With the blood pounding in his throat, Mathison rushed to her side. He saw that the lights were on in his cabin.

"Just a moment ... until I get my breath!"

"The steward ...?"

"No, no! Ran out to identify the man, if possible. I'm afraid there's something deadly in your room."

"But Malachi!" The bird was huddled on the bottom of his cage, a bad sign.

Mathison dashed into the cabin, inhaled sharply, and his inhalation thrilled him. An unknown but pleasant odor tingled his nostrils. His glance roved quickly. On the floor, under the port, was a brown box, perforated. He seized it and tossed it through the port-hole, beyond the rail, into the sea. Then he stepped out into the companion.

"Come!... Outside, where the air moves.... Malachi!" Mathison's voice broke. "Hurry!"

She followed him, still clutching the cage and wondering if he would remark her eyes, now without the baffling spectacles. He led her to a spot where the rail opened, took the cage from her, and set it on the deck. He sat down beside it, and she imitated him.

"The poor little bird!" she murmured. Was the wig on straight? She dared not put up her hand to feel.

Mathison stared at Malachi. He should have taken a cabin in the lower deck. Still, he couldn't understand how the port had been opened. He had kept it locked, despite the stuffiness. No matter. Inspection would solve that. Thought he had turned in. He had, until to-night, gone to the cabin regularly at eleven; and they had planned the stroke accordingly. Their only hope of entering the cabin was after midnight, when he was in it. He had liberally subsidized the two Jap stewards. Day and night the companion was guarded. But after midnight the companion was empty.

Clever. To stupefy him, to send him into a deep, artificial slumber, force his door and ransack his belongings leisurely. He was confident the fume was innocuous beyond the sleep-producing effect. But Malachi ... it would have been the death of Malachi.

He still clung to that idea. He had read of such things, but until now had never considered them in the light of facts. If Hallowell had called to Malachi, the little bird knew. But would he ever speak? Had he understood that one of his masters had been trying to tell him something?

Every morning for an hour Mathison had worked patiently to get the bird to speak; but, aside from grumbling in parrakeetese, Malachi refused to utter a word. All this confusion annoyed him. There was a strange swing to the world, now up, now down, now from side to side. It kept his temper, normally irascible, in a state of feverish vindictiveness. True, he would climb up Mathison's arm, nip his master's ear gently—the only way he had of expressing affection; but he was generally unhappy.

"I don't know why," said the gray lady, when Mathison's silence began to get upon her nerves, "but my first thought was of Malachi. I ... you have told me so often how much you loved him."

"And you have probably saved him. In ten minutes he would have been dead."

Malachi turned slowly head-on to the wind. The beak was closed. This was a good sign.

"Malachi, old boy?"

The woman stifled the sob that rose in her throat. A strong, vigorous man, young, handsome beyond ordinary, all alone but for the little green bird. Why? What was the meaning of this self-imposed isolation? "A mollycoddle so far as women were concerned." Why, there was nothing about him to suggest bashfulness. She had not studied him through all these hours without learning that fundamentally he was light-hearted in temperament and tremendously interested in living. No woman in the background, for he was not cynical. And here he was, his sole companion a Hindustani parrakeet.

Mathison thrust a finger into the cage, and Malachi struck at it drunkenly.

"He'll come around. I can't thank you; I haven't the words. But it would have broken my heart if anything had happened to him. Won't you please tell me exactly what happened?"

She did not begin at once. She had to weigh her words. She must never let him suspect that, night after night, she never went to bed until she heard him enter his cabin. What a coil! He would never know who she was! To-morrow, after landing, the gray lady would vanish forever. Only a few months gone her existence had been joyous, if strenuous; and now there would be always at her side a shadow and a fear. She had stepped upon a whirligig, and perspectives were no longer clear. The horizon of the future was dark with complications. She dreaded New York, and she was honor-bound to return. Berta in New York? The kite in the dove-cote? Escapades which would become the talk of the town and which the public would naturally lay at her door. She shivered.

