As the man in the limousine jumped out his chauffeur pointed his hand menacingly at the chauffeur on the taxicab seat. That individual raised his arms without resistance. He could not see the gun, but he knew it was there.

The man with the straw-colored hair swung open the door of the taxicab ferociously—to find the cab empty. He whirled back into the limousine, which was already moving. The right mud-guard was badly crumpled.

"Station—all the power you've got!"

Tricked. He understood what had happened. When the taxis had maneuvered into the side-street the original middle car had gone either to the front or to the rear. There was nothing for it but to play his last card—mistaken identity. To get Mathison away from his luggage for an hour or two.

The occupant of the fourth taxi, also comprehending what had taken place, picked up the speaking-tube and ordered full speed ahead.

"Sarah, this young man will bear watching. He has ideas. I doubt if I shall be necessary to him at all."

"If madame should be hurt...."

"No bridges until we come to them. Keep your veil down. He might be watching from his car-window when we arrive. He must never see you."

Mathison was extremely pleased with the result of his exploit. To have thought out all these moves in mid-Pacific, and to find them moving without a hitch! He closed the door of his compartment and drew the window-curtains. He pulled down the covering of Malachi's cage.

"Malachi, you're likely to think cross-eyed all the rest of your days. But to-morrow night at this time you'll have peace and quiet."

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a bit of paper come jerkily under the door. He pounced upon it.

All compartments 2 on train bought out in advance; unknown persons. Want anything done about it? Answer window.

After a minute's wait Mathison raised the curtain a little and gave a negative sign with his hand. Then he dropped upon the lounge. So that's how it had happened! Luck and accident in San Francisco because travel East had been light, but a matter of foresight and calculation in Omaha and Chicago. Confident that he would always occupy No. 1, that he would travel a given route as rapidly as transportation facilities permitted, they had bought out No. 2 compartments on both trains.

There would be real action from now on. They would begin to realize that they hadn't any time to lose. Very well; they would find him ready. He smiled. The Secret Service agents were beginning to fidget, the best possible proof that his plans were moving forward like clockwork. To-morrow night the climax! Only a few more strands and the web would be complete.

"We idiotic Yankees!"

He went to bed early. He was confident that there would be no more gas. He was dead for the need of a few hours of recuperative sleep. The jolting ride across town had helped to dissipate most of the bodily numbness; but now his brain was crying out for oblivion. He fell asleep almost instantly.

And yet a cessation of movement brought him out of this profound slumber. It was as if his subconsciousness had stood on guard. He peered out from the side of the curtain. They were in a railway yard somewhere. Stalled. Freights were all about and yard engines puffing and whistling. He looked at his watch. Two. He had slept four hours. He resisted the intense craving to bury his head in the pillow again. No doubt he had been refreshed actually, but he was still drunk for the want of sleep. He slipped out of his berth, drenched a towel and slapped it over his face. Then he turned on the lights and dressed. When the right time came he would sleep forty hours.

The train went on at four. At dawn it came to a standstill again and did not stir until nine. They were on a side-track, and along the main line freight was roaring and thundering. What was happening to the world? A limited, one of the fastest known, side-tracked for freight! From six until nine the freight rolled by.

A newspaper! It was almost unbelievable. He felt rather stunned. He hadn't held a newspaper in his hands since leaving Honolulu! He did not actually know whether the Germans were in Paris or the Allies in Berlin. So held by the chase across the continent, giving his every thought to the affair, he had forgotten that the world was going on outside this particular orbit and great events were toward.

Twice again that day there were long delays at sidings, east of towns barely mentioned on the map. All the freight in America seemed to be moving east. On schedule time the train should be passing through central New York; and here they were, miles and miles west of Buffalo, the next real stop. The reporter brought him a sporting page from one Chicago newspaper and the editorial page from another. He was vaguely able to learn that nothing new had happened Over There, and that there was a coal famine and a great congestion at ports for lack of ships.

