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

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

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

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

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

Hallowell was the dreamer, the thinker. He was short, thick, rugged, and a trifle gray. His head and short beard were shot with silver, though his mustache was still black. There was something about him that reminded you of the gorilla. You were likely to carry this idea in your head until you knew him; then you understood that he was in the same category as the St. Bernard—the gentlest and friendliest dog in the world until thoroughly aroused. They called him a woman-hater with some justice, though no one in official Manila ever learned the true facts, not even Mathison, who surmised that Hallowell had run afoul some worthless woman and had got past the reefs by a hair.

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

Woman-shy, they called him, because they could find no other suitable name for the puzzle. He was always courteous when, by those accidents of chance called official receptions, he found himself among women. But there was always a cold reserve the brightest eyes could not batter down. Rest assured, there were many feminine campaigns. He was the combination of two things women prize highly, greedily or sentimentally—money and good looks.

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

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

After this exposition, it sounds odd to remark that Mathison was as full of romance as a Chinese water-chestnut is of starch; that his day-dreams were peopled with lovely women. He never saw a beautiful woman that he did not immediately clothe her in his colorful imagination. He rescued her from Chinese pirates, he was shipwrecked and cast away on a desert island with her, he tore her from the hands of brigands or the latticed window of some rajah's haremlik; and he always married her in the end. Everything in him inclined toward the companionship of women, and he had built a Chinese wall around this inclination.

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

You never get deeply into a naval officer's character by rubbing elbows with him in wardrooms or officers' clubs. If you want to know the real man, go down into the boiler-rooms, the gun-rooms, anywhere but the quarter-deck. The rough-necks will tell you. They sometimes weigh you with a glance. Two things they require of you—absolute justice and firmness. That was Mathison to his men; and he always backed these attributes with a smiling eye. There was something in the snap of his voice that inclined men to obey him at once, without question; not that they were afraid of him, but that they knew he was right. In the navy—in all navies—there are underground wireless stations. A man's reputation travels from ship to ship, and when an officer is transferred the men try him out just to see if his crown is of tinsel or of gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wave of shame ran over him. He would never forgive himself for that violence. Not that he felt any pity toward the woman. The act had lowered himself eternally in his own eyes; the luster was gone from his self-esteem. He had kissed another man's wife, not his own. And what was worse, she might interpret the act as a sign that he still cared for her and try to re-enter his life at some later day. Fool! A mad impulse to hurt her, and he had hurt only himself. Well, the damage was done; berating his folly would not wipe it off the slate.

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

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

"Still in town, then?"

"Sir ...!"

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

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

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

What followed, the marine himself recounted at mess that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'He's not married, then?'

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

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

"'That's him, miss.' Then I freezes up a bit, rememberin' orders. I'm t' report anybody who asks questions about ol' Pop. But I tumbles that she ain't no officer's wife or nothin', an' I asks what he'd said to her.

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

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

"Sarah we must leave here at once. Pack."

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

"Yes. And until I give you further orders never speak my name. Always call me madame. Be on your guard about this. I'm very fond of you, and I've let you have your way often. It may be a matter of life and death. We shall dine here in the room. Have a carriage at the curb at six-thirty. Fortunately our heavy luggage went on. When you pack the steamer-trunk, lay all the darker and heavier things on top. And the box of make-up where I can reach it handily. I have decided to grow old quickly. I understand, Sarah. You are becoming bewildered. No less so am I."

"Madame's nerves...."

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

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

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

"Oh, madame, who would not be patient with you? I am French; we know what the word gratitude means. Command me; I obey. But yes! Here is a cable for you, madame. I will go order the dinner and the carriage."

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

The Yellow Typhoon! They called her that, strange men, in Yokohama, Tokio, Hong-Kong, Shanghai; and always with that air men use toward women of a certain type. Everything in her called out wildly for vengeance, reprisal; and she was bound tragically, inconceivably, like a dreamer in the mesh of some monstrous nightmare.... To stamp on her as he would a cobra, if he found her! Helpless; all she could do to defend herself would be to move on, hide. That was what galled her; she could not retaliate. But one thing she could do—forestall, anticipate, nullify. And oh! she would do that with all the strength and cunning she possessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The SeÑor Morgan!"

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

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

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

"That is impossible."

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

"She? Oh, that was not the Nordstrom woman. No one here has seen this woman's face. She wears a veil always, and dines in her room."

"Bring her down."

"But, seÑor, she left at six-thirty."

"What? Where did she go?"

"That I don't know."

"The devil! Any man with her?"

"No, seÑor. Shall I take you to her room?"

"No. She fooled you."

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

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

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

"All right. If I find you haven't told me the truth, we'll lock up the place. You are not very good Americans around here. Good night." Outside in the street Morgan of the Intelligence—who switched from uniform to mufti frequently—pushed back his hat, perplexed. "Two? Impossible! A trick. I'll set a man to watch. I'll quiz that marine again. If he didn't describe the Nordstrom woman, I'll eat my hat!"

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

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