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-morrow?"
"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 elbow.
"Yes. Here, Miss Farrington; jump into this. Day after to-morrow at four. Good night."
"But you are coming with me!"
"No."
"I say yes!"
"No."
"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 first."
"Agreed!" she cried, readily. She smiledin the dark of the cab. This was exactly what she wanted. Once at the apartment, 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 informed 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 require.
"Step out, both of you, with your hands up—quickly!"
"Do what you think best," she murmured 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, protests, threats? There was always a chance. She was not afraid of pistol-shots, and he ought to know that. Chilled and disappointed, 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 handkerchief.
"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!
"Brandt!"
The chauffeur jumped down from the taxicab.
"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 report.
"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 Farrington'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 irrevocable."
A receipt of deposit! She understood now. A receipt of deposit for that manila envelope. To have come all this way, andthen 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 assistance 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 interrupted. "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 watching or listening."
"I'll keep the coat on." She sat down, trembling.
He began to walk about. From time to time he touched his lips with his handkerchief.
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. Resourceful, he had carried that receipt with him. Her fault, directly and indirectly.His discovery that Norma Farrington—Hilda Nordstrom—and The Yellow Typhoon 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 queerly.
"I mean in real life."
"I never fell in love with any one offstage; so I'm not in a position to speak. The trouble with me is I have a fatal giftof 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 dullness."
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, presenting 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 whitely.
She, watching him, waited for him to carry on. His bent head was so close thatit 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, andconfident!
And then, in one of those blinding ribbons 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 photograph at each end—of himself in mufti and uniform. The Machiavellian cunning of it! Boy! Would she ever be able to call him that again? She thrilled.
"What shall I call you? Lieutenant-commander is so formal and Mister is an abomination."
"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 together."
"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, inconsiderable. 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 theNippon Maruhad passed from his mind. Why not? Why should a young man of thirty keep fresh in his memory an old woman ostensibly sixty? He had found Hilda Nordstrom, and that was sufficient for the present.
"Did I see the red and blue lights of a drug-store down the street as we came along?"
"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 expected 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 managed to throw a bit of gallantry into his bow.
"And how is the jealous husband to-night?"
"He is doing nicely at this moment, thank you. You and the lady are free to go."
"Ah!"
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.
"Hilda?"
Mathison stepped aside, not only physically, but figuratively. He saw that for a little while he was to be an outsider. There was a strange tragedy here, and it was going to be threshed out immediately. The attitude of the two women was a dead reckoning that there were accounts to settle. Already they seemed to have forgotten him.
Of course he had known, or at least suspected, 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 restless, 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 beautiful 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 shattered 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, alwaysbearing 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 realize 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.
"Who was it we buried?" repeated Hilda.
Berta frowned. Eight years, a long time to remember the trivial incidents associated with the abandonment of her people. 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!'"
"Then don't waste your breath, Hilda. Shame? I am my father's daughter, and I take what pleases me when and where Ifind it. I ran away because I was tired of poverty, tired of you all. I hated you because 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 circumstances. Love my mother? Love anything? 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 intoanother 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 letting 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 Hallowell's death?"
"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. Iaccept. 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 sermon? 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 celebrity, rich and famous! Oh, if I but had the time!"
"To injure me? You will not find it, Berta."
"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, sister."
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 sidewalk, shadowy to each other in the blinding snow.
Straightway Mathison put his arm 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 laughing. 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 inher 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 voice.
"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 sorry."
"That my feet are wet or that the woman you know as The Yellow Typhoon is my twin sister? Why 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 always calculated. For days I've been dreading the encounter, dreading yet courting it. It was inevitable. Flesh and blood! WhatwasGod's idea? My poor mother! She has been through so much; and now thismust 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 discarded her. Is there anything in prenatal influence? They say not. Yet look at Berta! My father's soul. I don't understand! brokenly.
"I am terribly sorry. Animpasse; 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 cannot. 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 liberate. I am desperately sorry. She is the wife or companion of the man I believekilled 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 gods?"
"If it is proven she had nothing to do with Hallowell's 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. Isawit, 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 splendid—American! That envelope! The tameness of your surrender hurt. I did not understand 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 wentat 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 cannot prove that it was in his possession. The theft of the receipt constitutes a military 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?"
