs of shoe- 
strings and a punch. Hustle!" 

"Shoe-strings!" Michaels the house de- 
tective ran for the elevator. But when he 
reached room 320 he was told emphatically 
through the door to take his bonehead 
down-stairs again. "Cahoots!" he mur- 
mured. And all the rest of his life he was 
going to hold to the belief that Ellison and 
Murphy had divided up the loot. 

At eleven o'clock Mathison and Detec- 
tive Murphy came down into the lobby. 
Murphy carried the parrot-cage. There 
was a grin on his face as he left the 
elevator, but it vanished as he neared the 

"My bill," said Mathison. He had de- 
cided to return to the train. 

"What?" The poor clerk stared at Mur- 
phy for the key to this riddle. 



"The bill, the bill! Give the gentleman 
his bill, you dub!" 

In turning, the clerk knocked over the 
desk-telephone. As he stooped to recover 
it he bumped his head against the comer 
of the cashier's cage. When he finally pre- 
sented the bill he was a total wreck. 

"Was it ... ?" he faltered. 

"No, it wasn't," snapped Murphy. 
"We've all been flimflammed." 

"But those names!" 

"Can't you recognize Jack Barrymore 
when you see him? He's traveling incog." 

"But he said -he was the other fellow!" 

" WeU, Jack likes his joke." 

"I wanted to get back to my room," in- 
terposed Mathison, taking pity on the clerk's 
bewilderment. "There's been a misunder- 
standing all round. Keep the change and 
buy yourself some cigars with it." 

As Mathison and the detective disap- 
peared through the revolving doors the 
clerk turned to the cashier. "Keep your 
eye on things for a while. Pm going out 
and root up a drink. I might understand 
something of this if I was full of hootch." 

When Mathison and the detective entered 
the car George the porter was moving about 



sleepily. "What's de mattah wid dat hotel?" 
he demanded, reproachfully. 

"Too much excelsior, George, and not 
enough feathers." 

"Well, I had de bed made up, case yo' 
did come back. . . . Lan' sakes, what's hap- 
pened t' dem satchels?" 

"The chef ran amuck with the cleaver," 
explained Murphy, owlishly. He turned to 
Mathison. "Here's that cannon of yours. 
Take care of yourself. Gee! if you were a 
crook and I was chasing you, what a lot of 
fun we'd have!" 

"Thanks for the compliment." Truth- 
fully, I had expected to spend the night in 

The porter's ears twitched. 

The two men shook hands, and Mathison 
vanished behind the door of his compart- 
ment. George eyed the door speculatively. 
Jail. He tiptoed to No. 2 and knocked. 

"What is it?" came through the crack. 

"He's come back!" George whispered. 


TV /T ATHISON undresseed slowly. He was 
iVl still hypnotized to a certain extent 
by the several amazing events of the night. 
From the shadowy corners of the compart- 
ment the woman's face persisted in appear- 
ing, now in all its warm loveliness, now in 
terror, and again like chiseled marble. It 
would be a long time before he would be able 
to stamp out completely the impression. It 
did not seem possible that any woman could 
be so lovely outside and so ugly within. The 
venom in her glance, just before she stepped 
out of the window! 

The thought of Hallowell hurt more than 
anything else. Unavenged! Bob would lie 
in his island grave unavenged. But before 
God, he, John Mathison, would take a 
double tithe from the Hun. No mercy. 
Never would he hear the word Kamerad. 
Soon the number on his free-board would 
spell Terror. 



He uncovered Malachi and knelt beside 
the cage. "Mat! . . . Malachi!" he said. 
"Mat! . . . Malachi!" But the only sign 
from the bird was a ruffling of the neck and 
topknot feathers, a quick dilation of his yel- 
low eyes. Two or three minutes earlier in 
getting into that room, while the bird's 
fright was at full! No way to make 
him understand; he was only a parrakeet, 
an echo. "Mat! . . . Malachi!" It was 
Bob calling; the little bird was only an 

Suddenly Mathison stood up, his face 
eager. A real idea! And it never would 
have entered his head but for the startling 
revelation of what suggestion might ac- 
complish. If the woman's tempestuous 
actions had awakened the bird's recollec- 
tion, what might a reconstruction of the 
crime do? Men apparently in desperate 
conflict, tables and chairs threshed about, 
tumult, cries! How would these react 
upon Malachi's memory? 

Of course no jury would convict a man 
of a crime upon evidence furnished by a 
talking parrakeet; but if, by reconstructing 
the tragedy, Malachi could be made to 
repeat the name Hallowell had called out, 



it would serve to give the authorities a 
handhold. Trust them to dig up the truth 
eventually. For Mathison was obsessed 
with the idea that Hallowell had spoken 
a name for Malachi to repeat. 

Sleep the lack of sleep. They never 
would have gotten to him but for the craving 
to sleep. He had gone into the town feel- 
ing as keen mentally as ever, and his keen- 
ness had been only superficial. He had 
sought the open without any definite cam- 
paign. Want of sleep. His flesh and bones 
had been crying out for sleep, and his brain 
stifling the call. Patience. They had had 
a little more than John Mathison. 

To-night, however, he would satisfy the 
craving. There would be no more sleep- 
fumes or pistol-shots or turning door-knobs. 

By one o'clock the car Mercutio was as 
silent as the tomb of Romeo's friend. 

Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap. 

Mathison was asleep, but as yet he had 
not conquered that subconscious alertness 
of the mind. The sound, light as it was, 
awoke him. The porter's signal. Mathi- 
son buried his head deeper into the pillow. 

Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap. 

" What's wanted?" he called, irritably. 



There was no answer. The tapping was 
not repeated. 

He was too drunk with sleep to get the 
real significance. He turned over and fell 
asleep again instantly. He came out of 
this leaden slumber at seven. The train 
was moving, having made up two hours in 
the makeshift schedule. The storm out- 
side had lost but little of its vigor. He 
bathed and dressed and rang for the porter. 

"Have the waiter bring me grape-fruit, 
oatmeal, and coffee." 

"Yes, suh." 

"What time will we make New York, if 
this keeps up?" 

"About six-thutty." 

"Did you rap about one o'clock?" 

"No, suh." 

"You didn't?" 

"No, suh. What's de matter wid dat 
hotel? Dey all comes rampagin' back 
befo' yo' did." 

"Passengers in number two?" 

"Yes, suh." 

"All the passengers returned?" 

"On de Mercutio; yes, suh." The whites 
of George's eyes began to show. 

As for that, so did Mathison's. On board, 



when, logically, they should be miles and 
miles away by this hour, by any means of 
locomotion they could obtain! Here was 
a thundering mystery. 

" George, is there a lady next door?" 

"Yes, suh." 

"Beautiful, with blonde hair?" 

"Hain't seen de lady's face, suh." 

"Sable coat?" 

George nodded. He pushed back his 
cap. "Boss, I oughtn't t j tell yo'; but de 
man in two is a Secret Service man, an' he's 
goin' t' jump yo' de minute we gits int' New 
York State. 'Tain't none o' my business 
whut yo' done, but I'd kind o' like to give 
yo' a chance t' beat it. Ef yo' say so, I 
can open de trap befo' we gits int' Buffalo 
an' slip yo' out." 

"George, you're a top-hole! But how 
did you learn that this man is a Secret 
Service agent?" 

"He done show me de ca'd signed by 

"Describe him." 

"Big, hair pale yelluh, nice-lookin' an' 

Mathison wondered if he wasn't asleep. 
With the manila envelope and the red book 



in their possession, they were still on the 
train! What had happened? 

"The man has been asking you questions 
about me?" 

"Yes, suh. Count o' dat ca'd I had t' 

"How does he spend his time?" 

"Playin' auction wid two friends. Dey's 
Secret Service, too," George added, gloomily. 

Four of them. And the three men had 
taken turns, all the way across the conti- 
nent, in keeping him awake; bribed this 
porter, too, to keep tabs and report. Until 
his encounter with The Yellow Typhoon, 
Mathison had had no real idea of the num- 
ber or the descriptions of his pursuers. But 
still on board ! That was confounding. It 
wasn't logical. . . . He stiffened. To kill 
him, now that he could identify the woman? 
To swing him off into the dark before he 
could get his forces together. There was 
logic in that. He smiled at the porter. 

"George, I've an idea there must be a 
case of mistaken identity in all this. They 
mistook me at the hotel last night. There 
was a row, and I came back." 

George shifted his cap to his right ear 
and stared briefly at the slashed kit-bags. 


"If I'd have been the man they thought 
I was I wouldn't be here." 

George straightened his cap. There was 
something in this explanation that pleased 

"Has the Secret Service man asked my 

"No, suh." 

"Just as I thought. He's sure I'm the 
man; just as they were sure at the hotel. 
Well, I sha'n't worry. Everything will be 
explained when I reach the Waldorf. You 
might drop him the hint I'm going there. 
It will save a lot of trouble. But of course 
it wouldn't be wise for him to know I told 
you to tell him.' 7 

"I undahstan', suh." 

"Then I'll have my breakfast." 

On the wall-hook in compartment 6 hung 
a beautiful rose-kimono. There are thou- 
sands upon thousands of these lovely robes. 
They look exactly alike until you examine 
them, and then you note that they differ 
as roses themselves differ. 

In compartment 2 there was also a rose- 
kimono. It was wrapped about the grace- 
ful body of The Yellow Typhoon. She 



wound a veil about her head, dropping it 
to the tip of her nose. Then she picked up 
her dress, her toilet-bag, and started off for 
the ladies' dressing-room. There wasn't 
room to dress in the compartment, as the 
berths had not been made up. She had 
slept through the major part of the day. 
She floated past compartment 6, the door 
of which was slightly ajar. It had been 
slightly ajar ever since the departure from 

Fifteen minutes later George, the porter, 
heard the buzzer. Passenger in 6 was 
calling. He hurried off. It was George's 
trysting-hour. Tips. 

"The luggage to the trap, please. We 
wish to leave instantly the train stops at 
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street." 


"I note that you wear a Liberty Bond 

" Yes'm. Got two." 

'Then you are a good American?" 

"I sho' is, ma'am." 

"Very well, then. Here is a box. After the 
train leaves One Hundred and Twenty-fifth 
Street, you will give this box to the gentle- 
man in compartment one. I am trusting 



you because I have to. It is military. If 
you fail to deliver it you betray your coun- 
try, and in that case woe to you! He will 
ask you who gave it to you. You will tell 
him the lady in compartment two/' 

"Yes'm!" George's tongue had grown 
suddenly and mysteriously thick and dry. 

" And here is something for your trouble." 

It was a gold note for fifty dollars. 
George's brain became nearly as dry as his 
tongue. Even as he folded the bill and 
tucked it into a pocket the train began to 
slow down. He swooped up the luggage 
and staggered out into the corridor, where 
he was obliged to hug the partition to per- 
mit the lady coming out of the dressing- 
room to pass. The train stopped. He 
helped the two women to alight, dumped 
the luggage, and jumped aboard, dropping 
the trap and running back to the vacant 
compartment for the mysterious box. 
Military! His brain was as full of kinks as 
his wool. But there was one clear idea in 
his head nothing could prevent him de- 
livering this box to the man in compart- 
ment 1. 

"Fo' de Ian' sakes!" he murmured. "Ef 
dat lady 'ain't went an' fo'got de kimono!" 



With the mysterious box under one arm 
and the rose-kimono under the other, he 
sallied forth. 

Meanwhile, on the platform of the One 
Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station, 
there was enacted a scene of tenderness and 
animation. The woman who had forgotten 
her kimono rushed into the arms of another 
woman, statuesque, white-haired. Her face, 
alight with joy, was beautiful; but there was 
a subtle hint that in repose it would be 

"My Hilda! My Hilda!" She spoke in 
an alien tongue. 

" Darling mother!" in the same tongue. 

A dapper little man with a Semitic cast 
of countenance began to dance about the 

* ' Here, here. Stop that lingo ! It sounds 
too much like German, and we'll be held 
up. Mother Nordstrom, you must remem- 

"Nonsense, Sammy!" cried the daughter. 
'You're always such a fussy old dear! 
Glad to see me?" 

"I should say yes! But come along. 
We've no time to waste." 

The quartet which included the Breton 



maid were soon in the comfortable limou- 
sine below. 

"My !" said the dapper little man. " You're 
big medicine to these eyes! Always Johnny 
on the spot. You're the only woman of the 

"It was a narrow squeak this time. 
Wrecks, delays, snow, and all that." 

"How do you feel?" anxiously. 



"Never doubt it! ... New York! . . . 
Home! The glorious noise of it! The mag- 
nificent hurry! . . . Where are we going to 

"Theater. Everything's ready in the 
office. You'll have half an hour to doze in. 
No new people to confuse you; old cast 
complete. House sold out week in advance. 
The whole town is on its toes to see you. 
I am a brute to force you on to-night, with- 
out any rest; but you were due three days 
ago. And say! when I got that cable I 
swore. Never heard of such a thing. And 
it turned out to be the most original stunt 
of the winter. The town swept clean of 
your photographs and lithos, the papers 
agreeing not to run Sunday cuts; not even 



a tintype in the lobby. And the whole 
town is crazy to know why. Some little 
advertising stunt, believe me ! Nothing in 
town but your name on three-sheets and 
small bills. Hereafter you boss your own 
publicity campaigns." 

A dry little smile stirred the lips of the 

"Sarah," said the mother to the Breton 
maid, "have you taken good care of my 

"She's been a trump, mother!" inter- 
rupted the daughter. 

"But she looks as if she had been ill." 

"No, madame . . . the journey . . ." Two 
faces, thought the maid, so alike that only 
the good God Himself might distinguish 
one from the other! 

Her mistress leaned back and closed her 
eyes. The train would be in the tunnel 
now and the box in Mathison's hands. 
What would be his wonder? She could 
only imagine. But she knew that to him 
she was The Yellow Typhoon, the Snow- 
leopard, the gambling woman of the Honan 

In a little while all these momentous 
events would become a vague memory to 



him. He would shortly be busy with the 
problems of active warfare. He would 
never know that a guardian-angel had been 
at his elbow for days. How easy it was to 
visualize him! sitting on the deck beside 
her chair, that funny little green bird cling- 
ing to his shoulder! And then that night, 
when he told her of his promise to his moth- 
er. ... The tenderness of his voice! "Ami 
a mollycoddle?" He had asked her that in 
all seriousness. . . . Boy! 

His puzzlement would be large for a while ; 
and out of the chaff of speculation he would 
find the grain of fact : The Yellow Typhoon, 
to save herself, had betrayed her compan- 
ions. Thus Berta would escape prison, 
perhaps death. 

Irony! The same ancient story Hilda, 
sacrificing herself for Berta, now as always; 
throwing away what might have been hap- 
piness to prevent the ghost from re-enter- 
ing the life of the white-haired woman at her 
side. And she was practically turning Berta 
loose in New York, where she would be likely 
to draw a stain across a stainless life. Berta, 
free, there would soon be strange tales 
afloat, and each and every one of them 
would be credited to Norma Farrington. 

13 185 


No matter, so long as the truth could be 
kept from the mother. The mockery of the 
grave in Greenwood! 