He began to fuss and fume and fret. He endeavored a thousand times to find a fresh angle for his weary shoulders. It couldn't be done. Pullmans were built for dividends, not comfort.

He wore a gray traveling-suit and a cap to match. The suit, though new, was in an astonishingly disreputable state. The solution is apparent; it does not signify carelessness. The fact is that you cannot loll and twist and curl up and at the same time keep the warp and woof of Scotch worsteds shipshape.

He yawned, stretched his arms until the sockets cracked, turned wrathfully and struck the top of the seat—that rolling lopover which is still one of the mysteries of modern times. Perhaps, in making the original car there had been a few yards of plush and excelsior left over. Splendid! Just enough for a pillow on the top of the seat-back, where no human head might reach it reposefully.

Mathison jumped to his feet and went through a bit of setting-up exercise. It was wasted effort. When a man is bored to the point where his soul aches along with his body, what he needs is a mental jolt, not a quickening of his respiratory organs. Nothing except that which attacks the eye surprisingly will serve to pull a man out of the bog of such lethargy.

Within the compartment, a pressed-steel imitation red mahogany, green plush, and a bluish haze which was the essence of many incinerated cigars and consumed pipes; outside, snow, thick and dusty and impenetrable. A great rimless, earthless, skyless world. But for the clatter of wheel upon rail, the train might have been speeding through the clouds; the illusion was almost perfect. Darkness was falling. Winter! After all these years of tropical climes!

The confinement was really heartbreaking. Never had he been shut up like this. And the craving for sleep was becoming a menace. It wouldn't have been so bad had he dared move about freely, eat his meals in the diner, and smoke his cigar or pipe among men.

On the opposite seat were the magazines which had been given him in Omaha. He reached for one of them. He had long since read all the stories and advertisements. Whenever monotony reached that point where it threatened to become insupportable he dove for these magazines. He could keep himself awake with them.

Odd, but he was always returning to that posed photograph. It haunted him: a wonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt in tone. It was a restaurant scene. The woman's arms and shoulders were lovely, but her face was a leaden silhouette, tantalizing, until you chanced to look into the wall mirror at the far side of her. Even this reflection was dim; but you caught the beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of the nose and chin; a rare face, not only beautiful, but intellectual. For a long time Mathison stared at it; and then he discovered something he had missed in previous scrutinies. In the lower right-hand corner, in very small type, he read, "Posed by Norma Farrington." Some new actress. As for that, many new ones had come and gone since he had visited New York. He tore out the picture. He couldn't have told why. Norma Farrington. He smiled.

An idea had come to him, a charming idea such as often tickles the imagination of young men when they see the portrait of a beautiful woman. The more he mulled over the idea the more fascinating it became. Certainly she would not have him arrested for wanting to meet her. He folded the picture and put it away. Supposing he really started out upon such an adventure in earnest, not in imagination? Danger? Scarcely, with the little time he had at his disposal. Soon he would be in the waters that were full of slinking death. And it was this fact that let down the bars to the spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport before the death grapple. Why not? Why not? Why not? pulsed his father's blood. No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild blood he might have in his veins, but it was also the blood of unbroken promises.

What had started this rather sinister idea in his mind, or rather reawakened it? The photograph of the actress? No. The gray lady. The charm of her companionship, the hint of the things he had missed. Queer things, human beings!

No, he would not bother Norma Farrington. He would build one of his exciting romances around her and let it go at that. But he would hunt up Mrs. Chester before his leave was over, have tea with her, present her with Malachi, and tell her the story in detail.

Another human inconsistency. Hallowell had become strangely remote. As though the thing had happened months instead of days ago. And yet every move he made was in the service of Bob—to bring his great dream to fulfilment and confusion to his enemies.

He heard some one knocking on the door. He rose quickly and stood listening. Two taps, a pause, followed by two more taps. Mathison released the lock, and with his foot ready and his shoulders hunched he drew back the door about an inch. He saw the shining black face of the porter.