"No."
"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 inquisitive."
"And will you do me a favor?"
"Ask it."
"Let me see it through."
"You mean, go back with me to the hotel?"
"Yes."
"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? Andyet, on board theNippon 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 telephoning. I'll round up a taxi. The boy is making you a cup of hot chocolate. Better drink it."
"Oh."
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 him?"
"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 forget Malachi."
He wondered if she realized how easilythat 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 it."
"Yes, sir. I was waiting for you," replied the clerk, with subdued excitement. "The man who presented the receipt is in charge in your rooms." He returned shortly with the envelope.
Mathison crumpled it into a pocket. "Of course you understand that all these mysterious actions have to do with the government 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 thudas the chair-back hit the wall or the forelegs 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 Service operative's chair; and out of this sound developed a daring campaign for liberty. Because he had surrendered docilely, without a sign of protest or struggle, he was confident 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 occasionally 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 thoroughly out of joint with the world. Roomsthat 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 bathroom.
"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 unbelievable 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 butgarroting 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 happened to the operative by the window, dumfounded by the daring and suddenness of the attack. As he threw himself forward the second time violently the automatic slipped. He caught it, but not quick enough.
"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 arrived, 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 forward.
"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 thoroughness 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 thepockets 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 belongings 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. Instinctive 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 nowadayscall 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 Mathison'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 sportsmanship. 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 hand.
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 over.
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 binding his wrists. Finally he managed to get to his feet, only to be hurled against the wall.
The inconvenience of these obstacles, animate and inanimate, reacted against Mathison as often as it did against hisenemy; and one time Mathison was borne back against the foot-rail of the bed. But a violent thrust of his knee extricated him.
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 fisticuffs. 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 must.
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 killing 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 Mathison 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 Malachi!... 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 berserker lust to kill evaporated, leaving him cold and sick. The revelation that the name ofthe murderer was Lysgaard was insignificant 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 operatives.
"Escaped?"
"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 walls.
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 fearless and beautiful ... and absolutely lawless. He could not stir up a bit of hatred. She had broken Bob Hallowell's heart, and yet John Mathison could only admire herstrength 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 depend, though, upon the woman waiting down-stairs.
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 Hallowell's specifications in an ordinary manila envelope, depositing it when I stopped at a hotel, letting everybody 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 aforerunner 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 compelled 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, supported, 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 services would always depend upon the fact that her activities were practically unknown. 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, interminable monotony and maddening thoughts.It was horrible. And she, Hilda, could do nothing. Berta merited whatever punishment 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 connecting link? Yet, if so, why had she notfeltthat 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 something 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 complete the run because her word had never been broken. She could not possibly findit 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 appeared 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 forgotten 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 merely to pass the time and to keep the conversation 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 forehead with his free hand. The movement left a bloody smear.
She flew to him and cried, in passionate anger, "The beast has hurt you!"
"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 Malachi 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 please."
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 return.
She ran back for his greatcoat, held it for him and noted the grimace as he stretched his arms backward for the sleeves.
"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 episode unforgettable 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 hermother'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 away.
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 mollycoddle 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 knuckles, 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 IknowI'm coming back.... Where's this man Rubin live?"
"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," ruminatingly. "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 reassuringly.
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 over?"
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 number. 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. Whatcouldhe 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 ... youknewit! What do you mean?... All right."
She turned to Mathison. "I have him."
Mathison managed to lift himself to amore 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?... Well, by George, that's handsome! I thought you were a good sport. Buy out the house for exactly what it would be worth. Comearound 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 softly.
"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'vegotto love me. You'vegotto 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 theNippon Maru, but my heart did. My eyessaw 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?"
"No!"
"What?"
"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 you!"
"For what?"
"You told Rubin before you toldme!"
"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 it!"
"Boy!" she whispered.
The way she had always dreamed of being loved. Berserker love! To be swept off her feet and carried away to an enchanted palace! That little magic green feather! Malachi! She pressed her cheek against this wonderful lover's and her hand instinctively found his.
"Mat, you lubber!" grumbled Malachi, from the rosy hearth.