For a space Mathison did not stir. There was something hypnotic in this singular visitation, but it was physical rather than mental. He stared at the blank square of the window as Medusa's victims must have stared at her—stonily. Morgan had described the woman minutely, and out of these substances and delineations Mathison had created a blonde Judith, something at once beautiful and terrifying. And yet he recognized the woman almost immediately.

The mind often acts inconsequently in crises. At the back of his brain something was clamoring for recognition. He was conscious of the call, but there seemed to be a blank wall in between. It was conceivable that the sheer loveliness of the woman dazed him. On his guard, yes, alert and watchful, but otherwise nonplussed. His confusion was doubtless due to the fact that he could not put the two salients together. It was utterly illogical that any woman so tenderly beautiful should be called The Yellow Typhoon.

He recalled Morgan's description. "A passionless, merciless leopardess. She would have curled Saint Anthony's beard and taken Michael's flaming sword away from him. A destroyer. Don't get the impression that she is what we call on the loose. That's the most singular part of it. Her reputation isn't along that line. Breaks men for the pure deviltry of it; honorable men, men too proud to fight back. Understand? Always the poor devil who has something or everything to lose. A bigamist, because that seemed to be the most exciting game she could apply her arts to. And always just beyond the reach of the law. I don't suppose there's a court in the world that could convict her of bigamy. So, keep your eyes open and your guard up. Remember, I wanted to ransack the ship."

And what kind of a game was she about to spring? She had warned him. But she had added that she might return; and in that event, let him beware. He thought keenly for a moment, and presently he saw a way out of the labyrinth. Very clever! His enemies were in the adjoining rooms, watching him from some peephole or other. A trick to make him take the manila envelope out of his kit-bag and hide it anew—where they could find it when they wanted it. He had made his first mistake. He should have deposited the envelope in the safe before coming up. The hesitance over inscribing his name—any name—on the register had befogged him temporarily. His whole carefully built campaign depended upon getting that manila envelope to New York.

What followed was a revelation in clear thinking, acted upon swiftly.

He pulled down the window, locked it, and drew the shade. He got into his clothes again, dropped the automatic into the right pocket of his coat, all the while taking inventory of his surroundings in panoramic glances. Not a step wasted, not a thought that needed readjusting. Under the telephone was a waste-basket. In this there was a discarded newspaper. He crossed the room and turned off the lights. What he did now was done in the dark. From one of the kit-bags he procured the manila envelope and the little red book, which he strapped together with a rubber band. He tiptoed over to the waste-basket and slipped his precious packet into the folds of the newspaper, which he returned to the basket. He turned on the lights and took down the telephone.

"Hello!" he called, softly. "This is room three hundred and twenty. Will you kindly ascertain for me if rooms three eighteen and three twenty-two are occupied by passengers from the stalled flier from Chicago?... Yes, I'll hold the wire." Two minutes passed. "They are not? Thank you. No; nothing of importance. Didn't know but they might be friends from the train." So there was nothing to fear from the adjoining rooms. That was a weight off his mind.

But it was also a new angle to the puzzle. Had the woman really tried to do him a service? Was it inspired by some vague regret for Hallowell? Out of one labyrinth, but into another. He ran to the windows and threw up the shades. The fire-escape was empty. He went back to the telephone. It was barely possible that she had come up from the room below. That would be 220.

"Is the lady still in room two twenty?... Oh, never mind the name. Is she still there?... She isn't? Gave up the key a moment ago?... No, there isn't any trouble. She came from the stalled train.... She said she would not return? Thanks."

A blind alley. He couldn't solve the riddle at all. And because he couldn't solve it he sensed danger, a danger which ran around him in a circle.

He glanced up at the bird on the curtain-pole. Malachi had finished his dinner and was polishing his beak.

"Malachi, they've got me guessing!"

"Chup!" said the little green bird, spreading out his clipped wing. It was warm and cozy up there near the ceiling. He loved window-curtain poles. "Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?"

That phrase! It seemed to Mathison that a hand had reached out and caught him by the throat. Bob! The dear, absent-minded Hallowell! How often had he teased him by putting his tobacco-canister on the other end of the table! Bob, blind if you stirred anything on his end of the table from its accustomed place, would start hunting about the room, swearing good-naturedly.

Mathison began to pace the room. The infernal beauty of her! Negative for good and positive for evil; somehow it hurt him. He felt outraged that God should give all these lovely attributes to a daughter of Beelzebub.

Down-stairs, the clerk went into the manager's office.

"I tell you something queer is going on in this hotel."

"What now?"

