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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hallowell nodded.

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

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

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

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

"That's odd! This very day I tapped him on the subject and he's crazy to get out here."

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

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

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

"Yes."

"How are you going to carry them?"

Mathison laughed. "Not even to you, Bob. But these little blue-prints of yours are going to Washington. Fire and water and poison gas won't stop me. This is going to be rather an unusual stunt. The moment I land in San Francisco I shall be under the friendly shadow of the greatest organization of its kind in the world—the Secret Service. When I step from the ship I shall wear a little green ribbon; from train to train I shall wear it. I sha'n't know anything about it, but those boys will have their eyes upon me. Simple; can't fail. At any time, if I'm in trouble, all I've got to do is to set up a yodel and the trouble is eliminated. On the other hand, I'm going to stay snug in my cabin. I'm not going to stick my head out until I step from one train to another. On board the Maru, however, I've got to depend upon myself. The thing has got about, Bob. I don't mean my end of it. It's got about that you've done a big thing. I've a strong idea that I'm being watched."

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

"When will you have the extra stuff ready?"

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

"Honestly, Bob, I'm worried about that print being here in the house. I don't trust Paolo. He's Spanish; and while the European Spaniard has forgotten, the Philippine Spaniard still covertly hates us."

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

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

The two men laughed.

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

"Would you like him?"

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

"He's yours."

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

"He's served his turn. He amused me when I hadn't any one to talk to. He's yours as much as mine, anyhow. He talks for you as much as he does for me. Besides, the poor little beggar hates the sea. If I took him aboard the destroyer he'd break his neck trying to keep on his perch."

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

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

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

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

"I'll be here," replied Hallowell, "waiting for you. Though I may turn in any time later than nine. So long."

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

His tailoring required more time than he had made allowance for; the Chinaman hadn't made the coat-sleeves quite short enough. Thus, when he stepped off the trolley-car which bisected the street less than a quarter of a mile from the villa—a five minutes' walk, tonicky on glorious nights like this—it was nine-twenty by his wrist-watch.

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

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

The carriage came thundering on. The driver was standing up. As it rattled past—on the two port wheels—Mathison had a glimpse of the passenger. A woman! And she was holding on for dear life. He gathered one vague impression—that she was young.

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

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

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

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

He climbed the stairs silently and went to his room. He did not cross the center of the house to accomplish this; he merely followed the veranda corridor. He tossed his cap on the bureau, yawned luxuriously, for he was tired, and sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes; but he immediately ceased all movement. The parrakeet was talking—vulgar Hindustani and equally vulgar English.

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

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

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

A word about this parrakeet. He was well known in Manila, at least among the younger officers in the navy and the army stationed there. Certain parrots and parrakeets talk fluently. The brain, about the size of your finger-tip, is memory in the concrete. Men of science are still pulling their beards over the talking parrot, but their phrases haven't fooled anybody; they are just as much in the dark as you and I. The birds are childlike in some respects. You teach the feathered emeralds this or that; and then, some day, in trying to show them off, they confound you (and regale your company) by rattling the family skeleton. Like children, they store away a good many things not intended for their ears.

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

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

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

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

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

In the center of that magic pool of moonshine was a hand, sinisterly inert.