"I'll look you over first."
"Here's his gat, Murphy," said the house detective.
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 admit you are 'Black' Ellison?"
"Yes." Anything to get back into the room!
"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 floor.
"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, unlockedit 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 Mathison, dully.
"What's hit this room, then—an earthquake?"
"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 emboldenedhim to leave the security of the car, but it wasn't reachable. The want of sleep? The craving for exercise? Mere bewilderment? 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 confidence in himself; and at present it did not look as if John Mathison would go abroad with that. He might re-establish thisquality, 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 speaking!
Malachi, tremendously agitated, was climbing up to his swing and down to his perch. The incredible had happened. Suggestion. Once before the bird had witnessed a confusion in the making, something like this.
"Mat!... Malachi!" he wailed.
Then came a jumble of phrases in polyglot, 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 invain. 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 kick?"
"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 hell I couldn't! What are they, pro-Germans from that dear Chicago?"
"No."
"Well, I'll 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 inside of an hour! Mathison lighted his pipe.
Murphy did not touch anything. He seemed to be thinking rather than observing. 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-fest, 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 thefire-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 interesting; all in the tracks." He had determined 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 yours?"
"Yes."
"You are an officer in the United States navy?"
"I am."
"Well, well! Now there's some reason to all these fireworks. War stuff!"
"You might call 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."
"No."
"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 questions. I know a fighting-man when I see him. A fighting-sailor with a talking parrot! 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 voice.
"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.
"Shoe-strings!" he yelled.
"What now?" demanded the house detective, 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 Macedonian shoeblack and get two pairs of shoe-strings and a punch. Hustle!"
"Shoe-strings!" Michaels the house detective 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 murmured. 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 Detective 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 desk.
"My bill," said Mathison. He had decided to return to the train.
"What?" The poor clerk stared at Murphy 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 corner of the cashier's cage. When he finally presented 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 hesaidhe was the other fellow!"
"Well, Jack likes his joke."
"I wanted to get back to my room," interposed Mathison, taking pity on the clerk's bewilderment. "There's been a misunderstanding all round. Keep the change and buy yourself some cigars with it."
As Mathison and the detective disappeared through the revolving doors the clerk turned to the cashier. "Keep your eye on things for a while. I'm 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 aboutsleepily. "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 happened 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. Truthfully, I had expected to spend the night in jail."
The porter's ears twitched.
The two men shook hands, and Mathison vanished behind the door of his compartment. 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.
Mathison undressed slowly. He was still hypnotized to a certain extent by the several amazing events of the night. From the shadowy corners of the compartment the woman's face persisted in appearing, 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 wordKamerad. Soon the number on his free-board would spellTerror.
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 yellow 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 echo.
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 accomplish. If the woman's tempestuous actions had awakened the bird's recollection, 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 feeling as keen mentally as ever, and his keenness had been only superficial. He had sought the open without any definite campaign. 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. Mathison 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 outside 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."
"Allthe 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' 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 Flynn."
"Describe him."
"Big, hair pale yelluh, nice-lookin' an' friendly."
Mathison wondered if he wasn't asleep. With the manila envelope and the red bookin 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' ansuh."
"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 continent, 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 number 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 him.
"Has the Secret Service man asked my name?"
"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."
"I undahstan', suh."
"Then I'll have my breakfast."
On the wall-hook in compartment 6 hung a beautiful rose-kimono. There are thousands 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 graceful body of The Yellow Typhoon. Shewound 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 Chicago.
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."
"Yes'm."
"I note that you wear a Liberty Bond button."
"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 gentleman in compartment one. I am trustingyou because I have to. It is military. If you fail to deliver it you betray your country, 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 permit 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 delivering this box to the man in compartment 1.
"Fo' de lan' 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 tragic.
"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 two.
"Here, here. Stop that lingo! It sounds too much like German, and we'll be held up. Mother Nordstrom, youmustremember!"
"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 Bretonmaid—were soon in the comfortable limousine 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 kind."
"It was a narrow squeak this time. Wrecks, delays, snow, and all that."
"How do you feel?" anxiously.
"Splendid!"
"Letter-perfect?"
"Never doubt it!... New York!... Home! The glorious noise of it! The magnificent hurry!... Where are we going to eat?"
"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, without 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 evena 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 actress.
"Sarah," said the mother to the Breton maid, "have you taken good care of my Hilda?"
"She's been a trump, mother!" interrupted 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 Road.
In a little while all these momentous events would become a vague memory tohim. 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 clinging to his shoulder! And then that night, when he told her of his promise to his mother.... The tenderness of his voice! "Am I 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 companions. 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 happiness to prevent the ghost from re-entering 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.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 berth."
"What was it you wanted?"
"Wanted?" The woman raised the veil above her lips. "I haven't wanted anything."
"But you came and got my keys!"
"I ... what? I don't know what youare 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 didnot!" 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 it?"