"The Lord Mayor of London makes waiters signal on his door before he'll let them in. Then he begins asking questions about the people on either side of him. To cap the climax, he asked about the woman who had her head cut off in 1793."

"What? Oh yes, I see; those names on the register. Well?"

"Something fishy. The woman just surrendered her key and waltzed out."

"Gone?"

"With last year's cabbages."

"Maybe it's an elopement," suggested the manager, hopefully. Elopements were first-rate advertisements.

"Nix on the elopement. The real article gets married before they come to a hotel like the Watkins. She went up to the room I gave her and came down again. No complaints. Just surrendered the key and faded."

"Didn't ask any questions about the man?"

"Nope. There's where the mystery comes in. Mind, we'll have a robbery or a murder on our hands before morning."

"Piffle! If the woman is gone for good we can't risk meddling with this Lord Mayor chap. I'm not courting suits for damages these days; not me. You've been going to the movies too much. Anyhow, she paid five for the room. It's none of our business if she doesn't sleep in it."

"All right. Only, don't jump on me if anything happens."

"Tell your troubles to the house detective. That's what he's here for."

The clerk acted on this advice at once. "Michaels," he said, "you take this key and look around room two twenty. See if the woman took or left anything. There's a queer game going on here to-night."

The house detective returned shortly. He doubted if any one had been in room 220 at all.

"Better stick around, anyhow."

"All right."

At the police-station the night captain rocked in his swivel-chair and chewed his cigar. There had recurred to his mind an old phrase, which applied to the crook as well as to the honest man, "He travels fastest who travels alone." Well, so long as it was fish to his net, he had no right to complain. On his desk lay a stack of those sinister handbills which the police send hither and thither across the continent under the caption "Wanted." From time to time he referred to a letter which he had just received by messenger. A fall-down on the divvy, and the pal blows the game. But a thousand dollars, a real bank-roll, was worth trying for these hard times. All he had to do was to call up the Watkins. If there was anything to the information, the hotel clerk would be able to tell. He drew the telephone toward him.

"This the Watkins?... Police-station talking. Man by the name of Richard Whittington registered?... He is? Good! Listen to me. Describe him." The captain smoothed out a handbill and kept his eye on it obliquely. "All right. Tall, very dark, good-looking, blue eyes, smooth, no beard. Yes, that sounds like him.... 'Black' Ellison, wanted in San Francisco for diamond robbery and assault.... There was a woman? Gone? That's tough. She may have taken the swag. Well, it can't be helped. Get the man down-stairs to the private office. I'll send Murphy over in fifteen minutes. Better call in a patrolman. This man Ellison is a strong-arm, for all his good looks."

Up in room 320 Mathison found it impossible to keep that lovely face out of his thoughts. Something was wrong with the world. If ever he had looked into a countenance upon which was written honesty....

"The voice!" he cried, stopping suddenly. "The voice! That's the thing that's been hammering in the back of my head. I've heard that voice before. Where? How?" He rumpled his hair. "Where have I heard her voice?"

He had heard her laugh that night when she had come on deck in the Chinese costume. But the speaking voice! Where had he heard that?

Malachi, sensing his master's agitation, sidled back and forth along the curtain-pole, grumbling as his feet came into contact with the cold brass rings.

By and by Mathison saw the paper lady on the floor; saw it with eyes busy with introspection. He stooped; the act was purely mechanical. He went on with his pacing. He folded and refolded the slip of paper many times and at length stowed it away in a pocket, without having glanced at it once, without recalling his desire to meet her, if she happened to be in New York when he arrived there.

He heard a sound. It came from the window. He wheeled quickly, his hand going into his pocket as he turned. He had almost forgotten!

Tap-tap-tap!

Dimly he saw a woman's face against the pane. She had come back! The monumental nerve of her! On the way to the window he formed his plan of action. He would give her all the rope she wanted; he would act as if he had never seen her before, play her as a fisherman plays a trout. She had warned him, and he would not ignore her warning. He ran to the window, unlocked it, and threw it up.

The woman stumbled into the room, the expression on her face one of great terror. Hair like spun molasses, sparkling with melting snowflakes, skin like Carrara marble, with an odd little mole at the corner of her mouth, and eyes as purple as Manila Bay at sunset. From her shoulders hung a sable coat worth a king's ransom. Mathison raised her to her feet. "What is it? What's the trouble?" he asked, pulling forward a chair. Terrified. Had they discovered what she had done and had she flown to him for protection? "Beware of me!" she had said.

She sank into the chair and covered her face with her ungloved hands, rocking her body and moaning slightly.

"What's the trouble?" It took some effort to keep the ironical out of his voice. What a queer little mole! he thought. He hadn't noticed it before.