"What is it?"

"Bad news, suh."

"Come along inside." The porter slipped through the opening, and he winced as he heard the door close and the lock snap. "What's the trouble?"

"Dey's a big freight wreck beyon' de nex' town, an' we'se t' be stalled ontil mo'nin', suh."

"What!" explosively.

"Yes, suh. Freight ovah de passenjah rails. An' den dey's dat new rule—coal an' freight fust. We can't get by dat wreck onless dey side-tracks de freight; an' de freight goes whoozin' by while we twiddle thumbs. It's dat Gahfield awdah; an' dey ain't no use buckin' ag'in' it, wah-times. Dey takes the diner off, too. No fish. So yo' will haff t' eat in de station aw go t' one o' de hotels in town."

"How big a town is this?"

"Middlin'; but dey's got a fine hotel called de Watkins, jus' a little ways f'm de station. Bath in all de rooms, suh."

"Bath in all the rooms," repeated Mathison, meditatively.

"I can bring yo' sumpin' in," suggested the porter, but without much enthusiasm. "Dey won't be no trimmin's like yo'd get at de hotel."

"How long will we be stalled?"

"Dey calc'lates ontil nine in de mo'nin', suh."

"What are the other passengers going to do?"

"Dey's all climbin' out fo' dinnuh."

Mathison pulled at his lip. His decision came in a flash, one of that caliber which only true adventurers dare make. The blind Madonna of the Pagan, Chance! With a wave of the hand, to consign the burden to her! Perhaps it was the green plush, the red paint on the four steel walls; anyhow, he decided to spend the night at the hotel. He would immediately deposit the manila envelope and the little red book—Hallowell's—in the hotel safe and advise New York by wire his positive whereabouts. If anything happened to him, they would know where to find his personal effects. There would be no Secret Service operatives at his beck and call here; he would be on his own.

This decision reacted upon him mentally and physically like champagne. All his craving for sleep, all his depression, went by the board magically. He began to thrill and bubble with gaiety. And there would be Malachi. In the quiet of the hotel room he might be inveigled into talking.

"All right, George; I'll climb out, too. The Lord help me, but I can't stand this damned green plush any longer! I'll spend the night at your Watkins. Now listen. When the train stops wait half an hour before you come for my kit-bags. Engage a taxi. If you can get me into that taxi without being observed, there'll be a five-spot for you. You didn't tell the waiter this morning about knocking. When I finally got the meal it was cold."

"I done fo'got. I sure is busy dis trip."

"Will you be aboard all night?"

"Yes, suh. I ain't allowed to leave in a case like dis. Dey won't nobody see yo' in all dis rampagin' snow. All right; thutty minutes aftuh de train stops."

The porter backed out. Almost instantly he heard the lock snap into the socket. He scratched his woolly poll ruminatingly.

"Well, suttinly dis niggah nevah struck a bunch like dis befo'. Two women hidin' behin' veils w'en I makes up de beds—like dey jes' got ovah smallpox. An' dis chap makin' me signal on de do', an' totin' a parrot! Well, politeness is mah middle name. I'se goin' t' do jes' es dey tells me. W'en I gits t' New York I'll buy dat Ford Lizzie."

In the fourth compartment sat three men, playing cutthroat auction. One of them had just bid "two without" when the porter knocked.

"Come in!" shouted the blond man. "Ah, George, what's the news?"

The porter became a very mysterious individual. He shut the door softly and leaned toward the blond man's ear.

"He's goin' int' town, suh."

"Going to take his things with him?"

"Yes, suh. I'm t' call fo' him thutty minutes aftuh de train stops. Dey's sumpin' I fo'got t' tell yo', suh. It's de way I has t' knock on his do' befo' I can git in. I hits two times, den I waits a moment, den I hits two times mo'."