"Are you mad or am I?... I 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! Isawyou! The rose-kimono; it wasyou!"
"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 obeyed.
"What's that under your arm?" demanded 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 like?"
"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 sawyou! 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....Yours!" ominously.
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 lan'!" he broke off.
"What's the matter?" asked Mathison, eying the box curiously.
"Dem regimentals! Is yo' an officer in denavy?"
"Yes, George. What's this box? Where did you get it?"
George jerked his thumb toward the partition.
"The woman next door?"
"Yes, suh!"
"She gave it to you forme?" 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 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 grateful 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 Typhoon 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 undeveloped sea-offensive—which he still had by the hair—was to his mind, obsessed with a single idea, an affair of secondary importance.
Draw the hand strongly across the surface 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 themwith the stupidity of carrying so dangerous a thing as that blue-print. In their place he would have mailed it from San Francisco, 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 theirs.
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 outside 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 andhold. An overt act, culpable legally. And The Yellow Typhoon herself had restored the means.
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 neverreadof one her match.
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 head.
"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 envelope, 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 excitement. 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 thekit-bags and distributed the contents into drawers and closets.
Afraid. The Yellow Typhoon was afraid! Or was it Hallowell!—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 himself—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 description of the woman known as TheYellow Typhoon!... Absurd! It was not within reason. Some twist, some legerdemain the photograph had given it. The shadows; these had something to do with it. Norma Farrington, The Yellow Typhoon? 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?... Sheis?... What theater?... Thanks!" Mathison got out the little red book with trembling 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 consulted the time; it was seven-fifty.
He became a whirlwind. He flew down-stairs and plunged toward the revolving doors.
"Taxi!"
The vehicle was forthcoming instantly, due to his visored cap, gold bands, and star. He jumped into the taxi, naming a theaterup-town. He paid a speculator five dollars for the only seat left—Q, center. As he was late, he had to navigate through channels 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. Occasionally 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 trying 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 demure—mischievously demure. The audience 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.
As 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 sesame.
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 manager, coolly. "Anchor afoul my unlighted sign?"
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, ironically. "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 resentment 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 manager, 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 Mathison'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 nowaccounted 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 contract. 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 dollars 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 Farrington's dressing-room. And here is something 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!"
"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 it."
"Well, what do you know about that?"
Mathison returned to his seat, apologizing to every one so courteously and agreeably that even the men forgave him. He was quite calm now. All incertitude was gone; heknew. The Yellow Typhoon was in a house in Fiftieth Street, and Norma Farrington was yonder on the stage, delighting his eyes, thrilling his ears. The wonder of her! God bless her, she had tried to save Bob Hallowell 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 Joyousness. It radiated from her into the audience. Faces all over the house werebeaming, not with merriment, but with good humor.
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 thecomédiennetensely, 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. All 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 went!"
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 interest you in the least."
"Not unless Isawit. 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 anynotice 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?" casually.
"What we sailors call thick weather." No questions; just an ordinary, every-day query about the weather. No confusion. "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; certainly not that feather. He was no brother to the Cumæan 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 dénouement might break at any moment. To save Berta, not for Berta's sake, but for the mother's.
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 in the corner by the door. Take it."
Outside, he put up the umbrella; and as she took his arm she knocked against something heavy and hard in his pocket.
"What is that?"
"Part of a sailor's paraphernalia."
"It is not over yet?" with sudden suspicion.
"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 restaurant, which was a famous one.
She selected it tactfully, solely on his account. 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 sailorman 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 littleunder this patent interest in his lovely companion.
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 Mathison 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 man, 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 approached 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. Perhaps Mathison had not seen him actually. Anyhow, he did not intend to risk the future to satisfy a curiosity which was only negligible. 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.
"I'll see it before I sail."
"Then you weren't in the theater to-night?"
"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 port."
"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 indescribably beautiful. Fire! Dawns,sunsets, moonlight; all the flashing gems in the world, moving, circling, advancing, retreating. 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 description 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 inquisitiveness intrigued her beyond expression. 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 after a few phrases he veered away from this. He spoke of the snow, how he longed for the north country of late, howhe 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 me!"
"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? Whatwashe talking about?
"You found me by that? But you did nothearthat!"
"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 dénouement she wanted; he had found her quite ordinarily. Yet she could not make him out. This was not the man she had known on theNippon Maru, the boy who had been like crystalor 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 curiosity? 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 understand."
"What?"
"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 service!"
"It would be useless to deny it." She leaned on her elbows, locking her ringless fingers under her chin. "It's not generallyknown, 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 seeking. He would satisfy his curiosity, disperse 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 slightest hint of what was on foot and she might seek to intervene, with the best of intentions, and spoil everything. But day afterto-morrow—when he returned from Washington!
"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 measure."
He held the sable coat for her, particularly 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 after.
"I'll tell you. In a little while I shall be in the thick of it. I may not come back. In my room at the hotel I've a little Rajputana 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. "To me?" 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.