An infinitesimal clue: she had left that 
because she would not have been human 
else. There would be one chance in a 
million of his understanding. A little green 
feather Malachi's which she had picked 
off the deck one morning. She had hidden 
it in the little red book. He would find it, 
but he would not understand. A miracle, 
nothing short of that; and this was not the 
day of miracles. . . . Good-by! 

As the train drew out of One Hundred 
and Twenty-fifth Street station the blond 
man returned to No. 2, where he found his 
companion completely dressed and waiting. 
She was heavily veiled. 

"Where's the keys?" 

"Your keys? Oh, there they are. on the 

"What was it you wanted?" 

"Wanted?" The woman raised the veil 
above her lips. "I haven't wanted any- 

"But you came and got my keys!" 

"I ... what? I don't know what you 



are talking about. I went directly to the 
dressing-room and came straight back." 

"Berta, what nonsense is this? You came 
for the keys and I gave them to you. 
Wittel and Franz saw you." 

"Karl, you certainly did not!" alarmed. 

The man stared at her for a space. Then 
swiftly he knelt before his kit-bag, opened 
it and rammed his hand to the bottom, 
plowing about. 

"Gott!" he whispered, his color fading. 

"What has happened?" 

"Gone! . . . You devil, what game are you 
up to?" he cried, springing up. "I warned 
you once never to play with me. Where is 

"Are you mad or am !?...! haven't 
touched that bag. ... I will kill you if you 
lay a hand on me! Some one has tricked 
you. Call the porter." 

"Furies of hell! I saw you! The rose- 
kimono; it was you!" 

"Karl, I tell you it was not I! We have 
been tricked. Call the porter." 

The man opened the door furiously and 
bumped into George, who was sailing airily 
along the corridor. 

"Come in here!" 



George did not like the tone, but he 

"What's that under'your arm?" demand- 
ed the woman. 

" Kimono. Lady in number six done got 
off an' fo'got it." 

The woman seized it. "Karl, don't you 
see? It is so nearly like mine it would fool 
any one! . . . Porter, what was this woman 

"Can't say, ma'am. Always wo' a veil. 
Boss, dat young man nex' do' is goin' t' 
de Waldorf. I'll be back in a minute fo' 
de grips an' de kimono." 

George backed out diplomatically. He 
did not like the flavor of the atmosphere; too 
electrical. Besides, he had a box to deliver. 
He was plumb in the middle of the war. 

"Berta, I don't understand this. I saw 
you! Franz and Wittel will back me!" 

With the kimono spread over her knees, 
The Yellow Typhoon frowned into space. 

' ' Some spy. Saw me somewhere, perhaps 
back in that hotel. You were playing cards; 
your scrutiny wouldn't be keen. A bit of 
court-plaster, a veil, and this kimono ..." 

'[The full face, Berta. . . . Fours/" 



Mathison had donned his uniform, his 
greatcoat, packed his kit-bags, and drawn 
the cotton-flannel bag over Malachi's cage. 
On his breast was pinned the bit of green 
ribbon. Presently he heard the signal on 
the door. George came in. 

"A box fo' yo', suh. . . . My Ian'!" he 
broke off. 

"What's the matter?' 7 asked Mathison, 
eying the box curiously. 

"Dem regimentals! Is yo' an officer in 
de navy?" 

" Yes, George. What's this box? Where 
did you get it?" 

George jerked his thumb toward the 

"The woman next door?" 

"Yes, suh!" 

"She gave it to you for me?" astonished 
beyond measure. 

"Yes, suh." 

Mathison rubbed his chin. It might be 
some infernal-machine. Still, it had to be 
opened. With the lightest touch he untied 
the string. With a slow, steady pull he 
drew off the cover. Hypnotized, he stared 
at the contents. A manila envelope, a little 
red book . . . and a folded blue-print! 



'"THERE are some astonishments which 
1 cannot be translated verbally. So 
great was Mathison's that he could neither 
think nor move. The aftermath of a 
thunderbolt affects you like that. When a 
certain phase of the hypnosis passed, and 
Mathison began to get the hang of life 
again, he became conscious of the porter. 
He drew out a bill and presented it. 

"Thanks. Uncle Sam will be very grate- 
ful to you. Any idea what was in this box?" 

"De lady said it was military, suh." 

Mathison nodded. "The man next door, 
George, is not a Secret Service man. I'd 
like to tell you all about it, but the time is 
too short. By telling him that I'm going 
straight to the Waldorf you will be doing 
your Uncle Sam an extra service." 

"I told him, Cap'n." 

"Good! Send a redcap in when the train 
stops. Good-by and good luck." 



Mathison closed the door and locked it. 
The little red book he slipped into an inner 
pocket, the manila envelope he dropped into 
one of the kit-bags. What he did with the 
blue-print will be revealed at the proper 
moment. Then he sat down, his brain 
beginning to boil with questions. By and 
by he came to what he believed to be the 
solution of this miracle. The Yellow Ty- 
phoon was afraid. She had betrayed her 
companions because she saw immunity in 
the betrayal. She would never receive it 
from John Mathison, Bob Hallowell's friend! 
She, too, should pay. All the cards in his 
hand again, and he would play them on the 
basis that the phrase "blood and iron" was 
not pertinent to the Teuton only. 

For what had been the primal impetus of 
this remarkable journey of ten thousand 
miles, of hiding continually behind steel 
walls, of refusing to take profit from the 
vast power at his service? An eye for an 
eye, a tooth for a tooth! That he was a 
secret agent, carrying a tremendous unde- 
veloped sea-offensive which he still had 
by the hair was to his mind, obsessed with 
a single idea, an affair of secondary impor- 



Draw the hand strongly across the sur- 
face of the water. What happens? A 
wave, that follows irresistibly, fatefully, 
inescapably. This was, then, primarily a 
man-hunt, played backward, probably as 
peculiar a man-hunt as was ever conceived. 
The pursuers were in reality the pursued. 
Being a good psychologist, Mathison had 
simply put himself back of his enemies' 
point of view. In their minds, who would 
be the logical messenger? John Mathison, 
transferred to European waters, the familiar 
friend of the inventor, the one man living 
who knew exactly what the invention in its 
entirety was. This established in their 
minds, there were ninety-nine chances in a 
hundred that they would follow him. And 
there was always the possibility that Paolo, 
the Spanish servant, had conveyed enough 
scraps of information to decide them. 

Had he been only vaguely certain that 
they carried the blue-print, Mathison would 
have used his power and struck immediately 
after the sleep-fume attack the first night 
on shore. But, he had argued, supposing 
he struck and the print was not found? 
They would be liberated; forewarned, they 
would vanish. He hadn't credited them 



with the stupidity of carrying so dangerous 
a thing as that blue-print. In their place 
he would have mailed it from San Fran- 
cisco, with absolute certainty that it would 
reach the hands intended. There was no 
censorship over national mail. And now 
that the print was in his possession, he never 
could prove that it had actually been in 

For the real point was to secure evidence, 
of which to date he had not an iota, not 
such as would pass muster in any court out- 
side of Germany. To have the blond man 
and his companions arrested as matters now 
stood would be a waste of time. So his 
whole plan was to lure them to a point where 
the hand of the law could touch and hold. 
An overt act, culpable legally. And The 
Yellow Typhoon herself had restored the 

There was still one puzzle the woman's 
lack of curiosity. She had not opened the 
envelope. Had she declared to the blond 
man that she had not found it? It would 
not be stating it strong enough to say that 
she was the most baffling woman he had 
ever met; he had never read of one her 



At length Mathison and redcap swung 
along with the crowd making for the 
gates. Just beyond the gates Mathison 
signaled to the redcap to pause. He felt a 
hand on his arm, but he did not turn his 

" Mathison?" came in a whisper. 

"Yes. The blond man with the ruddy 
cheeks. The woman behind him in the 
sables. Follow and report to your chief." 
Mathison went on. 

Quarter of an hour later he entered the 
Waldorf. This time he seemed indifferent 
to the kit-bags. The boy deposited them 
along with the cage in front of the desk. 
Mathison signed the register, opened one of 
the kit-bags, and took out the manila en- 
velope, which, before leaving the Philippines, 
he had been warned solemnly to guard with 
his life. 

" Please deposit this in your safe and give 
me a receipt." Mathison spoke calmly, but 
his heart pounded with suppressed excite- 
ment. Carelessly, in view of any who cared 
to see, he stuffed the receipt into the little 
pocket at the top of his trousers. Then he 
went up to his room. He set Malachi on 
a stand by the radiator. He emptied the 



kit-bags and distributed the contents into 
drawers and closets. 

Afraid. The Yellow Typhoon was afraid ! 
Or was it Hallo well! a touch of remorse? 

He sat down and opened the little red 
book for some addresses Morgan had given 
him. And something fluttered to his knee. 
It was a blue-green feather, brilliant as an 
emerald. Malachi's; he was always finding 
Malachi's feathers. But the sight of this 
one recalled a promise he had made him- 
self to call up Mrs. Chester's apartment. 
If he had to sail before she returned, he 
would leave Malachi with the apartment 
people. So he stuffed the feather absently 
into his match-pocket. Later he sent many 
messages over the telephone. 

He felt in his pockets for his fountain-pen 
and, not finding it, remembered that he 
hadn't taken it from the vest of his civilian 
suit. Naturally, he went through all the 
pockets, and among other things came upon 
a folded slip of glazed paper. He opened it. 

Several minutes passed. Mathison was 
like stone. Norma Farrington. He saw 
now why the photograph had originally 
intrigued him. It resembled Morgan's de- 
scription of the woman known as The Yel- 



low Typhoon! . . . Absurd! It was not with- 
in reason. Some twist, some legerdemain 
the photograph had given it. The shad- 
ows; these had something to do with 
it. Norma Farrington, The Yellow Ty- 
phoon? The absurdity was patent. The 
notorious woman of Honan Road could not 
possibly be a celebrity on Broadway. Too 
many miles between. 

He sprang to the telephone. ''Give me 
the theater-ticket agency. . . . Hello! Is 
Norma Farrington playing in town? . . . She 
is? . . . What theater? . . . Thanks!" Mathi- 
son got out the little red book with trem- 
bling fingers. He rang up a number. "This 
is Mathison, the green ribbon. What's the 
report on the woman in the sables? . . . All 
right. I'll hold the wire." Five minutes 
passed. " Hello! . . . Entered a house in 
Fiftieth Street? Fine!" Mathison con- 
sulted the time; it was seven-fifty. _ 

He became a whirlwind. He flew^down- 
stairs and plunged toward the revolving 


The vehicle was forthcoming instantly, 
due to his visored cap, gold bands, and star. 
He jumped into the taxi, naming a theater 



up-town. He paid a speculator five dollars 
for the only seat left Q, center. As he 
was late, he had to navigate through chan- 
nels of reluctant feet. Norma Farrington! 
He had only one idea with four sides to it 
something complete. 

The footlights flashed. When the curtain 
rolled up there were three people on the 
stage no one he had ever seen before. 
They moved about and talked. Occasion- 
ally a ripple of laughter ran over the house. 
But none of these things meant anything 
to Mathison. He was not conscious of a 
word that was spoken or the significance of a 
single movement. 

There were four entrances to this stage 
living-room, and Mathison grew dizzy try- 
ing to watch all four at once. At eight- 
forty, through the French window you 
saw a charming garden beyond came a 
woman in gray. Her expression was de- 
mure mischievously demure. The audi- 
ence broke into applause. Tense, Mathison 
strained his ears. 

Outside the blond man waited with the 
patience of his breed. His glance never 
left the entrance to the theater. 


S soon as the curtain fell Mathison 
stood up and plowed his way out to the 
aisle. Once in the aisle, he rushed to the 
foyer, where he demanded the way to the 
managerial office. His uniform was open 

The producing manager, a dapper, bright- 
eyed Jew, happened to be in, and he was 
outlining a campaign for his press agent 
when Mathison burst in. 

"I am Lieutenant - Commander John 
Mathison," he announced, a bit out of 
breath for his run up the stairs. 

" What's the difficulty?" asked the man- 
ager, coolly. "Anchor afoul my unlighted 

Mathison laughed. He understood at 
once that here was a good sport. "Pardon 
my abruptness," he apologized. "I'd like 
to use your telephone." 

The manager waved his hand. He heard 
Mathison's side of the conversation. 



"Mathison. What's the report from 
Fiftieth Street? . . . The woman still inside? 

Thanks No, that's all." Mathison hung 

up the receiver dreamily. 

"What's happened?" asked Rubin, ironi- 
cally. "Have we sunk the German fleet?" 

"We are going to," said Mathison. "I 
want a messenger the quickest way I can 
get him." 

"War stuff?" thrilled in spite of his re- 
sentment at the intrusion. Rubin was an 
autocrat in the theatrical world. 

"Well, I don't believe you'd call it that. 
I want to get some flowers." 

The manager sank back. "You sailors! 
I thought maybe a submarine was loose 
outside!" He was going to add a sting, 
when a boot came into contact with his 
shin, a sign that the alert press agent had 
something on his mind. "Flowers!" 

"I have come ten thousand miles to send 
these flowers," replied Mathison, smiling. 

"Get a head usher, Klein," said the mana- 
ger, secretly bubbling. What a humdinger 
for the morning papers ! As the press agent 
vanished, Rubin turned to Mathison. "You 
may send flowers, but not across the lights. 
I will not break that rule for anybody." 



"So long as she gets them. May I write 
a note?" 

The manager got up and indicated his 
chair. " Write as many as you like. I take 
it that the flowers are for Miss Farrington." 

"They are." 

"Do you know her?" curiously. 

"I do." The smile was still on Mathi- 
son's lips. 

" In that case, go ahead. But if it happens 
that she doesn't recall you, your posies will 
go directly to the ash-can. She isn't easy 
to know." 

"I know her," insisted Mathison. 

"I rather wish, though, that you would 
put this off until to-morrow night. Miss 
Farrington will be very tired. She's done 
a fine and generous thing gone on without 
rest, after an unbroken journey from the 
other side of the world." 

"No one is better aware of that than I. 
She will see me." 

Rubin knew confidence when he saw it. 
He twisted his cigar from one corner of his 
mouth to the other. A vigorous, unusual 
chap, this, and handsome enough to wake 
up The Farrington. Ten thousand miles! 

Her aloofness toward men was now ac- 


counted for. An old affair nobody had 
heard of. There was an ominous portent 
in this affair for Broadway. She was the 
loyalest of the loyal; she'd stick to her con- 
tract. But after! 

Mathison settled down to his note. Each 
time he balled up a piece of paper and flung 
it into the waste-basket Rubin frowned. 

The press agent came storming back, an 
usher in tow. The latter was given fifty dol- 
lars and ordered to purchase Parma violets. 

"No tinfoil, no tinsel strings, no bouquet; 
loose, as they came from the soil. Carry 
this note and the flowers to Miss Fairing- 
ton's dressing-room. And here is some- 
thing for your trouble." To the manager 
he said, "Thanks for your courtesy." 

"You're as welcome as the spring." 