Yes, to-morrow she must vanish completely, even though she would always be close at hand, all the way across the continent. The Yellow Typhoon! Her heart swelled in bitterness. He would never know. Filled with the grim business of war, he would be rushing in and about Washington or the great naval yards. He would spend his leave in activities which concerned his future. There would be only one chance in a thousand of his stumbling upon the truth and finding her. Ah, but if he should!

"I could not sleep," she began. "I left my door open and knelt on the lounge to watch the sea. I don't know how long I remained in that position. Suddenly I observed a man stealing along the rail. His face was in a complete shadow. I watched him. He stopped in front of your port-hole, then approached it. This looked so suspicious that I stepped into the companion. Your door was open the width of the hook, and I could see the port-hole clearly. I saw the glass swing inward. There was plenty of moonshine. I saw an arm reach into the port-hole and something was dangling at the end of the shadowy hand. Quickly I threw up the hook, opened your door, and turned on the lights. Saki, the steward, came running up. In a word I told him what had happened. There was a peculiar odor in the air. I caught up the cage and rushed out ... just as you appeared."

"All my life I shall be grateful. I can't explain anything to you, much as I'd like to. You will never realize what your companionship has done to buck me up. I came aboard very nearly a broken man."

"Boy, you don't have to confide." She laid a hand on his arm.

"I'm an odd duffer. They used to call me mollycoddle, back at Annapolis, until I had whipped half the class. And all the while I've been just as normal as the average man." There was a pause. "You know Kipling?"

"His books? Yes."

"Then you remember that yarn called 'Love o' Women'? My father ... he was like that. Handsome and lovable and weak in fiber. He was also in the navy. For a hundred years we Mathisons have been in the army or navy. We had money. We were soldiers and sailors from choice. My father died when I was sixteen. He died terribly. He broke my mother's heart. But I knew nothing of that until after his burial. Then one day she called me to her.... I wish you could have seen and heard her. Tender and plucky and beautiful ... and unafraid. She talked to me as fathers always should talk to their sons. Frankly and truthfully she drew life. I had the example of my father. She told me that somewhere in the world there was a mate for me. Should I take her a clean heart or a muddy one? Should I know real happiness or should I choose a bed like my father's? I listened, dulled and appalled. Then she asked me to promise to go clean. There's a point. We Mathisons always keep our promises. It is the motto on the shield. But we never give our promises hastily. My mother knew that. My father had never made her any promises of reformation. He knew he would have kept them. She told me to fight it out, then come and tell her what I had chosen to do with my soul and body."

"And you promised!"

"Yes. And I've kept it. She died shortly after. The wild streak was in my blood. I've had to fight. I have sown my wild oats in work and adventure. This took away a good deal of the gregarious instinct. I have fought wild beasts on foot; I have explored poisonous swamps; I have climbed precipices—and always the thing tugged at me."

"And the dream-woman?"

"I'm afraid she's been a little too long in coming."

"But how would you know?"

"I'd know. I can't tell you how or why. Only, I shall know. Something will tell me. I wonder, am I a mollycoddle?"

"Boy," she said, pressing his arm, for she hadn't taken her hand away, "I did not believe that there was such a man in all this world. Why, you have won your Marne!... And she will come, this mate, for God is just. If I had a son, I'd want him like you. All mothers long for sons like you.... She will come!"

"She'll have to hurry," he replied, lightly. "I'm heading into the war zone. I may never come back." He laid his free hand on hers. "I wonder if I can make you understand what your kindness has done for me? When I came on board I was all but done for. I had just lost the one human being I loved. May I come and see you in New York?"

"I shall be waiting for you. You have my address."

Later, in her cabin, while sleepy Sarah brushed and aired the wavy coils of hair which had been confined all day beneath the hot wig, she turned with shining eyes—eyes like purple grapes in the rain.

"Sarah, am I beautiful?"

"Ah, madame, all the world...."

"Bother the world. What do you think?"

"I? Madame is more than beautiful. She is famous. She is good. She is worthy of a good man, of many healthy children."

Her mistress laughed. "Thanks, Sarah. That is all I wished to know."

"Will madame continue wearing this make-up?"

"I shall change it for another in the cab that takes us from the dock to the train to-morrow."

