Mathison undressed slowly. He was still hypnotized to a certain extent by the several amazing events of the night. From the shadowy corners of the compartment the woman's face persisted in appearing, now in all its warm loveliness, now in terror, and again like chiseled marble. It would be a long time before he would be able to stamp out completely the impression. It did not seem possible that any woman could be so lovely outside and so ugly within. The venom in her glance, just before she stepped out of the window!

The thought of Hallowell hurt more than anything else. Unavenged! Bob would lie in his island grave unavenged. But before God, he, John Mathison, would take a double tithe from the Hun. No mercy. Never would he hear the word Kamerad. Soon the number on his free-board would spell Terror.

He uncovered Malachi and knelt beside the cage. "Mat!... Malachi!" he said. "Mat!... Malachi!" But the only sign from the bird was a ruffling of the neck and topknot feathers, a quick dilation of his yellow eyes. Two or three minutes earlier in getting into that room, while the bird's fright was at full! No way to make him understand; he was only a parrakeet, an echo. "Mat!... Malachi!" It was Bob calling; the little bird was only an echo.

Suddenly Mathison stood up, his face eager. A real idea! And it never would have entered his head but for the startling revelation of what suggestion might accomplish. If the woman's tempestuous actions had awakened the bird's recollection, what might a reconstruction of the crime do? Men apparently in desperate conflict, tables and chairs threshed about, tumult, cries! How would these react upon Malachi's memory?

Of course no jury would convict a man of a crime upon evidence furnished by a talking parrakeet; but if, by reconstructing the tragedy, Malachi could be made to repeat the name Hallowell had called out, it would serve to give the authorities a handhold. Trust them to dig up the truth eventually. For Mathison was obsessed with the idea that Hallowell had spoken a name for Malachi to repeat.

Sleep—the lack of sleep. They never would have gotten to him but for the craving to sleep. He had gone into the town feeling as keen mentally as ever, and his keenness had been only superficial. He had sought the open without any definite campaign. Want of sleep. His flesh and bones had been crying out for sleep, and his brain stifling the call. Patience. They had had a little more than John Mathison.

To-night, however, he would satisfy the craving. There would be no more sleep-fumes or pistol-shots or turning door-knobs.

By one o'clock the car Mercutio was as silent as the tomb of Romeo's friend.

Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap.

Mathison was asleep, but as yet he had not conquered that subconscious alertness of the mind. The sound, light as it was, awoke him. The porter's signal. Mathison buried his head deeper into the pillow.

Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap.

"What's wanted?" he called, irritably.

There was no answer. The tapping was not repeated.

He was too drunk with sleep to get the real significance. He turned over and fell asleep again instantly. He came out of this leaden slumber at seven. The train was moving, having made up two hours in the makeshift schedule. The storm outside had lost but little of its vigor. He bathed and dressed and rang for the porter.

"Have the waiter bring me grape-fruit, oatmeal, and coffee."

"Yes, suh."

"What time will we make New York, if this keeps up?"

"About six-thutty."

"Did you rap about one o'clock?"

"No, suh."

"You didn't?"

"No, suh. What's de matter wid dat hotel? Dey all comes rampagin' back befo' yo' did."

"Passengers in number two?"

"Yes, suh."

"All the passengers returned?"

"On de Mercutio; yes, suh." The whites of George's eyes began to show.

As for that, so did Mathison's. On board, when, logically, they should be miles and miles away by this hour, by any means of locomotion they could obtain! Here was a thundering mystery.

"George, is there a lady next door?"

"Yes, suh."

"Beautiful, with blonde hair?"

"Hain't seen de lady's face, suh."

"Sable coat?"

George nodded. He pushed back his cap. "Boss, I oughtn't t' tell yo'; but de man in two is a Secret Service man, an' he's goin' t' jump yo' de minute we gits int' New York State. 'Tain't none o' my business whut yo' done, but I'd kind o' like to give yo' a chance t' beat it. Ef yo' say so, I can open de trap befo' we gits int' Buffalo an' slip yo' out."

"George, you're a top-hole! But how did you learn that this man is a Secret Service agent?"

"He done show me de ca'd signed by Flynn."

"Describe him."