One of the men started to say something angrily, but the blond man silenced him with a gesture.

"You should have told me that before, George," reproachfully.

"I know, suh; but I done fo'got."

"Remember my instructions. A misstep on your part and you land in jail."

"Yes, suh." For George knew these men to be Secret Service men. He had seen the magic shields. "Dey sure fools yo' sometimes, don't dey? He don't look it."

"That's why I'm taking all these precautions. I can't arrest him until we cross the New York state line. The less they look like it the more dangerous they are. Always remember that, George. He hasn't ordered anything to drink, has he?"

"No, suh; nuthin' but watah an' coffee."

"He hasn't sent or received any telegrams?"

"No, suh."

"What made him decide to risk leaving the car?"

George thought for a moment. "I reckons it was de green plush. He said he couldn't stand it any longer."

The blond man laughed. "Plush! Well, I'd risk it myself if I were in his boots. That's all, George."

The porter bobbed and went away. The moment the door closed the blond man got up.

"Out in the open at last! All things come to him who waits. Sleep. That's what he is after. Since the fumes I'll wager he has kept an eye open every night; and it's beginning to tell on him. Everything is turning out beautifully: the wreck, the storm, his restlessness."

"If that black fool had only told us about that knocking!"

"Never mind the spilled milk. We all know what to do; let us see that we do it. I'll notify the local police at once. This may be the end of the chase. This porter is telling us the truth. I believe now that the other porter told the truth. Mathison isn't relying upon anybody to help him out. He hasn't sent any telegrams or received any. At least, not from his own car. It may be.... No; he never leaves the compartment. Yet there's those three taxis. How could these turn up if he hadn't telegraphed? Never mind. Here is where we shall trip him up. I'll go and tell Berta."

Shortly after he rapped on the door of the second compartment. The door was opened cautiously.

"Oh!" said the woman with the mole.

The blond man stepped inside. "Good news! He's going into this town for the night. There's a wreck ahead, and we'll be stalled all night. He's going to risk it in the open at last. Sleep. He's going to pieces for the want of it. Out in the open!"

"It is time. I am dead. I'll never get the cramp out of my poor body. Nearly three thousand miles cooped up like this! You were free. I had to stay packed away in this suffocating box." She stooped and peered out of the window. The suburb lights were flashing by. "A horrible night!"

"On the contrary, I should call it beautiful. We are and have been perfectly prepared against a move like this. He carries two things I must have."

"I shall be glad when it's over."

"To-night. It will depend upon you. Be careful. He is very strong and clever. I thought the chase would be over in Chicago last night. He tricked me neatly. But green plush!" The blond man laughed quietly.

"What are you laughing at?"

"He's going into this town, he's going to trust to his luck, because he can't stand the sight of green plush any longer. It's acting upon him psychologically, like red upon the fighting toro. On the other hand, he will not act impulsively again."

"He hasn't gone yet."

"A fig for that! He'll go with the police, then. His way or mine; he'll go into town to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly. Look the part."

Mathison put on a fresh collar and brushed himself carefully. He packed his kit-bags and patted them affectionately, as a hunter might have patted his faithful hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerfulness, pretty women; a room big enough to turn around in, a bed big enough to turn over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot water; a theater, perhaps, drama, opera, burlesque, whatever the town had to offer. He would play the game to the hilt. His danger would be maximum, whether he stayed in the hotel or walked abroad. So he might as well get all the fun out of it possible.

He lifted the cotton-flannel bag. "Malachi, we'll both have a bath to-night. Only, we're probably doing a fool thing. There won't be any one to watch over us; we'll have to go it on our own. But I'm done. I've got to get outside. You poor little beggar! Are you ever going to talk again? Malachi!"

A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently, but immediately the lids dropped.

Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room where everything was silent and motionless, he might find his tongue. For days he had known nothing but the strange swing of the sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet room in which he could wander about and claw up the curtains.