When the ship lay alongside her pier the following afternoon Mathison put in his buttonhole the bit of green ribbon. Then he rang for the steward, assigned the cage and one of the two kit-bags to his care, took the other himself, and went up on deck to bid Mrs. Chester good-by.

"Good-by," she said from behind a heavy veil. "You will not forget me?"

"Never in this world! I have your address. I'll dig up New York from one end to the other but I'll find you, little mother!"

"Take care of yourself. And please come and find me!" But she went down the gang-plank with a queer, empty feeling in her heart. He might find her, but the gray lady would shortly vanish forever.

Had she been mothering him? Or had she been attracted from another angle? She had never met a man like this before, worldly in his understanding, handsome, virile, a man's man, but an utter child in the presence of a woman. Perhaps the attraction was its novelty. Hitherto she had looked upon men cynically. She was like one who had been chasing a mirage across the desert, to find a water-hole unexpectedly.

It had been so easy to deceive him. Her voice, the roundness of her body, the firmness of her hand and foot, these hadn't told him anything. How many times had she almost reached out to rumple his hair? Why hadn't she? Why did she want to? She carried this riddle with her for many days.

Mathison walked down the gang-plank into the vast shed. Almost at once a man approached him and handed him an envelope. He made off without a word. Mathison, without glancing at the envelope, stuffed it in his pocket and proceeded toward the customs barrier. He passed this with little or no delay, got into a taxicab and was driven to the ferry. Over in Oakland he found the train made up, so he went into his compartment immediately. He put away the green ribbon and rang for the porter.

"Screens in the window," he said.

"Yes, suh."

"I shall ring for you whenever I need you. Knock three times shortly on the door when you answer."

"Yes, suh."

"I shall have my meals in here. Always bring the waiter to the door yourself."

"Yes, suh," said the porter, the whites of his eyes growing.

"Follow these instructions and you will be ten dollars richer when we draw into Omaha. That will be all."

Mathison left the door wide open until the arrival of the conductor, when he produced the envelope he had so mysteriously received. It contained his tickets. After surrendering these, he closed and locked the door and took inventory. Imitation mahogany—steel. Above the little door in the lavatory was an electric fan. He discovered that one of the windows went up easily. When his bunk was made up he would be able to reach the light and fan buttons without difficulty.

"Well, Malachi, old scout, this is America. How do you like it?"

Malachi teetered on his perch grouchily.

"I'm beginning to think that you're Irish—a Sinn-Feiner. You don't like anybody, anything, or anywhere. Poor little beggar! I wonder if you'll ever chatter again. I suppose I'd better break the news to you. When we get to New York I'm going to give you away. Yes, sir. To the dearest old lady a chap ever had the good fortune to meet. To have met a woman like that ... when she was young! My luck! They call us idiotic Yankees, these Huns, Malachi; but we're going to fool them. Ever see a spider weave his web—and then wait for the fly to walk in? Wait and see!"

Mathison turned slowly and faced the rear partition. He stretched out his arms and curled his fingers sinisterly, his jaws set, a savage luster in his eyes.

"With these two hands, by God!... All right, Bob. Trust me to see it through."

But how was he going to secure that blue-print—No. 9? He possessed the power to search every human being on this train. That would, if used, serve to recover the print; but it would set Messrs. the Flies winging to parts unknown the moment they suspected what was on foot. The long arm of the Secret Service at his beck and call, and he would not dare to use it! Beyond identifying himself to the watching agents by the display of the green ribbon, he would never dare call for help. His enemies would be in this train, probably in this very car: they would be on the same trains all the way to New York, whither he must draw them. Once there, he would not have much difficulty in recovering No. 9. But if they mailed it! If it entered their calculations to mail it!

How many against him? He would never know until the end. The Yellow Typhoon? Let the vipers beware! Morgan had described her minutely, but Mathison doubted he would recognize her unless she entered some extraordinary situation.

To live in this infernal bulkhead for days, eating, sleeping, reading—that would be the supreme test, that would prove whether the metal in him was iron-casting or forged steel. Never to question the porters, to confuse his enemies by a grim silence, to force them into offensives out of sheer curiosity.

"We idiotic Yankees!"

