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

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

Never would he forget the shame and misery, the horror of that night in the Grand Hotel in Yokohama. The brazenness of that confession—on the first night of his honeymoon! He was free, yes, but he would never be able to blot out that infernal night. Well, he had her. She should leave Manila on the first ship that left port; it did not matter whether it went north or east. If she proved obdurate, he would have her arrested. He would fight her tooth and nail. The world had changed since that night. The old order had gone to smash since August, 1914. Traditions had been badly mauled by necessities. Such a scandal, in which he had been merely the dupe, would scarcely leave a ripple in passing. Who would care, these tremendous times?

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

"Come in!"

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

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

What he saw was a woman of medium height, slender but perfectly molded, young, beautiful, exquisite. Her hair was the color of spun molasses, lustrous because the color was genuine. Her eyes were velvety purple. The skin was milk-white, with a hint of peachblow under the eyes and temples. The marvel of her lay in the fact that she never had to make up. The devil had given her all those effectives for which most women strive in vain. Innocence! She might have stepped out of one of Bouguereau's masterpieces. At one corner of her mouth was the most charming mole imaginable. You might look at her nose, her eyes, the curve of her chin, but invariably your glance returned to the mole. The devil's finishing-touch; it permitted you to see the mouth indirectly, and you lost the salient—a certain grim, cruel hardness.

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

"Well?" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Take care, Berta! Don't waste those tears! In your eyes they are pearls without price. Don't waste them on me."

"Then you won't forgive?"

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

"Ah! Then it is war?"

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

How she hated this man! Hated him because she had never beaten him, never seen him cringe nor heard him plead. She, too, would remember that night in Yokohama, six years gone. After the blow, silence, not a word or a look. Stonily he had packed up his belongings and gone to the Yokohama Club, whence he had gone aboard a cruiser in the morning. Since that moment until this she had never laid eyes on him. Every six months a check came; but even that lacked his signature—a draft from Cook's. War! So be it. He would learn when she began to turn the screws.

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

"Acknowledge you ... what?"

"As your wife!" stormily.

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

"And how will you prove it?"

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

"And if I refuse?"

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

"Bigamy!"

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

Then he did something that he afterward regretted. But malice burned so hotly in his veins that he could not resist the impulse. He walked over to her and, before she could comprehend his purpose, swept her into his arms, held her tightly for a moment, and kissed her, her eyes, her lips, her throat. Then he flung her roughly back upon the divan, stalked from the room, and closed the door with an emphasis which proclaimed that it was to stand between them eternally. Once he reached the street, he spat and rubbed his lips energetically.

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

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

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

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

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

A man stepped from behind the screen. He was notable for three things, his bulk, his straw-colored hair, and the pleasant expression of his smooth, ruddy face. The ensemble was particularly agreeable. But in detail, somehow, the man lost out. There wasn't enough skull at the back of his head, his eyes were too shallow, there was a bad droop to his nether lip. For all these defects, everything about the man suggested power—power never wastefully applied.

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

"Yes."

"And you let him go?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What! Among the natives?"

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

"Hush!"

"All right." The man switched into Danish. "These American swine don't shoot spies; they arrest them and let them out on bail. Ye gods! But I say, I've got a little surprise for you. Remember those sables I smuggled in last spring? Well, Wu Fang is making them into a coat that will be worth seven thousand in the States."

"Manchurian!" disdainfully.

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

"For how long?"

"Perhaps two weeks."

"Something of naval importance," she mused.

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

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

"Something like that."

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

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

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

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

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

"And you've been successful for one reason only."

"And what is that?"

"Naval officers, English and American, proud and inherently afraid of scandal. You may thank God you never tried your game on a man of my kidney. Your pretty neck would have twisted long ago. Mark me, Berta, you are mine. Never try to play any of those tricks on me. If you do I'll kill you with bare hands. To you I am a reliable business partner; to me you're the one woman. Remember that. You hold me because you are always a bit of mystery. What's behind that day in San Francisco when you decided to cast your lot with mine? More than seven years gone, and I've never found out. Some man, and because he did not give you a square deal—all these wrecks."

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

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

"I have your promise in regard to him."

The man laughed. "That's one of your charms—you stick it out. What are you—German, Dane, Finn? To this day I don't know. But always keep in your pretty head that you are mine. Marry them, kiss them, and say good-by; but always recollect that I'm under the latticed window. After all, it's just as well that you didn't go out to San Miguel. The captain has a partner. He'd have been too much for you."

"In what way?"

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

"Rich and handsome," she said, ruminatingly.

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

"A handsome young man with money and a talking parrakeet!" The woman began to laugh. "I never heard anything like that before. I am interested. What's he look like?"

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

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

"Well?"

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

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

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