"Oh, boy!" cried the press agent as the 
door closed behind Mathison. "In a dead 
world like this! A real yarn, no faking. 
Did you lamp the roll he dragged out? 
That was real money, all yellows. Think 
of it! Our Norma, a navy man, ten 
thousand miles, flowers, a wad of yellows! 
She'll set up a holler. Pass the buck to 
me. I'll be the goat with the cheerfulest 
smile ever!" 

14 201 


"Klein, we sha'n't use this." 
"What?" barked the press agent. 
"No. It's real. This is no Johnny. 
Norma is no chorus beauty. Of course, I 
jumped at the idea, but we'll have to pass 
it up. I wouldn't lose Norma's genuine 
affection for me for a million three-sheets, 
free of charge. No. Lock it up and forget 

"Well, what do you know about that?" 
Mathison returned to his seat, apologiz- 
ing to every one so courteously and agree- 
ably that even the men forgave him. He 
was quite calm now. All incertitude was 
gone; he knew. The Yellow Typhoon was 
in a house in Fiftieth Street, and Norma 
Farrington was yonder on the stage, de- 
lighting his eyes, thrilling his ears. The 
wonder of her! God bless her, she had 
tried to save Bob Hallo well that night! 
And he would never have known but for 
that posed photograph! 

She did not wear any of the flowers in 
the second act, nor in the third; but when 
she came on in the fourth she carried a small 
bouquet in her corsage. She was Joyous- 
ness. It radiated from her into the audi- 
ence. Faces all over the house were beam- 



ing, not with merriment, but with good 

There came a little moment when throats 
became stuffy one of those flashes of 
tenderness whose link is generally laughter. 
When the whole house was watching the 
comedienne tensely, in absolute silence, 
Mathison laughed aloud, joyously! Heads 
swinging resentfully in his direction woke 
him up. His cheeks flushed. 

Doubtless by this time you have formed 
the impression that Mathison had lost his 
compass, that he was drifting, that he had 
forgotten the vital business which had 
brought him all these thousands of miles. 
Nothing could be farther from the truth. 
Ah 1 these little eddies, currents, whirlpools 
were at the sides of the stream, that flowed 
on, impervious, inevitable. 

For a man whose soul was in haste he 
took his time. His movements within the 
theater and outside in the lobby were 
leisurely. On the street he made no effort 
to bore through. But when he reached the 
corner he was off like a shot toward the dark 
alley which led to the stage door. This he 
plunged through recklessly into the arms of 
the ancient Cerberus who tended the door. 



"Outside, outside! The comic opera has 

Mathison presented his card. "Miss 
Farrington is expecting me." 

"Oh, she is, huh? Well, she said nothin' 
to me about it." 

"I'll wait." 

"You're welcome; but in the alley, 
admiral, in the alley. Nobody gits by me 
to-night, comin' in. Orders." 

"I don't suppose ten dollars would in- 
terest you in the least." 

"Not unless I saw it. Honest, now, are 
you meetin' Miss Farrington?" 

"I am. I'll be peaceful, Tirpitz; but 
if you send for the stage-hands, I'm likely 
to shoot up the place." 

"All right. I'll take it in two fives." 

Mathison discovered that he was now 
free to walk about as he pleased, so long 
as he did not amble in the direction of the 
dressing-rooms. He anchored himself by 
the wall, from where he could see all who 
came down the narrow iron staircase. The 
draughty, musty, painty odors were to him 
like perfumed amber from Araby. 

By and by two women came down. They 
went past Mathison without taking any 



notice of him. They were followed shortly 
by a man whom Mathison recognized as 
the conceited ass who made love to Miss 
Farrington in the play. 

A row of lights overhead went out. The 
stage was now in a kind of twilight. I 
wonder if there is a sadder place than a stage 
when the actors have left it to the tender 
mercies of scene-shifters, carpenters, and 
electricians? To Mathison it was only the 
door to Ali Baba's cave. 

At length thirty minutes, to be exact 
a woman came down the stairs slowly. A 
veil was wrapped about her face and hair. 
But Mathison would have recognized that 
sable coat anywhere. He stepped forward 
shakily and took off his cap. 

"I suppose it's still snowing outside?" 

"What we sailors call thick weather." No 
questions; just an ordinary, every-day query 
about the weather. No confusion. u You 
are not afraid to shake hands?" 

"I don't know just what to do." 

"Oh, I'd return the hand." His laughter 
rocked the lurking echoes above. 

And something in that laughter made her 
afraid of him, of herself. 



"Where in the world did you find all 
those violets loose, the way I love them?" 
She did not give him time to answer. "My 
car is at the end of the alley. Where shall 
we go? I'm going to give you a half -hour. 
... I suppose it was written." 
"That I should find you? Yes." 
"I like the way you say that." Had the 
porter betrayed her? And yet the porter could 
not have betrayed anything beyond the fact 
that she, not Berta, had given him that 
box. Some unforeseen stroke of luck; cer- 
tainly not that feather. He was no brother 
to the Cumsean Sibyl. Still, he had found 
her. She was tremendously curious to 
learn how. On the other hand, she was 
determined to ask him no questions and, as 
adroitly as she could, evade his. If he 
persisted, she would cut the meeting short. 
Some day if she ever saw him again she 
would tell him the story. She was too 
weary to-night. She was at once happy 
and miserable; happy because it was as 
though his finding her had been written, 
miserable because the sordid denouement 
might break at any moment. To save 
Berta, not for Berta's sake, but for the 



She knew that she was beautiful, that she 
possessed extraordinary talent in attracting 
men, though she had never used it. She 
knew what power lay in expression, in vocal 
music. She might have made this man 
love her. For if he had not been drawn to 
her through some mysterious forces, why 
had he sought her? Those flowers! There 
were gall and wormwood in this cup, but she 
drank it with a smile. Romance, and she 
must let it go by! 

What had he learned within these four 
short hours? That she was not The Yellow 
Typhoon, certainly. Had there been a 
cable from that man Morgan, after his 
solemn promise? The gray wig and the 
goggles . . . 

"What did you say?" 

"That we had better be moving. You 
take me wherever you think best." 

"Give me your arm. It will be slippery 
in the alley. There's an umbrella hi the 
corner by the door. Take it." 

Outside, he put up the umbrella; and as 
she took his arm she knocked against some- 
thing heavy and hard in his pocket. 

"What is that?" 

"Part of a sailor's paraphernalia." 



"It is not over yet?" with sudden sus- 

"No. There are a few threads that need 
picking up." 

The metal in his voice did not escape her. 
She was puzzled, for, logically, all his land 
adventures should be over. 

It was only a short distance to the res- 
taurant, which was a famous one. 

She selected it tactfully, solely on his ac- 
count. She herself had never been inside 
of it before in the evening. But she knew 
a good deal about men, that even so nice a 
one as this fresh-skinned, blue-eyed sailor- 
man would not object to having his vanity 
played up to. There was another kind of 
thought besides in her mind. The night 
would be far more memorable if there was 
a background of color and movement and 
music. She was weak enough to want him 
always to remember this night. 

The moment she took off her veil and 
coat she was recognized. That is the 
penalty of theatrical fame in New York. 
The head waiter passed the word, and the 
people at the near-by tables stared and 
whispered; and Mathison wouldn't have 
been human if he had not expanded a little 



under this patent interest in his lovely 

How was he to know that the gown she 
wore had been donned expressly for him? 
How was he to know that it had been sent 
for after the arrival of the flowers, or that 
she had worried all through the performance 
for fear her mother would send the wrong one, 
or that it might reach the theater too late? 

Later, Mathison could not have told 
whether she wore green or blue or red. No 
normal man would have paid any attention 
to her gown with her face, her eyes, her 
lips to watch. 

Their orders scandalized the waiter. Miss 
Farrington ordered two apples and Mathi- 
son a bowl of bread and milk. They laughed. 

"That's all I ever eat at night fruit." 

"And I didn't come here to eat," he said. 

About this time the blond m; n, occupied 
by a single idea, entered the restaurant 
lobby, gave his hat and coat to the check- 
boy, then walked out to the curb and ap- 
proached the footman. 

"Dismiss Miss Farrington's limousine. 
She will go home with us." 

"Yes, sir." The footman went down to 
execute the order. 



The blond man waited until he saw the 
gray limousine maneuver out of the line 
and swing into the street; then he returned 
for his hat and coat. The Farrington was 
nothing to him. He had never heard of 
her until to-night. Ordinarily he might 
have been curious enough to have had her 
pointed out. To-night such curiosity might 
dissipate his cleverly conceived plans. Per- 
haps Mathison had not seen him actually. 
Anyhow, he did not intend to risk the future 
to satisfy a curiosity which was only negli- 
gible. If he had looked into that dining- 
room, it is quite possible this tale would 
have had a different ending. As matters 
stood, he had reason to be grateful to the 
actress. She had opened a way for him. 
A man with a pretty woman in his charge 
would not be particularly keen mentally. 

" Did you like the play?" 

Mathison shook his head. 

"You didn't like it?" astonished. 

'Til see it before I sail." 

"Then you weren't in the theater to- 

"Oh yes; in Q. I was the ass who 
laughed out loud when the whole house was 

so still you could have heard a pin drop." 



"You? ... I heard that, and wondered 
what had happened. But if you saw the 
play . . ." 

" That's just the point. I wasn't an 
audience; I was a spectator." 

Something in his eyes, a lurking fire, 
warned her not to press in this direction. 
After all, he had not come to see the play; 
he had come to see her. And the knowledge 
was like the warmth from a wood fire. 

"A sailorman! No doubt a girl in every 

"No." Without vehemence. "The same 
girl in every port, in the fire, in the moon- 
mists; the girl who has been in my heart 
since I was a boy." 

"Oh." A little dagger-stab in her heart. 
"Then you have come back to marry before 
you go across?" 

"Quite likely." 

"Love, marriage, off to the wars! . . . 
What is she like?" 

"Petrol on water." 

She stared blankly. 

"If you have never seen wide spreads of 
petrol on a smooth sea," he explained, 
"then you have missed something inde- 
scribably beautiful. Fire! Dawns, sun- 



sets, moonlight; all the flashing gems in the 
world, moving, circling, advancing, re- 
treating. The soul of a woman should be 
like that." 

"Are you a poet?" 

"Possibly, but inarticulate. I don't know 
one rhyme from another." 

"But poetry isn't rhyme. Your descrip- 
tion of oil on water is poetry." 

He laughed. "If the wardrooms ever 
find that out, I'm done for." The glory 
of her! All his life he had been dreaming 
of an hour like this. 

A pause followed. His utter lack of in- 
quisitiveness intrigued her beyond expres- 
sion. Not a word about how he had found 
her. Not a word about the Adventure. 
Why? What kind of a man was he, that 
he could sit opposite her without deluging 
her with questions? And he had a right to 
know many things. She had given him one 
opening without meaning to the query 
relative to the automatic in his pocket. 
Why hadn't he taken advantage of it?" 

She broke the silence and led him into 
the war; but alter a few phrases he veered 
away from this. He spoke of the snow, how 

he longed for the north country of late, how 



he had grown weary for the need of cold, 
lashing winds and the smell of snow. 

When she could stand it no longer she 
said, "Tell me by what magic you found 

"I'm a queer codger. I have a strange 
memory for sounds. Possibly because I've 
lived much in the open. My leaves were 
generally spent in the jungles. Foliage 
moving I can tell almost instantly whether 
it is the wind or animal life. The same 
with the crackling of a twig. Sometimes 
the recurrence of a sound confuses me. 
There may be some difficulty in placing it. 
But I know I have heard the sound before." 

Then he produced the photograph. She 
stared at it bewilderedly. Sound? What 
was he talking about? 

"You found me by that? But vou did 
not hear that!" 

"Still, it recalled a sound." 

Her glance fell on the photograph again. 
She had forgotten the posing for it. This 
was not the sort of denouement she wanted; 
he had found her quite ordinarily. Yet 
she could not make him out. This was not 
the man she had known on the Nippon 
Maru, the boy who had been like crystal 



or an open book. This was an inscrutable 
stranger, of velvet and steel. 

"I begin to understand," she said. She 
felt the mantle of weariness falling again 
on her shoulders. The hide-and-seek of 
the encounter irked her. Why didn't he 
speak, demand questions, satisfy her curios- 
ity? She was very tired. He would never 
know how much awake she had been on 
that journey. She had walked the car 
corridors at all hours; she had watched for 
Berta to pass the crack in the door until 
the concentration had made her dizzy. She 
was tired, and she hadn't the power to 
resist her own curiosity. She flung open 
Bluebeard's door recklessly. "I begin to 


"Why you were sent on this hazardous, 
mission. You are quite sufficient unto 
yourself. I believed I was doing a fine, 
brave thing." 

" Ah, but it was a fine, brave thing. You 
made it possible for me to go on. Secret 

"It would be useless to deny it." She 
leaned on her elbows, locking her ringless fin- 
gers under her chin. "It's not generally 



known, but I am of Danish stock. I came 
to America when I was very little. I spoke 
no English. There were lean years; yes, 
even poverty. But I had a little talent 
the faculty of making people smile. Not 
all aliens are ungrateful. This is now my 
country. I love it!" Her eyes flashed. 
"It made me all I am, gave me all I have. 
It has been glorious to me. Long ago I 
vowed if ever the chance came I would pay 
back these benefactions with my life if 
need be!" 

Mathison's conduct was logical enough. 
All he had wanted was to see her, hear her 
voice for a little while, get one absolute 
fact, a fact she could not withhold from 
him, being unaware of what he was seek- 
ing. He would satisfy his curiosity, dis- 
perse these mysteries, after his work was 
done. Before this night was over one of 
two things was going to happen. He was 
going to succeed or he was going to be badly 
hurt. He now had a tolerably keen insight 
into the character of this glorious woman. 
She was brave and resourceful. The slight- 
est hint of what was on foot and she might 
seek to intervene, with the best of inten- 
tions, and spoil everything. But day after 



tomorrow when he returned from Wash- 

" It is very wonderful to be here to-night," 
he said. 

After that her heart grew warm again. 
She, too, knew the value of sounds. At 
least he was grateful. That weapon in his 
pocket she longed to ask him about that. 
But a question here might alarm him. He 
must not suspect the plan she had in her 
head. Logically the great adventure was 
at an end; but they may have threatened 
his life. She stood up. 

"I'm a brute!" he cried, contritely. "I 
forgot that you must be weary beyond 

He held the sable coat for her, particu- 
larly careful not to touch her. As she was 
wrapping the veil about her hair and face 
he asked if he might come to tea the day 

"I'll tell you. In a little while I shaU be 
in the thick of it. I may not come back. 
In my room at the hotel I've a little Rajpu- 
tana parrakeet green as an emerald. Fact 
is, he's the only pal I have to-day. He 
hates the sea. May I give him to you?" 

She trembled. "Tome?" Malachi! 



"Yes that is, if you'd like him. He 
talks. Wait." He fumbled about in a 
pocket. "Here's a little feather of his. It 
will give you an idea of what a brilliant color 
he has. May I give him to you?" 

"Yes!" The blood whipped into her 
throat. The girl he saw in every port: 
what about her? Why didn't he offer the 
bird to her? . . . That feather! It wasn't 
humanly possible that he understood and 
was playing with her. 