She let her hands fall. "I'm in the most horribly embarrassing situation," she panted. She clasped her hands on her knees and the fingers began to snarl and twist, as they will when a body is under great mental stress. "You won't mind if I stay here a few minutes?"

"Not in the least, provided you give me an idea what's happened to drive you into this room." Mathison put both hands into the side-pockets of his coat.

"Couldn't it be possible to stay without explaining?" she pleaded.

Not a sign that she had been in this room less than half an hour gone. What was her game? Mathison, from the ironical spirit, passed into one of bewilderment. Her voice wasn't quite the same, either; it was higher, thinner. He was giving her rope, but so far she wasn't making any especial effort to gather it in. Very well; he would continue to play up to her lead and see where it led. But stretch his imagination to its fullest, he could not figure out what her game was.

He answered her query. "Supposing you were found here? I don't object, mind you; only, I'd like to know how to act should occasion arise."

"I ... I don't know how to begin! It will sound so silly and futile!" she faltered. Her gaze roved rather wildly about. "My husband ... he has the most violent temper and is most insanely jealous. Somehow he learned I was here—in the restaurant. I saw him as he entered the main entrance. I tried to slip out at the side ... but I was not quick enough. By this time he will have had the whole hotel by the ears. Oh, it is degrading—shameful!" The woman turned her head against her shoulder and closed her eyes. Mathison noted the plain gold band among the gems on her fingers. "I haven't done anything wrong. I like amusement; I like clothes.... I can't stand it much longer!... He keeps me shut up all the time. What's the good of clothes if you can't wear them? I can't go anywhere, I can't do anything! I wish I were dead!"

Maddening! He wanted to take hold of her and shake her. But he said, soothingly: "You don't wish that. You ought not to have run away."

"I know, but I couldn't stand a scene among all those people. I see now I've only made it worse by running!... I got into the parlor somehow. Then I saw the fire-escape. I stepped out and closed the window, but I found I didn't dare drop twelve feet or more to the sidewalk."

Mathison nodded. There was nothing else to do.

"And I made the fire-escape just in time. He came storming into the parlor, followed by a clerk and a bellboy. The shame of it! None of them thought to look out. I'd have been frozen but for this coat. Then it came to me—I was so desperate!—that I might find a window open if I climbed up.... And I saw you. I sha'n't bother you more than ten minutes.... Just enough time to get my nerves steadied. If he doesn't find me soon he'll go home. I can stand a scene there."

"Where's the other man? A fine chap, to leave you in the lurch like this!" cried Mathison, indignantly.

Her eyes opened; they expressed dismay. "Oh, but I wasn't with any one!"

"Alone? Good Lord! why did you run away?"

"He would have made a scene just the same. He would always swear that there was another man somewhere. I suppose he'll kill me some day. I ought not to have run; but I simply could not stand a scene in the restaurant!" She hunted about for a handkerchief, found one, and rubbed her cold little nose with it. "It sounds so silly, doesn't it? I don't know what to do!"

"Stay as long as you like. Shall I send for a cup of coffee? You must be frozen."

"No, no! You mustn't take the least trouble. I'm sorry. I just opened the window and stepped inside. I really had only one idea—to escape."

"Suppose you describe your husband. I'll call up the office and see if he has gone."

"Good Heavens, no!" her terror returning. "I am really lost if it should become known that I had taken a risk such as this. Besides, it might get you into trouble. Please no! Just a few minutes—ten—fifteen. He'll go when he can't find me. I'll return to the parlor by the way I came."

Why didn't she take out a revolver, cover him in the conventional style, and open the door for her friends in the hall? Or had she noticed that his right hand was still in the pocket of his coat? As a test he withdrew the hand. She did not appear to observe the movement. The word "baffled" had always appealed to him as blood-and-thunder stuff; but now he began to understand that it was a serious and substantial condition of the mind.

"You're welcome, any way you desire it. I'll tell you what. I'll write a letter I had in mind. It will serve to relieve you of your embarrassment. It certainly will relieve mine."

He opened one of the kit-bags and dug out his letter-portfolio. He cleared a space on the table and sat down, facing the young woman, though apparently giving her no more attention. He started the letter, paused, tore up what he had written, and tossed the bits to the floor. The next attempt seemed to be successful, for he wrote several pages, finally sealing it in an envelope. Had the woman been able to read the contents of this letter she would have been profoundly astonished. It was a minute description of her, from the tortoise-shell comb in her hair to the white sandals on her feet.

He re-read the document; and as he came to the end of it he missed something, an essential which impressed him previously. Covertly he ran his glance over her again. Something was gone, but he could not tell what it was.