That night as he lay in his berth—it was after one o'clock—solving mathematical problems which had to do with jumps between trains, he became conscious of a pleasant odor. He recognized it. Instantly he sat up and hauled away at the window. Next he brought over Malachi and lowered the covering of the cage. The cold night air came in at the rate of a gale. Then he remembered the fan. He groped for the button, and the fan began to hum. Still he could smell the fumes. Suddenly he laughed. It was the cold, tranquil laughter of a man who had lived among men. He pressed the porter's bell. If there was any one waiting in the corridor, he would have to move on. But if the porter did not arrive!

The porter, however, came almost at once. Mathison, holding his automatic behind his back, opened the door full wide.

"Any way of getting a cup of coffee?"

"No, suh."

"Sorry to have bothered you, then."

All Mathison wanted was an open door for a minute or two—a clearing draught. When he shut the door there was only a vague taint. Clever work. Not a lethal fume; neither his heart nor his lungs were troubled in the least. A sleep fume. There had been an almost irresistible desire to curl up and let the world go hang.

Malachi's feathers were ruffled, but he clung to his perch, his eyes beaming with their usual malignancy.

How had they gotten the fumes into the compartment? Forward there was no danger, as he was occupying No. 1. He went over every square inch of the base of the rear partition. In the corner under the berth—a difficult spot to get to—he found an oily thimbleful of steel filings. He drenched a towel and dammed the aperture. Compressed air had forced the fumes into the compartment. Evidently they were going to keep him awake nights!

So his friends were next door! Something to find that out. But what was the idea? They could not force that door without dynamite. Had they speculated upon his running out into the corridor? Or was this the beginning of a series of night attacks to break him down physically and mentally?... To keep him awake until he threw caution to the winds! There were big storms forward; there would be delays. Very well; he would sleep afternoons and stand watch through the night. A man's job.

The next offensive came while they were crossing the Rockies. It had caliber. It convinced Mathison that he was dealing with a man of brains, a man who was not untrained in psycho-analysis. They ran afoul a tremendous storm in the mountains and became stalled for several hours because of a fallen snow-shed. It was near eleven o'clock when the porter came along and announced what had happened.

Though Mathison was sleeping as much as he could through the day, he undressed at night, propped himself up under the reading globe and studied navigation peculiar these days to British waters. Round about midnight he heard a pistol-shot, another, then a fusillade from opposite directions. He jumped out of his berth and got into some of his clothes—and sat down suddenly, grinning. Had he been dressed they would have got him! What would be surer to call forth a fighting-man than the sound of shots in the night? They were going to keep him thinking fast. They wanted him out in the open.

Before the train reached Omaha—a day and a half late—Mathison began to feel the strain. Sleep in the afternoon is never energy-producing; a number of minutes pass into oblivion, that is all; body and brain stand still; they do not recuperate. Mathison, upon coming out of these naps, felt as if he had been playing cards for hours. He had to apply cold water to shake off the lethargy. He was full of confidence, however.

There wasn't any doubt at all that they were after his nerves. The door-knob rattled mysteriously during the small hours of the night. Whenever the train stopped there was clicking on the window-pane. But he never opened the door nor raised the window-curtain. The vantage was still on his side of the net. While he knew what they were attempting to do, they hadn't the least idea where their endeavors were getting them.

At Omaha passengers for Chicago would be transferred to another train. Mathison was last to leave. He put the green ribbon in his buttonhole, picked up the kit-bag which contained the manila envelope, and sauntered forth. The freshness of the winter air and the joy of swinging his arms and legs freely!

The porter preceded him with the bag and Malachi. He did not hurry. He was among a dozen or so moving in the same direction. As he reached the platform of the new car two men broke away from the group and hurried off toward the gates. Negligible and unnoticed, unless you knew what it signified. On the lounge in his compartment—which was still No. 1—he discovered some novels and a bundle of the latest magazines. A present from the Secret Service. He would look through them all with particular care. There might be a message.