Truth is he was thousands of miles away 
from the message. But there were other 
roads to Rome ; and he knew what he knew. 

"Then I may come to tea day after to- 

"Yes," She turned away from the table. 
Upon reaching the curb she wheeled upon 
Mathison. "My car!" she cried, dismayed. 

"What's the matter?" 

"It isn't here!" 

Mathison hailed the footman. "What 
has become of Miss Farrington's car?" 

"Why, sir, she gave orders to dismiss it!" 

Mathison returned to Miss Farrington. 
"Some mistake. They've dismissed it." 

"Taxi, sir?" said a man at Mathison's 

15 217 


' ' Yes. Here, Miss Farrington ; j ump into 
this. Day after to-morrow at four. Good 

"But you are coming with me!" 


"I say yes!" 


"Then I'll walk to the Subway four 
blocks. I shall ruin my dress, my shoes, 
and my temper. I am going to take you 
back to the hotel." 

The last place in the world Mathison 
intended going at this hour. The devil 
and the deep blue sea! He was confident 
that she would do just as she threatened 
walk. But this he knew: the moment he 
entered this taxi it would become a trap 
a trap he would jump into with the greatest 
cheerfulness, alone. What to do? He could 
not give her any warning, with the strange 
chauffeur's ear scarcely a foot off. And 
under no circumstances must the blond man 
see Norma Farrington's face this night. 

"A compromise," he said, believing he 
had found a solution to the difficulty. "I'll 
go with you if you will let me take you home 

"Agreed!" she cried, readily. She smiled 



in the dark of the cab. This was exactly 
what she wanted. Once at the apart- 
ment, she would discharge this taxi and 
order one she was tolerably sure of. 

He laughed and sprang into the cab. The 
snow was coming down thickly. Corners 
were dim; the street-lamps hung in a kind 
of pearly twilight. A strange silence fell 
upon them. 

I don't suppose either of them marked 
the turns. Perhaps the impenetrable haze 
had something to do with it. You are not 
ordinarily attracted by nebulous objects. 
Again, it might have been due to the fact 
that they were both fatalists. Suddenly 
the cab stopped with a slewing jerk. The 
door opened. The man who opened it 
presented his arm stiffly. Neither Miss 
Farrington nor Mathison had to be in- 
formed regarding that blue-black bit of 
metal at the end of that arm. She shrank 
back, but not in fear. Her idea was to 
give Mathison all the elbow room he might 

"Step out, both of you, with your hands 
up quickly!" 


"T~"\O what you think best," she mur- 

I J mured across Mathison's shoulder. 
" Please do not consider me at all." 

But Mathison stepped out tamely, his 
hands above his head. She followed, 
slightly chilled. Her arms hung at her side. 
This was not quite as she would have had 
it. Why didn't he attempt to distract the 
man with the automatic arguments, pro- 
tests, threats? There was always a chance. 
She was not afraid of pistol-shots, and he 
ought to know that. Chilled and disap- 
pointed, she stood beside him. 

"The lady will put up her hands also." 
Nothing of the speaker's face could be seen, 
only his pale-blue eyes, which snapped 
frostily over the rim of the black handker- 

"The lady will do nothing of the kind, 
for the obvious reason that the cut of her 

coat will not permit it." 


Mathison tightened his lips. Unafraid! 


The chauffeur jumped down from the 

" Search them for weapons." 

The chauffeur rifled Mathison's pockets, 
and tossed the heavy Colt to his superior. 
Then he seized Miss Farrington by the arm. 
He started to run his free hand over her, 
when she struck his cheek with a lively 

"No man shall touch me like that!" 

Mathison intervened. "Just a moment. 
I'll keep my hands up, but on condition 
that no indignity shall be offered this lady. 
Otherwise you will have to shoot me." 

"No indignity will be offered the lady. 
So far as I am concerned, she does not 
exist. Her word that she is unarmed, and 
no one shall touch her." 

" I give it." A diversion for his sake, and 
he had not taken profit! What was the 
meaning of this singular tameness? 

"March up those steps, both of you. 
The lady will have to share your luck until 
it is advisable to release you. March!" 

Mathison put his arm under Miss Far- 

rington's and helped her up the icy steps. 


In the faintest whisper: "Do not lift up 
your veil while in this house. There is 
danger. Do not speak unless I give you 
the lead." 

The door opened to admit them and 
they stood in a dimly lighted hallway. 

"The parlor; you will find it comfortable." 

Inside the parlor Mathison was ordered 
to halt. With a detached air he obeyed. 
Miss Farrington shuddered. She saw the 
man in the black handkerchief search the 
little pocket at the top of Mathison 's 
trousers and extract a bit of paper, folded. 
What was it? 

"A long chase, but we are patient. The 
receipt! . . . Yankee swine!" The man struck 
Mathison across the mouth, stepped back 
quickly, the automatic ready. 

Mathison did not stir, but his tan faded; 
and presently a thin trickle of blood ran 
down his chin. 

"You despicable coward!" she cried. 
"How like the Hun!" 

"Be silent! Your immunity is not irrev- 

A receipt of deposit! She understood 
now. A receipt of deposit for that manila 

envelope. To have come all this way, and 



then lose! And it came to her like a blow 
that she herself was directly the cause. 
He had not wanted to get into the taxi, and 
she had forced him. In trying to save him 
she had merely led him to defeat. But 
the tameness, when she knew that he was 
quick as light! 

"You will be detained about an hour. 
A telephone-call will release you. Madame, 
my thanks. You made everything very- 
easy for us. Without your innocent as- 
sistance there might have been difficulties. 
Unwittingly, you have entered the war 
zone, with casualties." 

Then, with an ironical wave of the hand, 
the man in the black handkerchief stepped 
forth and closed the door. 

Mathison pulled out his handkerchief and 
wiped his lips, turning gradually so that 
his back was toward the double doors. 

"I could cry!" she said. "All my fault!" 

Mathison laid a warning finger on his 
bruised lips. Instinctively he knew that 
he was being watched. The affair wasn't 
over yet 

"Please don't feel badly. The fortunes 
of war. The thing is done. Don't bother 
any more about it." 



"But you wouldn't have surrendered like 
this if I hadn't been with you!" 

"I'd have put up some kind of a scrap, 
I suppose. I should have kept my head, 
and didn't." 

"But through fault of mine . . ." 

"It might have been worse," he inter- 
rupted. "They didn't hurt you. I'll be 
given my destroyer. I'm a good navigator. 
Better take off your coat; otherwise you will 
feel it when you go out." He laid his hands 
on her shoulders and whispered: "Be on 
your guard ! They must not know that you 
know. Follow my leads. They are watch- 
ing or listening." 

"I'll keep the coat on." She sat down, 

He began to walk about. From time to 
time he touched his lips with his handker- 

She watched him. All through the night he 
had puzzled her as no man had ever puzzled 
her before. She knew that he was strong, 
resourceful, courageous. And yet he had 
taken that blow on the mouth without 
comment, without a sign of wrath. Re- 
sourceful, he had carried that receipt with 
him. Her fault, directly and indirectly. 



His discovery that Norma Farrington 
Hilda Nordstrom and The Yellow Ty- 
phoon were two individuals had befogged 
his foresight. He had probably dashed out 
of the hotel with no thought but of finding 
her. It would have been the simplest thing 
in the world to leave the receipt in the key- 
box. Beaten because of her! 

"Think of finding you!" he said. He 
covered the length of the room again. "No 
doubt you think I'm a queer codger. The 
fact is I never waste time or energy in 
wailing. When I lose I pay. When I win 
I pocket the stakes. I never drop out of a 
game, once I take up the cards." He sat 
down beside her. "Do you believe in love 
at first sight?" 

Good Heavens! But she managed to 
say, calmly, "In a play?" She lifted the 
veil to the tip of her nose. "Oh yes. It 
goes very well that way." A cue? Very 
good; she would follow up this bewildering 
lead, even if her heart did begin to act 

"I mean in real life." 

"I never fell in love with any one off- 
stage; so I'm not in a position to speak. 
The trouble with me is I have a fatal gift 



of reading men at a glance. I have always 
revolted at the idea of marrying a man I 
knew all about on my wedding-day. He 
must be a fine story-book to be read a page 
at a time, to offer a mystery tantalizing 
enough to create a longing to solve it. And 
if I ever do marry I shall go on with my 
work. Why? Because I shall always be 
puzzling him just a little. In marriage 
absolute knowledge always makes for dull- 


Of all the amazing, heartrending subjects 
to select ! And she could not tell him that he 
was hurting her dreadfully. . . . His poor 
lips! All her fault. 

That voice! he thought. In his ears it 
was sweeter than the intoning of choirs in 
cathedrals. He glanced at his wrist-watch. 
Probably the man was at the desk, present- 
ing the receipt. God send he did not pass 
the job on to a confederate! In twenty 
minutes, perhaps, the call would come for 
their release. Mathison ran his tongue 
over his throbbing lips. Then he smiled a 
smile through which his teeth flashed 

She, watching him, waited for him to 
carry on. His bent head was so close that 


it was hard to resist that old inclination 
to touch it with her hand. All this talk 
about love! . . . He was merely passing the 
time. But when she saw that smile her 
eyes widened behind her veil. It was a 
terrible smile, savage, relentless, and con- 

And then, in one of those blinding rib- 
bons of light that flash across the storms, 
she saw distinctly the meaning of the whole 
affair. Each time the recollection of the 
manila envelope returned to her mind fog 
enshrouded it. She could see nothing but 
a childish whim in the superscriptions and 
decorations. His own name and rank 
sprawled across the middle and a photo- 
graph at each end of himself in mufti and 
uniform. The Machiavellian cunning of 
it! Boy! Would she ever be able to caU 
him that again? She thrilled. 

"What shall I call you? Lieutenant- 
commander is so formal and Mister is an 

"Call me John. My mother thought it 
a good name." 

"Not Jack?" 

"Too many Jacks in the navy. I'd like 
very much if you'd call me John." 



"Mathison. I believe for the present 
I'll call you Mathison. That's comrade-y. 
And day after to-morrow we shall have tea 

"And I'll bring Malachi. But I warn 
you he swears dreadfully sometimes, when 
he's happy." 

"I'd love him!" She laughed. A few 
moments ago she hadn't believed she could 
ever laugh again joyously. After all, what 
did her affairs amount to in this great game? 
She was an infinitesimal grain of sand, in- 
considerable. A trap for his enemy, and 
she had almost spoiled it. And casually 
he had said he had a few loose threads to 
pick up! 

She was reasonably certain now that all 
recollection of the old lady on the Nippon 
Maru had passed from his mind. Why not? 
Why should a young man of thirty keep 
fresh in his memory an old woman osten- 
sibly sixty? He had found Hilda Nord- 
strom, and that was sufficient for the pres- 

"Did I see the red and blue lights of a 
drug-store down the street as we came 

"I don't remember." 



The double doors rolled back smoothly 
and The Yellow Typhoon stepped into the 
room, sending the doors shut again. She 
leaned with her back against one of the 
doors, and the crooked smile on her lips 
almost hid the little mole. 

Mathison was on his feet immediately, 
his nerves singing. All along he had expect- 
ed such a moment; and yet, now that it had 
come, it stupefied him. He stood so that 
he partially covered Miss Farrington. He 
wondered if any man had ever before been 
confronted by such a situation. He man- 
aged to throw a bit of gallantry into his 

"And how is the jealous husband to- 

"He is doing nicely at this moment, 
thank you. You and the lady are free to 



Mathison started to turn, but stopped, 
fascinated by the singular change which 
was passing over the face of the woman in 
front of him. Slowly her hands reached 
out on each side, fingers spread; her body 
seemed to shrink. 




MATHISON stepped aside, not only 
physically, but figuratively. He saw 
that for a little while he was to be an out- 
sider. There was a strange tragedy here, 
and it was going to be threshed out imme- 
diately. The attitude of the two women 
was a dead reckoning that there were ac- 
counts to settle. Already they seemed to 
have forgotten him. 

Of course he had known, or at least sus- 
pected, that these two remarkable women 
were sisters twins. From the moment he 
had discovered that posed photograph, 
located The Yellow Typhoon in this very 
house, established the fact that Norma 
Farrington was acting on the stage that 
night, he had known. 

From where he stood, ill at ease and rest- 
less, he could see the two faces. So alike 
that, separately, it was impossible to tell 
which was which or that there were two. 



Witness his own adventures in that hotel 
room. The detective had declared that 
two women had mounted that fire-escape 
because he had seen nothing but footprints. 
But the two together, as Mathison now saw 
them! The one with the white soul of her 
shining in her face; the other a sphinx. 
Hilda he would never think of her as 
Norma again a white page with a beauti- 
ful poem written thereon; the other, a page 
with a cryptogram. A miracle; he could 
call it nothing else; a physical allegory, the 
good fairy and the bad. The forest pool 
that slaked your thirst; the lying mirage of 
the desert. And yet the mirage was no less 
glorious to the eye than the honest pool. 
He knew he would never again mistake the 
one for the other. 

The shock over, the reality confirmed, 
The Yellow Typhoon gathered her shat- 
tered forces. She folded her arms, and her 
body seemed to expand. 

" Hilda ! . . . Well, why not? I knew that 
if I returned to New York our paths would 
cross again. I did not will it. But what 
will be will be. Always meddling, always 
trying to thwart me!" 

"Yes, Berta; the same old Hilda, always 



bearing the brunt of your misdeeds, always 
sacrificing herself to shield you ... to save 
the mother a hurt. For what I did never 
hurt her; she loved you, tolerated me. And 
the bitter irony of it all lies in the fact 
that she would have stood away from you 
but for my sacrifices, which misled her. 
Yes, I am Hilda." 

"You!" rasped Berta. "It was you, 
then, who wore that kimono ! You, turned 
Yankee swine!" 

"I, who have sworn loyalty to the land 
you would betray. I tried to save you, 
but you would not have it." 

"Save me? On the contrary, your safety 
depends upon my good nature. I hold you 
and this mollycoddle in the palm of my 
hand. Take care!" 

"You never could frighten me, Berta. 
You know that. Eight years ! Do you real- 
ize that you have been dead eight years?" 

"There are many kinds of death some of 
our own choosing," said Berta, insolently. 

"I mean the dead who never more return. 
Eight years ago the mother and I buried 
you in Greenwood." 

"What?" explosively. "What are you 
telling me?" 


"The Berta who was found in the river, 
recognizable only by the dress she wore and 
the locket. And every spring the mother 
goes there with flowers. Your ghost is not 
pleasant to see, Berta. The horror of that 
night in Shanghai, when I learned the truth, 
that you were alive, notorious ! The owner 
of a gambling-house in the Honan Road! 
Nightmare! Who was it we buried?" Hilda 
stepped forward menacingly. 

Fine steel and hammered brass, thought 
Mathison. He could not touch the woman 
of brass now; she was Hilda's sister, and 
Hilda should say what should be done. Nor 
could he smother the spark of admiration. 
Bad she might be, ruthless and predatory, 
but she was no weakling. Whatever her 
end, she would meet it hotly. He saw that 
Hallowell had been stronger than Samson, 
since this Delilah had not shorn his locks. 