For all that she did not appear to be doing so, he knew that not a single move he made escaped her. Often he gazed at the kit-bags, but never did he let his glance stray anywhere near the waste-basket.

He wondered. Supposing the two visitations, the second ignoring the first as though it had never happened—supposing they had been launched for the express purpose of baffling and bewildering him, eventually causing him to lower his guard? Here at last was a solution that had a grain of sense.

Mathison rose and filled his pipe.

"You won't mind if I smoke and jog about a bit? I'm restless. I've had a long attack of insomnia."

"Please pay no attention to me."

After a glance at his watch he fell to pacing once more. But he paced in a peculiar manner—up and down the corridor wall. That is to say, he had the window and The Yellow Typhoon always under covert observation.

As for the woman, she now relaxed. Her lovely hands lay limply on her knees and her eyes were closed—or seemed to be. But each time the elevator door slammed she started nervously. Good acting, Mathison admitted. The jealous husband! He fought the desire to walk over to her, to smother her with the storm of words burning his tongue. There must be an overt act on her part first. The infernal beauty of her!

"Mat, you lubber!"

Even Mathison received a shock. He had forgotten Malachi. The woman sprang to her feet and whirled about, expecting to see some one behind her chair. She saw nothing. Bewildered, her gaze came back to Mathison, who pointed to the curtain-pole.

"A little parrot!" She sank back into the chair weakly. "I thought some one was behind me!"

"I had forgotten him."

"Chup! Chota Malachi!"

"What does he say?"

"That's Hindustani. He's telling me to be still and that he is a little bird."

"A Hindu parrot!" The woman gazed at the bird, frankly interested. "What a funny little bird! You have traveled far?"

"Half-way around the world. My train was stalled to-night; so Malachi and I concluded to spend the night in peace and quiet. I rather wanted to hear him talk. Boats and trains bother him, and he hasn't spoken for days."

"A parrot!"

"A parrakeet," he corrected.

"I never knew that men carried them about. I thought it was always fussy old maids."

"I'm a deep-sea sailor; and we sailors are always lugging around pets for mascots. I have lived in the Orient for six years." He spoke with engaging frankness. Why not? Was there anything concerning John Mathison that she did not know?

"What do you call him?"

"Malachi."

"What does that mean?"

"You have me there. It was the name of an elephant in one of Kipling's yarns."

"I see.... What's that?" she broke off.

Mathison stood perfectly still, chin up, eyes alert. The elevator door had slammed with unusual violence. This sound was followed by another—hurrying feet. Then came a blow of a fist on the panel of the door.

"What's wanted?" demanded Mathison, coldly.

"Open the door!"

"Who is it and what is wanted?"

"Open, or we'll break in!"

The woman flew to the window. While she was lifting it Mathison spoke to her.

"You are leaving?" broadly ironical.

"My husband!... He will kill me!"

"Which husband? Hallowell, Graham, Morris?"

She sent him a glance that radiated venom. It was almost as if she had suddenly poisoned the air.

"The Yellow Typhoon! And you supposed I would not recognize you, never having seen you? I don't know what your game was in warning me. No matter. Morgan was right. He said you were a beautiful mirage at the mouth of hell."

"Open the door!" came from the hall.

The woman stepped through the window, sent it rattling to the sill; and that was the last Mathison saw of her for many hours. He walked to the door.

"I will open the door only upon one condition—that you inform me who it is and what is wanted of me," he declared, still in level tones.

"It's the house detective, and you're wanted, me Lord Mayor of London!"

Mathison thought rapidly. He attacked the affair from all angles. The house detective!

Against the door came the thud of a human body.

"Never mind breaking in the door," Mathison called. "I'll open it."

He did so; and four men came rushing in—the house detective, the manager, the inquisitive clerk, and a policeman.

"The Lord Mayor of London, huh?" bellowed the house detective. He carried a revolver. "Put up your hands!" Mathison obeyed promptly. Michaels ran his hand over Mathison's pockets and gave a cry of delight as he brought forth the heavy Colt automatic. "A gat! I thought I'd find one."

"Now then," said Mathison, still able to hold his rage in check, "be so good as to explain what the devil all this means?"

"We'll explain that in the office."

"We'll explain it here and now, or you'll have to carry me. And in that event I can promise you some excitement."

"All right, me lud. Word comes from the police headquarters to hold you and hold you good. You're 'Black' Ellison, and there's a thousand iron boys waiting to be paid over on your delivery. We'll carry you, if you say so."