A point in passing. If Mathison was confusing his enemies he was also confusing the various chiefs of the Secret Service along the route. Here, the latter reasoned, was a man who temporarily possessed colossal power. Orders had come from Washington to obey him absolutely. He could commandeer a car for himself, a diner, put operatives in the cars fore and aft, order the arrests of suspects, knock railway schedules galley-west; and to date he had issued but two orders—to engage No. 1 compartment on all trains and to have three taxicabs at the station in Chicago. And these orders had come from mid-Pacific by wireless. On the other hand, they appreciated the fact that if Mathison could make it on his own, so much the better. Still, they were puzzled.

There were three novels. As Mathison idly riffled the pages of one he saw a word underscored. He followed this clue, and at length came upon the message: "You understand your powers? Car straight to Washington if you order it." Mathison chuckled. If the Secret Service was baffled, what was going on in the minds of the men following him? He had determined from the start to send no wires. The green ribbon must suffice. Telegrams passing to and fro might create confusion, alarm the quarry.

There were two empty compartments on this car—4 and 5. Mathison had No. 1. No. 2 was occupied by a man with straw-colored hair and a ruddy complexion and a woman with a charming mole at one corner of her mouth. In No. 3 were two men, playing canfield. In No. 6 there were two women.

Both women had entered the car heavily veiled—the woman in 6 and the woman in 2. Neither removed the veil until the conductor passed. From San Francisco to Omaha, all on the same car; and they would be on the same car from Omaha to Chicago. Mathison nor the woman in 2 had stepped outside their compartments until this transfer from one car to the other. But the woman in 6 walked the corridor at all hours of the day and night, her face hidden behind a thick gray veil. Her maid, however, brought all the meals to the compartment.

The blond man stood up and put a cigar between his teeth.

"Well, once more luck is with us. And yet I am vaguely puzzled."

"Over what?" snapped the woman with the mole, irritably.

"It is almost too easy"—scowling.

"The stupid Yankee pigs!"

"Not this one, Berta. We haven't got him clear in the open yet."

"Ah! Then you are beginning to doubt that superior efficiency of yours?... I'm tired. To keep me cooped up like this!"

"You may open your wings as wide as you please, once we are in New York."

"But if he goes on this way?"

"I have still some traps. There will be a little journey in Chicago between one station and the other. Who knows what may happen?"

"But why coop me up?"

"The hour may come when I shall need you. If he saw you it would not be possible. Did Hallowell have a photograph of you?"

"In his watch-case. But he destroyed it the night he left me." She frowned.

"Nevertheless, he must never see you. On board the ship it was your impatience that caused me to fail. We merely put him on his guard. The blue-prints were in the purser's safe, and his signature was not in the receipt-book. Have patience. No man is perfect. Patience often overcomes skill. Sooner or later the skilful man grows careless, or he forgets, or he comes to believe he is a godson of luck. And then, there is the lack of sleep. Somewhere along the route I'll find a weak spot."

"I hate all Yankees!"

"So do I, Berta. I hate them because some of them are not boasters. Have patience. A small city east of Chicago, a chief of police who likes newspaper notoriety. A couple of hours; we sha'n't need any more than that. New York!" jovially.

"Champagne and beefsteak!" she retorted, contemptuously.

"Well, and why not? Haven't I promised you all the dresses you can pack in two trunks? I haven't had a decent meal or a good cup of coffee since the war began."

"New York!... after all these years!"

"Bah! Who in the world will recognize you? We are a good many miles away from that gambling-house in the Honan Road. You're moody. You've missed the parade for nearly five weeks. You'd be all right if you could walk through the cars to the diner and have them gape in wonder at you. Somewhere between Chicago and Buffalo we'll use that crook scheme. Now I'm going in next door for a few rubbers at bridge."

She did not reply. She turned her face toward the window and stared out into the night. New York! What was the matter with her that she did not blaze with pleasure at the thought of New York? Fifth Avenue, Broadway, the theaters, the brilliant restaurants, the shops—why did the thought of New York set a little chill in her heart? Were they alive or dead? In all these years she had not made the least effort to find out. New York ... youth that had known nothing but poverty! With a repellent gesture she cast out these thoughts and picked up a fashion magazine.