Sisters who had not seen each other in 
eight years deadly antagonists ! He could 
not help philosophizing a little over this 
phenomenon of life. Sisters and brothers; 
the long roll of bitter tragedies from the day 
Cain grew jealous of Abel! He wished he 
was elsewhere. It was sacrilege to witness 
the baring of two souls. 

16 233 


"Who was it we buried?" repeated Hilda. 

Berta frowned. Eight years, a long 
tune to remember the trivial incidents as- 
sociated with the abandonment of her peo- 
ple. All at once her eyes flashed and a 
corner of her lip went up in a twisted smile. 
"I remember now. I gave the old clothes 
and the locket to a creature on the street. 
So she killed herself, and I am dead! No 
wonder you left me in peace!" 

"Thief!" cried Hilda, flaming. "You 
cold-blooded thief! You took the last 
jewel that mother had and pawned it the 
jewel she had been clinging to desperately 
the last link to the life she had known. The 
tragedy was nothing to you. You pawned 
it to buy a new dress, a new hat. What 
was her love for you? Something for you 
to prey upon; and, having preyed upon the 
last morsel, you took wing, like the kite you 
are! I discovered what had become of the 
jewel. Without her knowing it, I worked 
nights for months to reclaim it. Then I 
'found' it. I would waste my breath if I 
cried 'Shame! 1 " 

"Then don't waste your breath, Hilda. 
Shame? I am my father's daughter, and 
I take what pleases me when and where I 



find it. I ran away because I was tired of 
poverty, tired of you all. I hated you be- 
cause you were always whining at my elbow 
not to do this and not to do that. Fine 
music! We were born in an hour of hate 
and terror. I am the daughter of my 
father, a noble; you are the daughter of a 
Copenhagen circus-rider. I am a law unto 
myself, and you are the puppet of circum- 
stances. Love my mother? Love any- 
thing? I don't know. But I have avenged 
her. I have made mankind pay for the blows 
my father dealt her. And I never forgave 
her for not claiming her rights when father 
died. We might have grown up in comfort, 
and her stupid pride kept us in rags. I did 
not ask to be born; my birth was not my 
will. Flesh and blood? What is life but 
an accident? Selfish? Who would look 
out for Berta but Berta? I am myself, no 
more, no less; and the path I travel is of 
my own choosing. Life! I have lived. 
No law can take that away from me. You 
have called me the kite. What is the kite 
but cousin to the eagle? Look back. Did 
I ever cringe, whine? If a blow was struck, 
did I not always strike back? The fault 
is you were always trying to pour me into 



another mold. I had already been poured. 
What you wanted of me was something like 
this fool parrakeet something content to 
live in a cage. Not for Berta Nordstrom! 
I don't know what my end shall be, but it 
will be a free end." 

A wave of pity surged over Mathison. 
For Hilda's sake he had contemplated let- 
ting this wild, untamed thing go; and now 
for the same reason he would not dare let 
her go. There was a chill of fear, too. 
There was no knowing how far this rising 
fury might carry The Yellow Typhoon. 
Never would he forget this picture. The 
angel and the destroyer; the same blood, 
the same physical perfections sisters ! And 
beyond the blood-tie, total strangers. And 
for days he had been shuttlecock to their 
battledores; the one trying to save him, the 
other trying to break him. 

"One question," he interrupted, grimly. 

Berta whirled upon him. " Ask it!" 

"Had you a hand in Bob Hallo well's 

"If I had I'd answer, wouldn't I! No. 
But I had killed him a thousand times in 
my heart. I hated him above all other men. 
Men call me The Yellow Typhoon. I ac- 



cept. Woe to those who stand in my way. 
If I did not break Hallowell, I spoiled his 
life. And I have beaten you. You and 
your sanctimonious Hallowell ! Fools, I had 
but to crook my finger and how beautifully 
you danced! I'd have twisted you around 
my finger with half a chance." 

"Berta, do you ever stop to think?" 

The Yellow Typhoon laughed. "A ser- 
mon? Save it." 

"No regret, no pity?" 

" Oh, I have my regrets . . . failures. But 
if you mean do I regret you and the past, a 
thousand times no. You say I have returned 
from the grave. You have yourself to thank 
for that. I had almost forgotten you. I 
promise you that I shall seek the mother." 

"Take care, Berta! I am my father's 
daughter, too!" 

"A threat?" 

Mathison began to grow alarmed. Never 
had he felt the danger so near. If Hilda 
suspected the game he was playing and 
dropped a single hint, they were lost; he, 
at any rate. The Secret Service would not 
strike until he was out of this house. Such 
had been his order. But if this madwoman 
caught one glimmer of the truth! 



"Come, Miss Farrington," he said. 

"Very well. But always remember I 
tried to save you, Berta." 

"Farrington, Farrington! And I had 
all but forgotten! One of the men here 
told me. Farrington, the Broadway celeb- 
rity, rich and famous! Oh, if I but had 
the time!" 

"To injure me? You will not find it, 

"No? Wait and see. To-morrow I shall 
search for the mother." 

"You shall never find her. I wish you 
no evil. After all, you are still the child 
that was always touching the stove. Take 
care of yourself; and good-by forever, 

In reply The Yellow Typhoon sped across 
to the hall door, which opened with such 
violence that the knob was shattered. 

"Go! I am ordered to free you. But 
for that! ... Go! Meddle no more with my 
affairs, Hilda Nordstrom!" 

Hilda passed into the hall. Mathison 
ran ahead and unslipped the door-chain; 
and a moment later they stood on the side- 
walk, shadowy to each other in the blinding 



QTRAIGHTWAY Mathison put his arm 
O under hers and began plowing along 
through the snow, which was more than 
ankle-deep. As his stride was long, she 
slipped and staggered to keep pace with 
him. There was a comforting strength in 
that arm of his. 

The tension over, the encounter past, her 
mind was like her feet, heavy and without 
spring. A thought, entering her head, 
wandered about emptily, then went away. 
Her brain was like a vast cathedral, with 
one or two lonely tourists exploring. This 
droll imagery caused her to burst out laugh- 
ing. Mathison merely tightened his grip. 

She was soul-weary and body-weary. 
She would have liked to lie down in the 
soft inviting snow and never move again. 
The drab future that lay beyond! What 
might have been could not possibly be now. 
So long as Berta lived Hilda must walk in 



her shadow. It did not matter whether 
Berta roved free or was locked up in prison. 
And no doubt this man at her side, clean- 
cut and honorable above his kind, was 
already planning how to break the slender 
thread of their acquaintance. Why not? 
Seeing her, would he not always be seeing 
Berta, who in his eyes was a criminal of a 
dangerous type? From afar she heard his 

"There's a drug-store on the next corner. 
We'll order a taxi from there. Your feet 
will be wet. ... I need not tell you I'm 

"That my feet are wet or that the woman 
you know as The Yellow Typhoon is my 
twin sister? Wliy bother? I ought to hate 
her. Still, to me flesh and blood is flesh and 
blood. She is dangerous and should be 
punished; and yet instinct rebels at the 
thought. Free, she will be havoc. I know 
her of old. Her furies when she was 
little were frightful because they were al- 
ways calculated. For days I've been dread- 
ing the encounter, dreading yet courting 
it. It was inevitable. Flesh and blood! 
What was God's idea? My poor mother! 
She has been through so much; and now this 



must strike her. She was a circus-rider in 
the Copenhagen hippodrome, beautiful and 
admired. My father won and married her 
because it pleased his vanity. He tired of 
her within a month. Then he beat her. 
He was half Prussian. Tortured and dis- 
carded her. Is there anything in prenatal 
influence? They say not. Yet look at 
Berta! My father's soul. I don't under- 
stand!" brokenly. 

"I am terribly sorry. An impasse; and I 
don't know which way to turn. She is a 
dangerous enemy, and this is war. For 
your sake I want to let her go, back to 
the East. For my country's sake I can- 
not. She must pay the grim reckoning. 
I have some influence. There will be no 
publicity. I can readily promise you that. 
You're a brick; and I'd cut my hand off to 
save you this hurt. But I repeat, this is 
war. Fortunately the affair is military, 
out of the reach of civil court, beyond the 
reporters. Winnowed of all chaff, the grain 
is that I'm powerless. In certain directions 
I have tremendous power, but only as an 
agent. I cannot judge, condemn, or liber- 
ate. I am desperately sorry. She is the 
wife or companion of the man I believe 



killed my friend. She is the woman who 
gratuitously spoiled my friend's life. The 
counts against her are heavy." 

"I understand. You cannot break your 
oath of allegiance for me; and my oath of 
allegiance will not permit you. But it tears 
and rends. Still, she once passed out of 
my life absolutely. Perhaps my concern 
is for my mother. I am numb with the 
tragedy of it. Flesh and blood, but she 
denied it. I tried to save her. Suppose 
we let Berta's fate rest on the knees of the 

"If it is proven she had nothing to do 
with HallowelTs death, there is a chance 
of merely interning her for the duration of 
the war." 

"Hallowell! That afternoon he spoke to 
me in the Botanical Gardens. He thought 
I was Berta. I tried to save him, but I 
reached the villa too late. I saw it, in 
silhouette on the curtains! I called, rang 
the bell, shook the gate. Then the lights 
went out. ... I tried to save him!" 

"I know. He was the finest friend a man 
ever had. And somewhere up there among 
the stars his spirit is at peace. John 
Mathison has come through!" 



" Alone, all alone, without aid from any 
one. With an immeasurable power behind 
you, you fought it out alone. It was splen- 
did American! That envelope ! The tame- 
ness of your surrender hurt. I did not un- 
derstand until after we were in that house 
and I saw you smile. That receipt was 
only a trap, a bait; and the man you believe 
killed Hallowell walked blindly into it. 
No one but you could touch that envelope, 
once it was in a hotel safe. Am I right?" 

"The man is a prisoner in my room at 
this moment. When we enter this drug- 
store, it is a signal for the raiding of that 
house, fore and aft. A fly couldn't escape. 
We idiotic Yankees! I have him. It took 
patience. But there was a guardian angel 
watching over John Mathison. Had you 
not warned me they would have learned the 
dance I was leading them, and vanished. 
They had me for sleep. I thought I was 
awake, but actually I was sleep-walking." 

"Then I wasn't useless, after all?" 

"No." He smiled at the sky, at the stars 
he couldn't see but knew were there. Day 
after to-morrow! 

Mathison was a one-idea man. What I 
mean is, when he undertook a task he went 



at it directly, whole-heartedly; there were 
never any side issues. 

Presently he spoke again. " There is one 
favor I must ask of you, to tighten the noose 
around this man's neck. Will you testify 
before the authorities that you found the 
blue-print in his kit-bag? Otherwise I can- 
not prove that it was in his possession. 
The theft of the receipt constitutes a mili- 
tary crime; but the blue-print convicts him 
of murder, either as principal or accessory. 
I can promise you there will be no publicity. 
Will you help me?" 

"I have sworn to." 

"Do you know that blond man's name?" 


"Neither do I. Curious thing. In that 
little red book there are three descriptions; 
these vary only in the occupations of the 
men described. All three are bulky, blond, 
and ruddy. Until now I dared not be 

"And will you do me a favor?" 

"Ask it." 

"Let me see it through." 

"You mean, go back with me to the 




"Very well. And you can take Malachi 
home with you." 

They entered the drug-store, stamping 
the snow from their feet. 

To be with him just a little while longer. 
. . . Because she loved him, she, Hilda 
Nordstrom, the proud! Not because she 
wanted to, but because it was written. The 
one man in the world, and he did not care. 
Friendly and interested, mystified until 
now; and to-morrow he would go his way. 
The daughter of a circus-rider, the sister of 
The Yellow Typhoon. The Farrington was 
no more; to him she would always be Hilda 
Nordstrom. Her fame would not touch 
him, for he was without vanity. What had 
her heart been calling out through it all, 
since the miracle of the violets? "Love 
me! Love me!" She had thrown it forth 
as a hypnotist throws the will. "Love me! 
Love me!" And all the while he was busy 
with this affair of the manila envelope, the 
blue-print and vengeance. All he had 
sought her for was to prove that there were 
two women, so that he might minimize the 
confusion, make no future misstep. Was 
there another woman? Had he not hinted 
at the supper-table that there was? And 



yet, on board the Nippon Maru, hadn't he 
told her there was no one? She just could 
not make him out. There, on the Pacific, 
his every act had been boyish, tender, 
whimsical. Here, he was smiling, bronze, 
inscrutable, primordial. Blood and iron. 
The one man; and he was only friendly, he 
didn't care. When she paused to analyze 
the situation, however, the question arose: 
Why should he care? As Hilda Nordstrom 
The Farrington he had known her less than 
three hours. It was so hard to remember 
that on board the ship he had been John 
Mathison to her, but she had been to him 
a baffling, begoggled old lady, hugging 
shadowy corners and keeping her back to 
the moon. 

What had happened to the world? Only 
a little while gone a few months she had 
been happy, gay with the gay, enjoying 
life, success, the rewards of long and weary 
endeavor. And up over the fair horizon had 
risen The Typhoon. Berta, always Berta! 

"Pardon! I did not hear," she said. 

"I said I was going to do a bit of tele- 
phoning. I'll round up a taxi. The boy 
is making you a cup of hot chocolate. 
Better drink it." 




Mathison was gone for a quarter of an 
hour. He came back to her smiling. The 
taxi was at the curb. 

" Better let me take you straight home/' 
he suggested. 

"You promised." 

"But to-morrow . . ." 

"To-morrow," she smiled, "always takes 
care of itself." 

"Come. After all, it will be a matter of 
only a few moments. All I've got to do is 
to run up to the room and give the Secret 
Service men their orders. And I'll bring 
down Malachi. You are sure you want 

"Of course I am!" His little green 
parrakeet ! 

Later, when they entered Peacock Alley 
totally deserted at this hour he flung 
his greatcoat into a chair, pinning the green 
ribbon to the breast of his jacket. 

"Suppose you sit here on this divan? 
I sha'n't be gone more than ten minutes. 
I ordered the taxi to wait." 

"Go along, sailorman. And don't for- 
get Malachi." 

He wondered if she realized how easily 



that name fell from her lips. . . . Well, day 
after to-morrow! He marched briskly up 
to the desk. 

"Take a good look at me/' he said to the 
clerk; "then go to the safe and get the 
manila envelope with my photographs on 

"Yes, sir. I was waiting for you," re- 
plied the clerk, with subdued excitement. 
"The man who presented the receipt is in 
charge in your rooms." He returned short- 
ly with the envelope. 

Mathison crumpled it into a pocket. "Of 
course you understand that all these mys- 
terious actions have to do with the govern- 
ment and that there must be absolute 
secrecy on the part of the management." 

"I have my orders to that effect, sir." 

Mathison nodded and turned toward the 
nearest elevator shaft. 