So that was it! Mathison saw the whole thing in a flash. Clever, clever beyond anything he had imagined. To get him out of the room in a perfectly logical way, and then search it. He saw clearly that his own mysterious actions would be held against him. Caught! He couldn't help admiring the method. The woman to keep him interested and puzzled until they were ready to fire the train.

"Is there any reason why we can't remain here? You've got to prove that I'm the man you want."

"Orders are to take you down to the private office," said the policeman.

"No objection to my taking my things along?"

"Your things, bo, will stay right where they are until Murphy looks them over."

"How am I to know that no one will enter this room while I'm down-stairs?"

"I can promise you that," said the manager.

"Don't open the window. There's a little bird up there on the curtain-pole; and he might fly out or try to."

The visitors stared at Malachi interestedly.

"He sha'n't be touched," declared the manager, a fit of trembling seizing him. If this turned out wrong and the victim came back with a suit of damages! "It's no fault of the hotel, sir. The order comes from the police."

A few words, the exhibition of a paper or two, and Mathison knew that the tide would have turned immediately in his favor. But this step he stubbornly refused to take. The spirit of the gambler who scorns to hedge. Upon leaving the security of the train he had laid his offerings at the feet of Chance. He would follow through. At any rate, he determined not to disclose his identity until he had to.

"Very well; I'll go with you. But I'll put the bird back in his cage if you don't mind."

After a bit of coaxing Malachi came down from his perch and Mathison bundled him into the cage, which he set beside the radiator. He then stepped into the corridor. But he waited to see if the manager locked the door. The manager did more than that. He gave the key to Mathison, who marched over to the elevator and pressed the button.

"A cool one," whispered the excited clerk. "Didn't I tell you there was something off-color?"

The manager made a gesture. He wasn't at all happy. People would have smiled over an elopement; but the arrest of a dangerous criminal always reacted against the hotel. "You need not worry about your belongings, sir," he said to Mathison.

"I'm not worrying. I'm going to leave that for you to do."

"Bluff won't get you anywhere," growled the house detective.

"It seems to have landed you a soft job," countered Mathison, smiling as he entered the elevator.

The clerk grinned. He and the house detective were not exactly friendly.

Once in the manager's private office, Mathison coolly appropriated the managerial chair. He kept his eye on the desk clock and appeared oblivious to the low murmurings behind his back. Five minutes—ten—fifteen; he could feel the sweat rising at the roots of his hair. Trapped! They had come at him from an original angle, and the only counter for it was the disclosure of his hand. No doubt the woman was already at work. If they took him to the police-station for the night; if the maid cleaned out the room thoroughly in the morning!

"Got him, I see!" cried a cheery voice from the doorway.

Mathison turned. He saw a small, brisk Irishman, with a humorous mouth and a pair of keenly intelligent eyes. He gave a sigh of relief. Here was some one who looked as if he had the gift of reason. Pray God that he had!

"Stand up!"

Mathison obeyed.

"Humph! Got anything to say?"

"No; except if you'll come to the room with me I'll give you the stuff. I know when I'm beaten."

"Who's this woman, Manon Roland?"

"Roland? Don't know anybody by that name."

"The woman you were asking questions about over the 'phone."

"So her name was Roland!"

"All right; we'll come back to her again. You used to travel alone. Why did you hook up? Pals always blow."

"No man is perfect. Come to my room and I'll turn the stuff over to you." Mathison wondered what it was he had stolen. "You'll never find it without my help. You and I alone. Is it a bargain?"

"I'll look you over first."

"Here's his gat, Murphy," said the house detective.

Murphy thrust the automatic in his pocket without comment. He ran his keen glance over the prisoner. "Hold out your hands, fingers spread; I want to look at them. That's the way. Now turn your face toward the light. Uh-huh. You admit you are 'Black' Ellison?"

"Yes." Anything to get back into the room!

"All right. I'll go up with you for the swag. But walk carefully. I'm excitable by nature."

"Better take me along," urged the house detective. He was anxious to be in the newspapers on the morrow.

"You folks stay right where you are, I'm running this. Step along, Mr. Ellison."

Murphy pushed Mathison toward the door. The two crossed the lobby to the elevator and were shot up to the third floor.

"I'll be right at your elbow, so play it straight. There's something about your hurry that interests me, bo."

Mathison rushed to the door, unlocked it and pushed it in violently. He sent a lightning glance about the room and leaned dizzily against the door-jamb.

"For the love o' Mike, they never told me you'd put up a scrap like this!"

"I didn't put up any scrap," said Mathison, dully.

"What's hit this room, then—an earthquake?"

"A typhoon."

Malachi was all right, but the waste-basket was empty.