Mathison fought nausea, terror; fought the paralysis gathering in his legs, and pushed through the curtain, feeling along the wall for the key-button to all the lights. He blinked a moment in the glare that followed. Then, whichever way he looked—havoc!

The long table, the stands and chairs overturned, the phonograph-record files empty and flung about, the glass in the bookcases shattered and the books in a helter-skelter, the top of the piano swept clear of Hallowell's antique bronzes, drawers out, papers and blue-prints scattered everywhere—and the quiet form of his friend on the floor!

"Bob?" cried Mathison, the anguish of that moment the greatest he had ever known. "Bob?... God in heaven!"

He knelt. Dead. The body was still warm. Fifteen or twenty minutes ago Hallowell had been alive.... The length of a pair of coat-sleeves—an infinitesimal thing like that! Mathison strangled the great, heaving sob. A pair of coat-sleeves.... The irony of it! But for a trifle like that he would have been home in time, and this would never have happened.... Bob!

Slowly Mathison rose. The anguish, the tenderness, slowly left his handsome face. It became hard, a little older, and there flashed from his eyes a relentless fury. He neither cursed nor gesticulated; all his subsequent acts were quiet ones. He prowled about the room, his scrutiny that of a man who knew how to hunt for little things; but he found nothing which would indicate the identity of the assailants.

A foot or so beyond the Bokhara lay a small bronze elephant, one of Hallowell's paper-weights. Mathison did not touch it; he would never be able to touch that again.

Bob Hallowell, matey, straight and loyal and brave!—done to death in this fashion! Mathison leaned against the jamb of the door, his face in the crook of his elbow. The one human being he had loved in years—as men sometimes love each other! And while he had been fussing over the sleeves of a civilian's coat, Bob had sobbed out his life on the floor there! It was not the end itself, it was the manner of the end that was so horrible. Bob, who had always prayed that he might die at sea!

Mathison flung his arm from his eyes. The woman in the white pith helmet! But immediately he dismissed this idea. There had been no woman here. Only three men or more could have beaten down Hallowell, who was tremendously strong and active. God, what a fight it had been! and in the end—probably as he was getting the best of it—some one had struck him down from behind. And he had crawled toward the dining-room; for there was a sinister trail across the grass matting. Dying, he had crawled toward the dining-room. Why?

In God's name why had he not let them search? The uselessness of it! He had thrown away his life to justify an instinct—the active resentment of a brave man against permitting alien hands to meddle with his belongings. Bob had always been without guile, moral resiliency; like a bulldog, he had never retreated, stepped back.

"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?... Malachi!" Once more that singular wail.

Mathison shuddered. It was horrible to hear the bird scream these familiar words. All at once he was struck by an oddity. Malachi had never wailed his name like that before; whenever he uttered it he did so briskly and cockily. The sight of a blue-print, however, caused Mathison's thought to switch instantly into another channel.

No. 9! Now he understood why Bob had fought. Swiftly Mathison sifted the prints—old ones Hallowell had probably been mulling over. No. 9 was not among them. Still, to make sure, he opened the wall safe behind the piano. This was empty except for a small red book such as men use to carry addresses in. He restored the prints to their hiding-place, but he retained the book. No. 9, with all Hallowell's new annotations and computations, in the hands of the enemy! What if they had no key-print? What mattered it if they could not apply the principle, so long as they understood that this menace existed, of what it comprised?

"Damn them all into the blackest depth of hell—the low, murderous sneaks!"

Once more the militant sailor, he stepped to the telephone which was attached to the wall and took down the receiver. He stared blankly into the black cup of the transmitter and slowly replaced the receiver on the hook. Wires cut, outside somewhere, and all official Manila to be notified at once of the double catastrophe! He would be obliged at once to run down to the governor's bungalow.

A sickening weakness swept over him again. He reached blindly around for a chair, righted it and sat down, with his head in his hands. He would have to get a good grip on himself before starting out. After a while he raised his head and kept his gaze upon the walls of the room, with strange detachment noted many of the curiosities which sailors pick up in Oriental ports, not for their intrinsic value, but for their associations. A good deal of it was junk, from a collector's point of view; but Mathison knew that there was not money enough in the world to buy a single blade, pistol, bird wing, butterfly, claw. He would keep them always.