In a room on the ninth floor were three 
men. One sat near the window. His arms 
were folded, and in his lap was a Colt. 
The fire-escape was outside this window. 
In a manner peculiar to Americans, he 
rocked on the rear legs of his chair; and 
every little while there was a slight thud 



as the chair-back hit the wall or the fore- 
legs hit the floor. The second man sat 
with his back toward the bathroom. From 
this point of vantage he could watch both 
the entrance to the room and the man on 
the bed. He evinced signs of boredom, as 
did the face of his companion. He was 
toying with an automatic. He was sunk 
in his chair, his legs resting on the heels of 
his shoes. 

The prisoner, his hands clasped behind 
his head, seemed particularly interested in 
a pattern on the ceiling; but in reality he 
was counting the thuds of the Secret Ser- 
vice operative's chair; and out of this sound 
developed a daring campaign for liberty. 
Because he had surrendered docilely, with- 
out a sign of protest or struggle, he was con- 
fident he had by this time broken a wedge 
into the vigilance of his captors. He was 
a big man, blond, but his cheeks were no 
longer ruddy. 

On a stand by the radiator Malachi oc- 
casionally shifted his weight from one foot 
to the other. He didn't love anybody, and 
he never was going to love anybody again. 
His nose or rather his beak was thor- 
oughly out of joint with the world. Rooms 

17 249 


that swung high and swung low; rooms that 
rattled and banged, the red walls of which 
hurt his eyes; and rooms with glaring lights. 
And always, just as he believed his troubles 
over, up went the cotton bag and he was 
off to other surprises. No; he was never 
going to love anybody again. 

The man near the bathroom inspected 
his watch. ''He ought to be along now." 

The man on the bed sat up. Slowly he 
swung his legs to the floor. He rubbed his 
palms together, and the links between the 
manacles clinked slightly. He stood up. 

"May I go to the bathroom?" 

The man in the chair near the bathroom 
nodded. There was no exit from the 

"Leave the door open," he advised. 

Alone, he would have risen and faced the 
bathroom door. But across the room was 
his companion, who, from where he sat, 
could see into the bathroom obliquely. 
Slowly the prisoner passed the chair. He 
was the picture of dejection. With unbe- 
lievable swiftness in a man so big he turned 
and threw his arms over the Secret Service 
man's head, bringing the manacle chain 
against his throat, murderously, all but 



garroting him. The automatic had scarcely 
touched the floor before the blond man, 
releasing his victim and stooping behind 
the chair, recovered it. 

Now comes the point upon which his 
endeavor had been based. When you lean 
back in a chair, to recover necessitates a 
sharp forward tilt. Sometimes you get 
all the way down and sometimes you 
have to make a second effort. So it hap- 
pened to the operative by the window, 
dumfounded by the daring and sudden- 
ness of the attack. As he threw himself 
forward the second time violently the auto- 
matic slipped. He caught it, but not quick 

"Drop it! For I shall shoot to kill. Get 
up. Now kick it in my direction. Very 
good." These words were uttered with 
dispassionate coolness. 

The victim of the garroting was writhing 
and coughing on the floor. He would be 
out of it for several minutes. There was 
only one idea in his head to get air through 
his tortured throat. 

To the other operative the blond man 
said: "I am a desperate man and I promise 
to kill you if you do not obey me absolutely. 



Unless I go forth free I might as well go 
forth dead. It is my life against yours. 
Walk toward me with your hands up." 

The Secret Service operative had heard 
voices like this before, and he wanted 
to live. Moreover, he knew that every 
exit would be covered until the patrol ar- 
rived, if it were not already at the curb. 
At the utmost the blond devil's victory 
would be short-lived. 

"You win," he said, quietly, stepping 

"Face the other way." 

The operative obeyed. The manacled 
hands rose above the unprotected head 
and the gun-butt came crashing down. The 
operative slumped to the floor. The blond 
man's subsequent actions bespoke his thor- 
oughness in handling this kind of an affair. 
He sought the handkerchiefs, wet them, 
and tied the operatives' hands behind their 
backs. Few fabrics are tougher than wet 
linen. The man he had hit was either dead 
or insensible; so he paid no more attention 
to this unfortunate. His interest was in the 
operative who was now slowly getting air 
into his lungs. The blond man threw him 
on his face, sat on him, then rifled the pock- 



ets for the manacle key. He found it and 
freed his wrists. He ran to the bathroom 
again and returned with a wet towel which 
he wound about the half-strangled man's 
head. Next he calmly pocketed his be- 
longings which lay on the bureau-top. 

He was reasonably certain that he could 
not escape by any of the hotel entrances. 
There was only one chance. A window 
on the first floor, from which he would have 
to risk a drop of twelve or fourteen feet to 
the sidewalk. 

Malachi was climbing up to his swing 
and clambering down to his perch. 

The blond man, the automatic ready, 
opened the door . . . and Mathison stepped 
in! The advantage of surprise was in this 
instance on Mathison's side. A fighting- 
man of the first order, he struck first. He 
brought his fist down hammer-wise upon 
the pistol, at the same time sending the toe 
of his boot to the enemy's knee-cap. In- 
stinctive actions, but both blows went 
home. The blond man was forced to give 
back in order to set himself. 

There began, then, in that small room, 
one of those contests which the Blind Poet 
loved to recount and which we nowadays 



call Homeric. Mathison was lighter than 
his opponent by thirty pounds, but he gave 
battle with a singing heart. This was as 
it should be, man to man. No tedious 
affair of the courts; cold, formal justice. 
Hot blood and bare hands! . . . An eye for 
an eye, a tooth for a tooth ! 

The blond man, as he looked into Mathi- 
son's eyes, sensed that he was about to 
fight for his life; thus he became endowed 
with a frenzy which doubled his strength. 
His one blind endeavor was to get his 
gorilla arms around this Yankee swine 
who had tricked and beaten him. He 
lunged, head down. Mathison jabbed him, 
and with lightning speed shut the door with 
a backward kick. 

He met the blond man at every point; 
boxed him, used his boots, employed the 
science of the Jap wrestler, threw obstacles, 
laughed, taunted sailor fashion; in fact, 
fought with the primordial savagery of the 
Stone Age, scorning the niceties of sportsman- 
ship. He knew what his antagonist was a 
Prussian, or one who had been Prussianized. 
And with devilish cunning and foresight he 
carried the Prussian idea to this blond 
giant. ... To kill him with his bare hands! 



The blond man's desperate swings landed 
frequently; for with his eye upon a single 
point, Mathison was often compelled to 
expose his face. That throat! To reach it 
with that Japanese side-cut, a blow that 
saps and blinds. 

Once the enemy succeeded in gripping 
Mathison's jacket where its fastenings met: 
and Mathison, wrenching back, left half 
the front of his smart jacket in the eager 

Bloody, an eye half closed, his lips puffed 
and bleeding but his teeth showing soundly 
through the grotesque smile a gash across 
his forehead, Mathison continued to play 
for the throat. Queer thing about such 
contests: there isn't any pain until it is 

A dozen times they stumbled over the 
operatives on the floor. The one with the 
towel around his head was now alive and 
tugging powerfully at the wet linen bind- 
ing his wrists. Finally he managed to get 
to his feet, only to be hurled against the 

The inconvenience of these obstacles, 
animate and inanimate, reacted against 
Mathison as often as it did against his 



enemy; and one time Mathison was borne 
back against the foot -rail of the bed. 
But a violent thrust of his knee extricated 

Suddenly and unexpectedly Mathison 
was offered his opening. The operative, 
who was still blinded by the wet towel, 
rose again and staggered about. He struck 
against the blond man's shoulder, and as 
the latter thrust him aside Mathison struck. 
Not an honorable blow, this cut at the 
throat; not the sort white men use in fisti- 
cuffs. But I repeat, these two were bent 
on killing each other. 

When you touch a hot coal your hand 
jerks back. It is reflex action purely; the 
conscious brain has nothing to do with it. 
So it is with the blow on the Adam's apple. 
The hands fly to the throat because they 

Mathison did not pause to note the effect 
of the stroke. He knew that it had gone 
home. He had been badly punished, but 
he was still fighting strong. The years of 
clean living, of unsapped vitality, were 
paying dividends to-night. He sent in a 
smothering hail of blows, with all the power 
he had left to put behind them. 



It was now that the other man began to 
realize that he was no longer interested in kill- 
ing Mathison, that he sought only to get 
away from this force and fury which were 
superior to his own. He looked about 
desperately for a corner to turn; but there 
wasn't any. Back he went, back until his 
legs struck the edge of the bed. Even as 
he wavered Mathison leaped, bore his man 
down, knelt on his ribs and dug his fingers 
into the bull-like neck. No doubt Mathi- 
son would have throttled him. An eye for 
an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But a singular 
event stayed his hands. 

During all this surging to and fro, this 
battering and scuffling, Malachi's fear and 
agitation had grown to the point where he 
was compelled to express his disapproval 
in the only way he knew by sounds, 
hoarse, raucous sounds, human words. 

"Mat! . . . Chota Malachil . . . You lubber, 
where's my tobacco? . . . Mat! . . . Lysgaard! 
... To hell with the Ki! ... Mathison, 
Hallowell and Company, and be damned 
to you! . . . Mat! . . . Lysgaard!" 

Slowly Mathison drew back. The berser- 
ker lust to kill evaporated, leaving him cold 
and sick. The revelation that the name of 



the murderer was Lysgaard was insignifi- 
cant beside the fact that Hallowell had 
reached out from Beyond and saved his friend 
from carrying blood-guilty hands to Hilda 
Nordstrom, who waited down-stairs! 


MEANTIME the jar of the battle had 
not passed unnoticed. The guests in 
the rooms adjoining and below had been 
telephoning the office. The clerk, aware 
that there were Secret Service operatives at 
all exits, hastily summoned them. And 
four plunged into Mathison's room just as 
he stepped away from the bed. 

"It's all over, gentlemen," he said, 
thickly. "The man on the bed is wanted 
on two accounts theft of naval plans and 
murder. He is Karl Lysgaard. In 1916, 
to cover his espionage endeavors, he became 
a naturalized citizen. Ostensibly he is 
Danish; but he was born in Holtenau, near 
enough to the Kiel Canal to make him a 
first-class Prussian. Take him to the Tombs, 
and keep your eye on him while taking him 
there. I will appear against him in the 
morning. The woman known as The Yellow 
Typhoon . . ." 



"Has vanished," whispered one of the 


"Like smoke! Telephone message came 
while you were up here. But she won't go 
far. Already all exits are being watched. No 
trains, no ships; and she will not be able to 
hide long in New York. Some scrap you 
must have had here. Your uniform's a 
wreck. Better wash up." 

Mathison staggered into the bathroom, 
now mindful of his injuries. He was sure 
that one or more of his ribs were broken. 
Every beat of his heart was accompanied 
by a stab either in his head or in his torso. 
The floor wavered like sand in the heat; 
and he* was none too certain about the 

Escaped! The Yellow Typhoon had 
slipped through that web ! He did not know 
whether he was glad or sorry. Not one man 
in a thousand would have broken through 
that alert cordon; and yet this woman had 
done it. The pity of it! Brave and fear- 
less and beautiful . . . and absolutely lawless. 
He could not stir up a bit of hatred. She 
had broken Bob HallowelTs heart, and yet 
John Mathison could only admire her 



strength and cunning. The admiration a 
brave man always pays a fearless antagonist. 
Somehow he knew that she would be free 
for a long while. But how would she use 
this furtive freedom? Seek to injure Hilda, 
himself? Like as not. But he had in mind 
a solution for this problem. It would de- 
pend, though, upon the woman waiting 

Entering the room again, he confronted 
the man he had outthought and outfought. 
He was dizzy, but he could navigate alone. 
The blond man had to be propped between 
two operatives. He was in a bad way. 
Mathison produced the manila envelope. 

"Observe those photographs? That is 
why you did not succeed. We idiotic 
Yankees! They will hang you by the neck, 
Lysgaard. What! You believed I would 
risk carrying HallowelTs specifications in 
an ordinary manila envelope, depositing it 
when I stopped at a hotel, letting every- 
body know that I was carrying an important 
document? Your method, perhaps, but not 
mine. And the irony of it is the prints 
were always within easy reach of your hand. 
This manila envelope was merely a noose, 
and you drew it yourself. It is a forerun- 



ner of what your nation will receive at the 
hands of mine." 

Mathison ripped open the envelope and 
displayed the contents a dozen sheets of 
heavy blank paper. 

"You will never see your woman again, 
Lysgaard. I had no evidence. I com- 
pelled you to furnish it. A man-hunt and 
you never suspected. Take him away, 
gentlemen; and thanks for your assistance." 

Down-stairs Hilda waited, with growing 
wonder and anxiety. When she finally saw 
Lysgaard lurch out of the elevator, sup- 
ported, her anxiety became terror. What 
had happened? Where was Mathison? She 
wanted to rush forward and ask questions, 
but she dared not. The value of her ser- 
vices would always depend upon the fact 
that her activities were practically un- 
known. So she sat perfectly quiet and 
watched the remarkable procession file past 
and vanish round the corner of the corridor. 

The sight of the blond beast naturally 
brought back the thought of Berta. She, 
too, was now a prisoner. Prison. A cell 
with bars and filtered sunshine, intermi- 
nable monotony and maddening thoughts. 



It was horrible. And she, Hilda, could 
do nothing. Berta merited whatever pun- 
ishment an outraged nation might see fit 
to visit upon her. Flesh and blood or was 
there something in the psychology of double- 
birth? Was there really an invisible con- 
necting link? Yet, if so, why had she not 
felt that Berta was alive? Why had she 
shed tears over the poor, unrecognizable 
thing in Berta's clothes she and the mother 
had buried eight years ago? If only some- 
thing occult had warned her! The mother 
might have borne up under such a blow 
the return of the wayward. But to her 
Berta was dead; and a return under the 
present tragic circumstances would without 
doubt result in a death shock. Ah, if 
Berta had come back a penitent, the news 
might have been broken gradually. But 
a lawless Berta, predatory, vengeful . . .! 

And to-morrow night Norma Farrington 
would romp across the stage, now tender, 
now whimsical; now making her audience 
laugh, now bringing them to the verge of 
tears. And all the while Hilda Nordstrom's 
heart would be breaking. She would com- 
plete the run because her word had never 
been broken. She could not possibly find 



it in her thoughts to be disloyal to loyal 
Sam Rubin. 

Love! It was not enough that Berta 
should return to life. She, Hilda, must 
give her heart unasked to a man who ap- 
peared to be quite satisfied with friendship. 
She hadn't even fought against it. Non- 
resistant, she had permitted this crowning 
folly to creep into her heart. She had for- 
gotten that to him Mrs. Chester was an old 
woman, and that he had sought her society 
because he was just humanly lonesome. 
She hadn't had her chance. With the 
physical attributes of a Venus and the 
mental attainments of an Aspasia, a woman 
might not win the heart of a man in three 
short hours. Love at first sight! She 
trembled. He had used that subject mere- 
ly to pass the time and to keep the conver- 
sation away from dangerous channels. She 
was very unhappy. 

She heard the elevator door rattle in the 
groove. Mathison stepped forth. Malachi's 
cage bobbed against a leg. He paused a 
moment (truthfully, to get his sea-legs, for 
he was still groggy) and brushed his fore- 
head with his free hand. The movement 
left a bloody smear. 