In compartment 6, the young woman read a manuscript, while the elderly maid with the broad, stolid countenance of the Breton peasant, brushed the golden hair tenderly. By and by the manuscript fluttered to the floor. She knew it so absolutely, even after these months. She stared at the partition. She saw in fancy a window-curtain, forms swaying back and forth, then darkness. She would never be able to identify the men. She had cried and shaken the iron bars of the gate until her palms had peeled.

"Sarah, dear, am I tiring you out?"

"I love to brush your hair, madame."

"I mean the slaving I've set you to."

"No, madame. The only happiness I know rests in serving madame faithfully. Besides, madame has told me that all this is for France; and that is enough for me, who am Breton."

"Then I am still beautiful to you?"

The maid smiled. "Madame, that handsome young man with the little green bird...."

"Well?"

"Madame is not offended?"

"No, Sarah. Speak on."

"Well, it would appear that madame—and madame knows that I am observing—no longer despises mankind."

"Oh, but he isn't a man, Sarah!"

"But yes, madame!"

"No. He is an anachronism—a half-god who has lost the way to Olympus."

"Ah! If madame is not interested?"—with a sigh of relief.

"Men! How well I know men! The sameness of them! What do they offer me? Orchids, hothouse grapes, jewels that I return. Never a flower that is free and wild. What is it I want, Sarah? Romance! A whirlwind, an avalanche, to sweep me up, to carry me off—berserker love! A man who'll take me if I'm what he wants, without pursuing me in circles. I am a viking's daughter! This man?... We shall wait and see. Get me to bed. I am weary."

Meanwhile Mathison went through his magazines, taking in the pictures first. Then he fell upon a good story. It was illustrated by photographs, and one of the photographs made him forget the story. What was it? What was it that stirred in the back of his head at the sight of this bit of dramatized photography? He studied it near and afar, from this angle and that, but the lure remained tantalizingly beyond reach.

Fate never hurries. She takes time in writing her human scenarios; she can afford to. She knows that inexorably they will be enacted, without deviation. She had chosen this moment to place before Mathison's eye the photograph of a beautiful young woman.

The train from Omaha arrived in Chicago exactly twenty-four hours late. Great storms were raging across the land.

As Mathison was passing through the gate—the green ribbon in his buttonhole—a man approached him covertly and thrust an envelope into his hand. More tickets. Mathison did not accelerate his stride in the least. He knew that everything was prepared for him. Upon reaching the cab-stand he stopped. At once three taxis rolled up. Mathison bundled his luggage into the middle cab, rested Malachi's cage on his knees, shouted an order, and the three cabs started off rapidly.

The snow was coming down in thick sheets. A blizzard was in the offing.

Just outside the regular cab-stand stood a private car, a heavy, powerful limousine. As the three taxis rolled away into the storm a man dashed up to the limousine, jumped in and called to the chauffeur:

"The middle car; follow that. Smash it or tip it over. In a storm like this accidents will happen."

The limousine shot forward. The going was heavy. The man in the limousine saw the three taxis string out a little as they went on. What he did not see was the fourth taxi which followed him.

Almost in a kind of military maneuver the three taxis forward veered together suddenly and shot down a side-street. It took the limousine two minutes to pick them up again. There were plenty of arc-lights, and by the aid of these the pursuer saw that he had gained a little. They were strung out again, about fifteen feet apart. They held this formation for several blocks.

To the occupant of the limousine this was baffling as well as maddening. He saw that until they separated it would be impossible to ram the middle taxi. He decided to draw up broadside.

The woman in the fourth taxi laughed.

"Sarah, that young man knows how to take care of himself. If I should happen to fire a pistol, you promise not to scream?"

"Yes, madame."

The young woman laughed again. "Oh, this is glorious! I feel all my youth coming back. I'm alive! alive! alive! The fates have appointed me his godmother, Sarah. My duty is to watch over him until ... he grows up!"

The maid smiled in the dark.

Presently the man in the limousine cried out joyfully. The forward cab swooped north, the rear one south, while the middle car continued east toward the railway station.

"Now! Beat into it! Anything to stop it!"

A block farther on the private car and the taxi collided. The latter reeled toward the curb and stopped.