It was dreadful to sit there, blinking and choking and trying not to look. It was almost as if the body cried out: "Look at me! Look at me!" A terribly compelling attraction! Damn them! They had ransacked the room while Bob lay there sobbing out his life.

Air! The room was stifling him. He staggered out to the east veranda. Here he fell to pacing and gradually his strength returned.

"Malachi!" cried the parrakeet, but briskly now. The sound of one of his masters moving about reassured him; for these odd little ringnecks recognize their friends even as dogs recognize theirs.

But the living master no longer heeded. Up and down the veranda Mathison strode, his step now springy and noiseless. He was in full command of his faculties. From time to time he made gestures; they were catlike. To tear, bruise, rend! A cold berserker rage had taken possession of him, one of those upheavals of hate which, instead of blinding, clarify, the fires of which burn steadily until the end is attained. Only strong natures are capable of sustaining it. Mathison saw the future with astonishing clearness. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!

"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?" called Malachi.

This time Mathison heard with comprehension. He paused, struck by a singularly bizarre thought. Malachi! Supposing that was it? Supposing Hallowell had called out to Malachi the name of the man? A chance shot in the dark that the bird might remember and repeat it?

This trend of cogitation was interrupted by a furious ringing of the gate bell.

The visitor proved to be Morgan of the Intelligence. He was out of breath from running.

"Anything wrong in these diggings?"

"Hallowell is dead," said Mathison, gravely.

"The devil! Murdered?"

"Yes."

"I knew it! I felt it in my bones. Always something on this order when she passes. And like a yokel, I let her slip through my fingers!... Hell!"

"No woman did this."

"Actually, no; potentially, yes."

"How did you learn anything was wrong? The telephone wire has been cut."

"She came along in a carriage. Stopped just as I was about to enter the governor's bungalow. Said she'd seen men fighting here—shadows on the curtain. And I let her get away!"

"In a white pith helmet?" asked Mathison, with the first sign of eagerness he had shown.

"Yes. Been hunting all over town for her. You saw her, then?"

"Just as I left the trolley."

"Get a good look?"

"No. Light clothes and pith helmet gave me the impression that she might be young."

"Young," mused the Intelligence man, ironically. "Well, yes; young and beautiful and the innocent expression of a child, with the heart of a hell-cat. I pick up lots of odds and ends in my business, unofficial stuff. This female once tried to wreck Hallowell; and she never forgave him for having a spine."

"She?"

"Yes. Ever heard of a woman called The Yellow Typhoon?"

"No," said Mathison, after a moment.

"Well, perhaps a man like you wouldn't. But ask the gay lads from Yokohama to Shanghai, and they'll tell you Typhoon is a happy choice.... God's name, look at this room! What a fight!... And I stood yawping while she ran away again! Well, she sha'n't get outside the Bay. You may lay to that. Now then, anything missing?"

"A blue-print, relative to the U-boat business."

"But I thought that completed and out of the way!"

"It is; but Bob had some ends to tighten up.... My God, Morgan, they struck him from behind! He was beating them off, and they struck him from behind!"

"Buck up, Mathison! You mustn't let this get you. There's a whale of a man's job in front of you. Uncle Sam's depending on you to get to Washington. Don't let this get to your nerves.... Old Bob Hallowell! I'll round up the suspects. I'll crucify them, but some one will speak. How valuable was the print?"

"It will give them an idea of what they'll be up against, and that will rob the thing of fifty per cent. of its value. The surprise will be gone."

"I see. Bad business. They'll try to get East; Mexican wireless. Well, it will take a clever man or woman to slip through my net; and I'll settle it inside an hour. I suppose they came by the river. We'll take a look-see there later. Remember this is ordinary burglary with murder. It won't do to let the public know that anything serious has happened to our war plans."

"My friend!... And he was so happy to have done something for his country!"

"But keep hold of yourself. Don't let this break you down. It's up to you to make Hallowell's plans good. Keep that in your head."

"'The Yellow Typhoon.'"

"That's the name. I'll describe her later. Where's your servant?"

"Out.... An eye for an eye!"

"That's the way to talk!" said Morgan, patting Mathison on the shoulder. "And nothing will hurt the Hun so much as your safe arrival in Washington.... Poor devil!" he added, under his breath.