She flew to him and cried, in passionate 
anger, "The beast has hurt you!" 

1 ' Banged me up a bit. But my teeth are all 
sound, and I still can bite. He got loose 
somehow, and . . . well, I went berserker. 
I'm a sight! Malachi did a fine thing to- 
night. I was killing that man, when Mala- 
chi spoke up. I'll see you home." 

"Indeed you shall . . . straight up to my 
apartment, where I can take care of those 
cuts and bruises." 

"At this hour?" tingling. 

"What matters the hour? Wouldn't you 
prefer me to the hotel physician?" raising 
the veil and letting him look into her eyes, 
which were full of sapphire lights. 

"All right. You may do with me as you 

Day after to-morrow was now very far 
away. At no time in his life had he craved 
so poignantly for the touch of a woman's 
hand. To be ministered to, coddled, made 
of; a memory to take away with him to 
the high seas, from which he might never 

She ran back for his greatcoat, held it for 
him and noted the grimace as he stretched 
his arms backward for the sleeves. 

18 265 


"What is it?" 

"Ribs, head, and shoulder; all in the 
sick-bay. Lord, but I'm a wreck!" 

She picked up the cage and grasped his 
sleeve. Her heart sang. For an hour or 
two; to use all her arts in making the epi- 
sode unforgetable to this man. To mother 
and coddle him; to run her eager fingers 
through his fine hair. An hour or two, all, 
all her own! 

In the taxi he told her briefly what had 
happened and brought the Odyssey to an 
end by disclosing the fact that Berta had 
escaped the net. 

"But don't worry. I've an idea she'll 
be too busy to trouble you. She's keen. 
By now she must understand that the game 
is up. She will be concerned with little 
else besides her efforts to get clear of New 
York. Ten to one, she'll strike for the 
Orient. I'm sorry. Not that she escaped, 
but that she was able to hurt you. We're 
all riddles, aren't we?" 

"Berta free? ... I'm glad. I can't help 
it. It may be the turning-point. In all 
these years she has never met with any 
serious defeat. Who knows? For if she 
is her father's daughter, she is also her 



mother's. God bring her vision to see 
things clearly! That blond beast's evil 
influence removed, who knows?" 

In the cozy living-room of the apartment 
a fire burned low. Hilda threw on a log, 
then helped him off with his coat. As a 
matter of fact he really had to be helped. 
Obsessed with the idea of getting his hands 
on the man Lysgaard's throat, he had laid 
himself open to many terrible blows. He was 
going to be very sore and lame to-morrow. 

She swung the willow lounge parallel to 
the fire and forced him to lie down. 

"Back in a moment!" she said, flying 

He lay back and closed his sound eye; 
the other was already closed. And as he 
lay there, awaiting her return, the Idea 
came. He could never win this glorious 
creature by simply telling her he loved her. 
He would have to take her by storm, carry 
her off her feet and he was only a molly- 
coddle among the women. Still, he knew 
what he knew. Presently he smiled; at 
least it was meant for a smile. How the 
deuce would he be able to kiss her when the 
time came, with his lips puffed and bleeding? 
The glory of her! 



Obliquely he could see Malachi. "The 
little son-of-a-gun ! And he hasn't the least 
idea that he saved his master from being 
as beastly as the Hun. . . . Close shave! . . . 
Bob's voice, calling out the name of the 
man who had killed him, like that! ... I'll 
be a trig-looking individual when I strike 
Washington to-morrow!" ruefully. 

Hilda returned with basin, alcohol, lint, 
bandages, and salves. And he let her have 
her way with him. After she had bandaged 
the gash on his forehead and his raw knuc- 
kles, she wet her finger-tips with alcohol and 
ran them back and forth through his hair. 
Not since his mother's death had this 
happened; and never had he experienced 
such a thrill. He longed to seize the hand 
and kiss it, but he conquered the desire. 

By and by he spoke. "The blue-prints, 
with No. 9, are in the hollow under Malachi 's 
basin. They are in a rubber sack such as 
you roll up slickers in. I'll take them out 
when I go. Be sure you talk a little to him 
every day. He likes it. He's a gossip. Rice 
and fruits and nuts ; he's frugal. It will buck 
me up to know that he is in good hands." 

"The funny little green bird! I'll take 
care of him until you come back." 



"That's odd. Somehow I know I'm 
coming back. . . . Where's this man Rubin 

" Rubin? He has an apartment near 
by." Rubin? What had Rubin to do 
with this hour, resentfully! 

"What's a successful week amount to?" 

"We'll probably draw from ten to twelve 
thousand." What in the world was the 
meaning of such irrelevant questions? 

"About thirty thousand in two weeks," 
nrminatingly. "I am, even in these days, 
a comparatively rich man. Lots of ready 
money, bonds, and stock. It's been piling 
up for years. And now I'm glad it has." 

She understood. He had been struck a 
dangerous blow on the head, and his mind 
was wandering. She patted his hand re- 

He went on. "The old home which I 
haven't seen in nearly ten years is up-state, 
on the edge of the North Woods. The man 
who farms it keeps up the house. A day's 
work would make it habitable. Just now 
it must be wonderful. Skating and snow- 
shoeing. Lord! how I've hungered for the 
snow! ... I wonder if that extension 'phone 
will reach over here?" 



"Yes." Poor boy! Did he expect to get 
his farmer on long-distance at this hour? 

"Splendid! Now suppose you bring it 

She did so. She knelt beside the lounge 
and held out the telephone. 

"No. You're going to start it. Call 
up Rubin. He'll be asleep; but what I've 
got to say will wake him up." 

"What in the world . . ." 

"Call him up! I'm an invalid and must 
be humored." 

For a moment her fingers seemed all 
thumbs. She succeeded in calling the num- 
ber. There came a long wait. She stole a 
glance at Mathison. He might have been 
asleep, for all the interest he evinced in this 
extraordinary proceeding. What could he 
want of Rubin? 

"Hello! It is you, Sam? This is Hilda. 
. . . No, no! nobody's dead. . . . There's a 
gentleman here. . . . Oh, it's perfectly 
proper. . . . He wants to speak to you. ... I 
don't know. ... He is not a dub. . . . Yes; 
the flowers and the note . . . you knew it! 
What do you mean? . . . All right." 

She turned to Mathison. "I have him." 

Mathison managed to lift himself to a 



more comfortable angle. " This Mr. Rubin? 
Ah! ... I'll break it gently. Hilda and I are 
going to be married in the morning. . . . Keep 
your hair on! ... Then we are going to 
Washington. On our return we are going 
to spend the honeymoon at my home in 
the North Woods. . . . Contract? What the 
deuce is that to me? . . . No; you can't talk 
to her until I'm through. . . . Contract! . . . 
Listen to me. You will announce that she 
is ill. She will be if she goes on to-morrow 
night, after all she's been through. . . . Hang 
it! She and I have a right to two weeks of 
happiness. To you it's business; to me it's 
love. I will give you fifty thousand dollars 
in cold, hard cash for these two weeks, 
which is about twenty thousand more than 
you would ordinarily make. I'll give my 
permission to make a feature story out of it. 
And if I know anything about human 
nature, on her return you'll pack the house 
all summer. If you refuse my offer, not 
a bally copper cent ! I'll break her contract 
for her and you may sue from Maine to 
Oregon. . . . What's that? . . . WeU, by 
George, that's handsome! I thought you 
were a good sport. Buy out the house for 
exactly what it would be worth. Come 



around in the morning and be best man! 
Oh, about nine-thirty. Good night!" 

Mathison turned to the stupefied Hilda. 
There was a short tableau; then she laid 
her head on the arm of the lounge and cried 

"Girl, I can do only one thing well at a 
time. I couldn't tell you verbally I loved 
you until I'd cleared the deck. . . . Sounds ! 
Remember? When you came in through 
that window it was your voice, but I 
couldn't place it then. I opened that red 
book and one of Malachi's feathers dropped 
out. That recalled the old lady who called 
me Boy. I wanted to write something, 
and couldn't find my pen. It was in my cits. 
And then I found that photograph of you. 
That's how I learned there were two of you. 
When you talked on the stage to-night I 
shut my eyes. Then I knew. That's how 
I came to laugh out loud. Sheer joy! 
Fourteen years! You've got to love me. 
You've got to marry me. God is just. He 
won't deny me now. Didn't you tell 
me I'd find Her? . . . Sounds! That's what 
I meant your voice. I didn't know why I 
came to you every morning on board the 
Nippon Mara, but my heart did. My eyes 



saw only a queer, whimsical old lady; but 
my heart saw youth and beauty and love. 
Will you marry me?" 

A nod. 

"You are going to try to love me?" 



"You . . . you can't go to do something 
when you already do!" 

"Wabbly rhetoric, but I understand! . . . 
Hilda, I love you with all my soul! Love 
you, love you! I've been saying in my 
heart all night : ' Love me ! Love me !' " 

"So have I! ... But I'll never forgive 

"For what?" 

"You told Rubin before you told me!" 

"Lord! Lord! I've been telling you all 
night with my eyes that I loved you." He 
brushed her shining hair with burning lips. 
He couldn't even put his arms around her! 
"Now there's just one thing I've got to 
hear to make this the most perfect hour in 
my life." He raised her head. There was 
a violent stab in his side, but he considered 
it negligible in this supreme moment. "Say 

"Boy!" she whispered. 



The way she had always dreamed of be- 
ing loved. Berserker love! To be swept 
off her feet and carried away to an enchant- 
ed palace! That little magic green feather! 
Malachi! She pressed her cheek against 
this wonderful lover's and her hand instinc- 
tively found his. 

"Mat, you lubber!" grumbled Malachi, 
from the rosy hearth. 


Mathison estate was in the foot- 
1 hills of the Adirondacks. There were 
farmlands, pulp-mills, forests, and streams. 
At the northern extremity of the estate 
there was a small lake. The manor proper 
stood on the south shore of this lake, four 
miles from the village and the railway 
station. It was a lonely habitation in the 

The house was of limestone, beautifully 
weathered, and was dated 1812. Here 
Mathison had been bom; here he had spent 
his early youth. With the father almost 
constantly at sea, the mother had preferred 
the quiet of the woods to the noise and bluster 
of New York. 

Hilda went into ecstasies over chairs and 
sofas that had become antique in these very 
rooms. She saw the mother's hand every- 
where, the quiet artistry of a hand guided 
by a noble mind. Hilda romped about the 



rooms with the eager curiosity of a child; 
and it might be truthfully added that 
Mathison romped with her. They were so 
completely in love that they saw beauty in 
everything, in the hard, brilliant sunsets, 
in the Northern Lights, in the yellow dawns. 
Every day they skated or snow-shoed; and 
there was always a roaring chestnut fire to 
greet them. 

And yet there were shadows, deep and 
somber shadows, that fell across the sun- 
shine of their happiness. They never said 
anything about these shadows to each 
other; but always during the hour that 
comes before candles the shadows pressed 
in and down. Hilda could not shut out the 
thought of Berta. Where was she, what 
was she doing? Berta might deny the 
blood, but Hilda could not. Berta was 
her twin. During this twilight hour she 
saw this beautiful counterpart of herself 
moving furtively, flying by night, hiding by 
day, alone, alone; perhaps penniless and 
hungry. When the thought of the way- 
ward one became too strong Hilda sought 
the piano, which she played exquisitely. 

Mathison's shadow lay upon him per- 
petually, but more keenly when he and 



Hilda sat before the fire, waiting for the 
lights. The man Lysgaard had escaped. 
Free! Beaten and to all appearances broken, 
he had escaped on the way to the Tombs. 
A forced pause before a fire in a chemical 
establishment had opened the way for him. 
The crowd, the noise and confusion, and 
the insatiable curiosity and over-confidence 
of his captors had given him his chance. 
The strength of the rogue, after that beat- 
ing! They had left one man in the patrol 
with him, and Lysgaard had suddenly 
dashed his manacled hands into the man's 
face and then choked him into insensibility. 
He had coolly taken the operative's hat 
and overcoat. The latter he had wrapped 
across his shoulders, holding it together 
from the inside. He had then stepped into 
the seething crowd and vanished completely. 
Search for him had been in vain. He had 
probably known where to find a haven. 
The real menace in his being at large lay in 
the fact that undoubtedly he did not know 
that Berta was a twin. He would have 
means of finding what had become of John 
Mathison. He would learn that a woman 
had accompanied his enemy. A trifling 
description of that woman would be enough. 



Being a Prussian, there would be only one 
idea in Lysgaard's head Berta had run 
away with the man who had beaten him. 
Vengeance, before they found him and 
dropped the noose over his head. 

There was a third shadow and they 
shared this mutually if silently Mathison's 
inevitable departure for English waters. 

"John," she said, one afternoon, "I'm so 
happy that it hurts." 

He laughed and swung her into his arms, 
which never ceased to be hungry for her; 
and there was always a sharp little stab 
when he let her go. The hour was fast 
approaching when he would have to let her 
go, perhaps forever. . . . 

" Glorious up here, isn't it?" 

" But why do you bar the windows and 
doors so carefully at night? There can't 
be any burglars in this wilderness, at least 
not in the winter." 

'You never can tell. Sometimes there 
are mighty high winds around these dig- 
gings. You heard how the windows rattled 
last night." Mathison reached for his cup 
of tea. So she had noticed? 

"How your mother must have loved this 



"What makes you think that?" 

"Why, it fairly breathes of love; the 
beauty of all the furnishings and the way 
they are arranged. What fun it must have 
been and you toddling around after her! 
Come; I want to show you something." 
She led over to a corner, and there in a heap 
were rows of battered leaden soldiers, 
twisted leaden swords, and forts of wood. 
"War, battle," went on Hilda, soberly; 
"even as little children. What has hap- 
pened to the souls of men, that from gener- 
ation to generation the male child's toys 
must be these? Must women always suffer 
to see these things about? I found them 
in the garret." 

'Instinct, little old lady. From the day 
one man has had to protect himself and his 
woman, bloodily. We are still doing it, on 
a more terrible scale than ever. Odd, 
I haven't laid eyes on these in twenty 

"How often your mother must have 
watched you there on the floor before the 
fire, playing at war, and your father facing 
death at sea. But oh, lover, lover!" She 
caught him fiercely to her. "In so short 
a time! I haven't said anything, for I did 



not want to mar your happiness. But it is 
hurting so ! Dear God. bring him back to 

"Honey, I'll come back. There isn't a 
shell or a U-boat in the world with my name 
on it. I know it. I hate to have you re- 
turn to the stage, and yet it will be the best 
thing. You'll be busy. Idleness never 
bucks up a person's courage." 

"Hark!" She stepped back from him 
swiftly. "I hear sleigh-bells." She stif- 
fened. Sleigh-bells and yellow envelopes, 
for she knew that Mathison had left orders 
at the station to send out telegrams imme- 
diately they were received. There was no 

"The village grocer, maybe," suggested 
Mathison, himself receiving a shock at the 
sound of the bells. 

"No; he always drives out before noon." 

Hilda ran to the window to peer out, but 
it was too dark for her to see anything dis- 

As for Mathison, he shifted his automatic 
to the right side -pocket of his jacket. 
Merely precautionary; for the man he was 
expecting would not approach the front 
door with such boldness. Yet the man was 



infernally clever in some ways. He was 
likely to do the unexpected. Of course, 
there was always a chance that Lysgaard 
might try to put to sea and put over his 
hour of vengeance until later. There was 
an odd trait in Mathison's character. He 
was always suspicious when events ran 
along too smoothly. His very happiness 
was almost a warning. He had often 
thought of having a Secret Service man 
come up and watch the four trains that 
passed daily; but, being a man of red blood, 
he hated the idea. If Lysgaard succeeded 
in getting through the cordon, he would try 
to find John Mathison. Backed as he was 
by a powerful secret organization, and no 
doubt having John Mathison's dossier in his 
pocket or in his memory, he would not have 
much difficulty in locating the dove-cote. 

"Why, it's a woman!" cried Hilda. 

"A woman? All right. You stay here 
and I'll go to the door." 

He reached the door just as the bell rang. 
The visitor entered without a word and 
raised a thick veil. 

"Well, brother-in-law!" mockingly. 

"Berta?" came a startled voice from the 
doorway leading to the living-room. 

19 281 


"Yes, dear sister, Berta the ghost who 
wants to return to her tomb and can't find 
the way. I smell tea. I'd like a cup." 

Berta passed into the living-room and 
stopped before the burning logs, stretching 
out her hands. The sable coat, once so 
magnificent, was matted and torn, the hat 
bedraggled, the shoes water-soaked and 
cracked; but the fire in Berta's eyes and the 
beauty of her face were still imdimmed. 
What a woman! thought Mathison, thrilled 
in spite of his vague terror. 

Hilda, however, saw only the hunted 
woman, the desperation, the cold, the hun- 
ger. A sign, and she would have opened 
her arms. But Berta was still The Yellow 
Typhoon, harassed but unconquered. She 
tossed her hat and coat upon a chair and 
helped herself to a cup of tea. There was 
evil mischief in her smile. After she had 
drunk the tea. she selected a cigarette and 
lighted it. 

"Ah, that is good! 1 haven't had a 
decent cigarette in four days. The driver 
thought I was you, Hilda. What a God- 
forsaken hole! But it was not so hard to 
find. In your dossier I read it while we 
were entering New York it was recorded 



that you were born here, that it was the only 
home you had. Where would two senti- 
mental fools like you two come for their 
honeymoon? The North is in the blood 
of both of you. A ghost, Hilda; and with 
a wave of your hand my e vanishment. I 
want a passport to Denmark. It will not 
be wise to refuse me. I haven't tried to 
see the mother. We are dead to each 
other; let it be so. But there are other 
ways by which I can twist your heart, my 
beautiful Norma." 

"Don't mind about me, John. You can- 
not hurt me, Berta." 

"I can try. Arrest me and see what will 
come of it. You two have sent to his death 
the only man I ever cared for." 

"He was a murderer!" cried Hilda. 

' ' No ; it was war. What he did was in the 
interest of Germany, and that absolves him." 

"You are not a Prussian ; you are a Dane." 

"My sympathies are with Prussia; and 
that is enough for me. I am the daughter 
of a noble. I did not come here to discuss 
the war. I came to demand help." 

Mathison sighed with relief. The woman 
did not know that her man was at large. 
He played a card in the dark. 



"I purpose to give you up to the authori- 
ties at once/'he said, coldly. 

Berta laughed. "Try it. Do you think 
me such a fool as to come unarmed?" 

"And how might you be armed?" 

"Ask my sister." 

"She is right, John. This would kill my 
mother. But if we secure a passport, what 
is your bond?" 

"The word of Berta Nordstrom. I never 
broke that when once I gave it. Back there 
in New York you spoke of the tomb. All I 
want is to return to it. Let me get to Den- 
mark, and I shall never bother either of you 

Mathison began pacing, his hands behind 
his back, his chin down. Berta eyed him 
with cynical amusement, letting the ciga- 
rette smoke drift up her nostrils. By and 
by she tossed the cigarette into the fire. 

"If I make threats, it is because I have 
to. I am tired. Wait!" She made a 
passionate gesture. "This is no sign of 
weakness. I shall hate you both as long 
as I live. You have forced me to walk 
alone. I don't want to go on fighting any 
more. I want peace and quiet. I shall 
find it where I was born. Get me a pass- 



port and I shall vanish. I have plenty of 
money. Much of it is in the banks in 
Copenhagen. I had always planned to re- 
turn there some day. I can establish 
proofs of my identity and my right to the 
inheritance our mother denied us. Until 
the passport arrives I must abide here, 
however distasteful it may be to you. 
Do you believe it will be pleasant for me? 
Your food will be wormwood, your water 
lees, and your bed will burn me. Odd that 
I should wish to go on, that I should care 
to live. I shaVt disturb your cooing. 
Your maid, who doubtless knows by this 
time that there are two of us, can bring me 
food. I was a fool not to have told him 
that there were two of us; and he may go 
to his death believing that I betrayed him. 
But I have written a letter to Manila ex- 
plaining. Hate you? With every drop of 
blood in me! But get me the passport, 
and I promise to leave you both in peace." 
"Very well," said Mathison, facing her; 
"you shall have it. But for Hilda, I should 
not stir a hand. You are an alien enemy. 
You are dangerous and merciless. You 
have no mercy for your sister, who tried to 
save you; and the word 'mother' means 



nothing to you. You ruined or tried to 
the dearest friend I had. And the man of 
your choice murdered him in cold blood. 
There is a black score against you. But 
because I love your sister beyond ordinary 
man's love, I am going to let you go." 

"Because you are afraid of me," tran- 

" Frankly because I am afraid of you." 

"I hate you. If I had the time and op- 
portunity I would do you all the evil I 
could. You defeated me. But for all that, 
you are a man; and I know men. Hilda, 
will you know how to keep him?" 


"After all, you are not my sister for noth- 
ing. Show me to my room. Have your 
maid bring me up something to eat. I am 
starved. It was such a place to find. 
Cooing doves, in a bleak cage like this!" 

The chamber assigned to her was directly 
over the living-room. After dinner that 
night they heard her walking, walking, walk- 
ing. The Snow-leopard, thought Mathison; 
and because she was the twin of the noble 
woman whose hand was locked in his he 
would have to cheat his government, com- 
mit his first dishonorable deed! For he 



would have to lie and cheat to secure a pass- 
port for Berta Nordstrom. 


"No. I shouldn't go to her, honey. 
Honestly, I can't help it, but I do not trust 
her. I'm afraid of her. The blood no 
longer links you. Forget that part of it. 
She's forgotten it." 

"Will there be trouble in getting her a 

"The trouble is nothing. I've got to lie 
and cheat." 

"We were so happy! My sister, my own 
flesh and blood! I just can't understand 

"No more can I. But the fact remains 
that she is still The Yellow Typhoon. And 
God send she leaves no wreckage here when 
she passes. But what a woman!" 

"That is it. If we could only save her, 
make her see!" 

Mathison stared at the ceiling and shook 
his head. The light thud of shoes contin- 
ued. He walked over to the stand at the 
side of the fireplace and eyed Malachi, who 
was dozing. 

"What a jogging I've given the poor 
little beggar! Malachi?" 



The little green bird opened one eye 
belligerently, and the feathers at the back 
of his neck ruffled. 

" John, why should she tramp like that?" 

"Go to her, honey, if you wish." 

But Hilda's knock on the door was not 

Berta remained in her room all the fol- 
lowing day. The maid reported to her 
mistress that the unwelcome guest spoke 
no words, not even a "thank you." She 
no longer walked the floor, however. 

About eight o'clock that night she came 
unexpectedly into the living-room. Mathi- 
son was putting on a fresh log. Hilda was 
in the music-room, playing Rachmaninoff's 
surging " Prelude." 

"I was cold," said Berta, unemotionally. 

Mathison drew up a chair for her, rather 
clumsily. She sent him a wry little smile 
as she sat down, spreading her fingers. 
After a while she raised her head attentively. 
She was listening to the music. She held 
this attitude for several minutes, then 
propped her elbows on her knees and rested 
her chin in her palms. Hilda played on, 
Chopin, Grieg, Rubinstein. Stonily Berta 
stared into the fire. 


"She plays well ... in the dark, too." 

"She does all things well," said the lover. 
"You are fond of something, then?" 

"Music? Yes. I am fond of many things; 
but I except human beings. You are trying 
to solve the riddle? Don't waste your time. 
I'm a riddle to myself. But for Hilda I 
should have beaten you. Do you know, if 
Hallowell had been weak I should have 
gone out to your villa. I wonder what 
would have happened?" 

"He would have been alive this day," an- 
swered Mathison, grimly; "for we both of us 
would have vacated the premises. Typhoon. 
They named you well. And yet!" 

"Ah, and yet?" Berta looked up. 

"Why not become a friend instead of an 
enemy? You say you want peace and 
quiet after all this stormy life. Why not 
melt a little? I know my wife. She would 
take you in her arms with half a chance." 

"Thanks. Oh, I am not ironic. I mean 
it. But it is impossible. I cannot change 
my nature. There is too much behind me. 
I chose the road I came by. Regret? Re- 
morse? No. To you I am bad; to myself, 
I am only free. . . . Tell her to play that 
Russian thing again. . . . No; I must go my 



chosen way. I am like your parrakeet. 
Sometimes I can be forced to do things, 
but always I am untamable. Get me that 
passport and I will vanish. I have never 
known what it is to be sorry. The faculty 
isn't in me. I am an outcast. I prefer it. 
But I am notahypocrite. I did not come here 
to whine; I came to demand. But I'll 
soften that. Get me out of this country, 
which I despise, and I'll thank you. I was 
not implicated in the killing of your friend. 
Besides, it was war." 

Mathison shook his head. A pagan; that 
was it. He stooped to stir a log and got a 
glimpse of her eyes. They were dry and 
hard. A passport, or was she up to some 
deadly mischief? However quickly he 
might obtain a passport, he knew it would 
not arrive until after he himself had put to 
sea. Berta free and Hilda alone? He 
leaned against the mantel, wondering what 
the end would be. 

There were French doors on the south 
side of the living-room. To the north were 
the original deep-set windows with broad 
seats and heavy shutters. Mathison locked 
up only when about to retire for the night. 
His back was toward the south, so he missed 


the forewarning of the menace. The brass 
knob of one of the doors was turning with 
infinite slowness, a small fraction of an inch 
at a time. If there was any sound, it was 
smothered by the magnificent chords of 
Rachmaninoff's melancholy inspiration. 

Suddenly Berta stood up, covered a yawn, 
and started toward the staircase. She had 
reached the middle of the room, when a 
rush of cold air caused Mathison to turn. 
He saw Lysgaard, his blue eyes burning 
with madness, his cheeks hollow and white 
with fury. There followed two shots, but 
Mathison's was a second too late. Berta's 
hands flew automatically to her breast; 
wide-eyed she stared at Lysgaard for a 
space, then an expression of deep weariness 
settled upon her face. She swayed, her 
knees doubled, and she sank in a huddle 
upon the rug. 

Lysgaard leaned against the wall, grip- 
ping his bloody hand. 

"She had to die! ... She betrayed me!" 
His voice was like f ,hat of a spent runner. 
" You! Sh3 came to you! I meant to kill 
you, too! . . . Gott!" 

For Hilda was standing in the doorway 
to the music-room, clutching the portieres, 



hanging literally to them, in fact, struck by 
that hypnosis with which sudden tragedy 
always benumbs us. She saw the crumpled 
figure on the floor; her husband, tense of 
body, his weapon ready, his face hard and 
merciless; the blond man, sagged against 
the wall, staring with pathetic bewilderment 
not at the woman he had shot, but at her. 
With a supreme effort Hilda threw off the 
spell, ran to her sister and knelt. Berta, 
the little one whom she had always tried 
to shield, for whom she had accepted many 
a buffet, shouldered the charge of many a 

" Berta, Berta!" 

One corner of Berta's lips moved upward 
a touch of the old irony. "My passport 
. . . has come! . . . The mad fool! ... As 
much as I could love any one! . . . Hilda, 
the ghost . . . returns to the . . . tomb!" 
The beautiful head sank grotesquely against 
Hilda's shoulder. The Yellow Typhoon 
had slipped down the Far Horizon. 

"Two!" whispered Lysgaard, thickly. 
"Two! . . . Gott!" He staggered across the 
room. "Two! . . . And she never told me!" 
he babbled in German. He dropped to his 
knees, thrusting Hilda aside; put his sound 


ILJTilda was standing in the doorway, struck by 
L that hypnosis with which sudden tragedy always 
benumbs us. 


arm under the warm, limp body of the 
woman he had called his own. "Berta, 
Berta, little one, I did not know! Ah, God, 
why didn't you tell me? I thought you had 
betrayed me, left me for this Yankee 
swine! . . . Two!" 

Mathison sprang to Hilda, raised her in 
his arms, and pressed her face against his 
shoulder. A miracle had happened. Berta's 
presence here had saved Hilda. That was 
the chief thought in Mathison's mind. 
Closely he pressed the loved one to him, so 
that she might not see the second tragedy, 
should Lysgaard turn upon him. But even 
as he made the movement he saw a strange 
action take place. Berta's body slid slowly 
from Lysgaard's arm. The man's shoulders 
pinched themselves together convulsively 
and his head went back with a spasmodic 
jerk. Then he fell across Berta's body. 
Mathison thought he had fainted, but later 
he learned that the bullet that had shat- 
tered the hand had ricocheted and plowed 
completely through the body. But for his 
tremendous vitality Lysgaard would never 
have reached Berta. 

"Mat! Mat!" shrieked Malachi, across 
the tragic silence. 



A month later on a Friday afternoon- 
Sam Rubin stopped his limousine before 
a handsome apartment building and got out 
briskly. Under his arm was a portfolio. 
He rushed toward the entrance and popped 
into the elevator. As he was a privileged 
character, the maid Sarah admitted him at 
once and indicated that her mistress was in 
the living-room. 

Rubin stepped jauntily along the corri- 
dor, but he stopped at the door. By one 
window he saw the star's mother. She was 
knitting, but her glance was directed toward 
her daughter. 

"Sailorman," said Hilda. 

"Sailorman," repeated Malachi, soberly, 
if huskily. 

"Husband, lover!" 

But Malachi rocked belligerently and fell 
to grumbling. 

"I can't make him say that, mother." 

" He has more serious things on his mind," 
interrupted Rubin, entering. 

Hilda whirled. "Sam Rubin, what have 
you got under your arm?" 

"A bully new play for you; fit you like a 

"I'm so glad! Work, work, work: some- 



thing new and fresh that I can throw my- 
self into!" 

"Well, I've got it right here. What's 
the news?" 

"He's with the convoy." Hilda caught 
her manager by the sleeve and drew him 
over to one of the front windows. "The 
star in the window mine!" 

"You're the finest woman in all this 
world!" said Rubin, soberly. 

Hilda put her hand under the little silken 
banner and raised it to her lips. 


University of California 


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