"Big, hair pale yelluh, nice-lookin' an' friendly."

Mathison wondered if he wasn't asleep. With the manila envelope and the red book in their possession, they were still on the train! What had happened?

"The man has been asking you questions about me?"

"Yes, suh. Count o' dat ca'd I had t' ansuh."

"How does he spend his time?"

"Playin' auction wid two friends. Dey's Secret Service, too," George added, gloomily.

Four of them. And the three men had taken turns, all the way across the continent, in keeping him awake; bribed this porter, too, to keep tabs and report. Until his encounter with The Yellow Typhoon, Mathison had had no real idea of the number or the descriptions of his pursuers. But still on board! That was confounding. It wasn't logical.... He stiffened. To kill him, now that he could identify the woman? To swing him off into the dark before he could get his forces together. There was logic in that. He smiled at the porter.

"George, I've an idea there must be a case of mistaken identity in all this. They mistook me at the hotel last night. There was a row, and I came back."

George shifted his cap to his right ear and stared briefly at the slashed kit-bags.

"If I'd have been the man they thought I was I wouldn't be here."

George straightened his cap. There was something in this explanation that pleased him.

"Has the Secret Service man asked my name?"

"No, suh."

"Just as I thought. He's sure I'm the man; just as they were sure at the hotel. Well, I sha'n't worry. Everything will be explained when I reach the Waldorf. You might drop him the hint I'm going there. It will save a lot of trouble. But of course it wouldn't be wise for him to know I told you to tell him."

"I undahstan', suh."

"Then I'll have my breakfast."

On the wall-hook in compartment 6 hung a beautiful rose-kimono. There are thousands upon thousands of these lovely robes. They look exactly alike until you examine them, and then you note that they differ as roses themselves differ.

In compartment 2 there was also a rose-kimono. It was wrapped about the graceful body of The Yellow Typhoon. She wound a veil about her head, dropping it to the tip of her nose. Then she picked up her dress, her toilet-bag, and started off for the ladies' dressing-room. There wasn't room to dress in the compartment, as the berths had not been made up. She had slept through the major part of the day. She floated past compartment 6, the door of which was slightly ajar. It had been slightly ajar ever since the departure from Chicago.

Fifteen minutes later George, the porter, heard the buzzer. Passenger in 6 was calling. He hurried off. It was George's trysting-hour. Tips.

"The luggage to the trap, please. We wish to leave instantly the train stops at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street."

"Yes'm."

"I note that you wear a Liberty Bond button."

"Yes'm. Got two."

"Then you are a good American?"

"I sho' is, ma'am."

"Very well, then. Here is a box. After the train leaves One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, you will give this box to the gentleman in compartment one. I am trusting you because I have to. It is military. If you fail to deliver it you betray your country, and in that case woe to you! He will ask you who gave it to you. You will tell him the lady in compartment two."

"Yes'm!" George's tongue had grown suddenly and mysteriously thick and dry.

"And here is something for your trouble."

It was a gold note for fifty dollars. George's brain became nearly as dry as his tongue. Even as he folded the bill and tucked it into a pocket the train began to slow down. He swooped up the luggage and staggered out into the corridor, where he was obliged to hug the partition to permit the lady coming out of the dressing-room to pass. The train stopped. He helped the two women to alight, dumped the luggage, and jumped aboard, dropping the trap and running back to the vacant compartment for the mysterious box. Military! His brain was as full of kinks as his wool. But there was one clear idea in his head—nothing could prevent him delivering this box to the man in compartment 1.

"Fo' de lan' sakes!" he murmured. "Ef dat lady 'ain't went an' fo'got de kimono!"

With the mysterious box under one arm and the rose-kimono under the other, he sallied forth.

Meanwhile, on the platform of the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station, there was enacted a scene of tenderness and animation. The woman who had forgotten her kimono rushed into the arms of another woman, statuesque, white-haired. Her face, alight with joy, was beautiful; but there was a subtle hint that in repose it would be tragic.

"My Hilda! My Hilda!" She spoke in an alien tongue.

"Darling mother!" in the same tongue.

A dapper little man with a Semitic cast of countenance began to dance about the two.

"Here, here. Stop that lingo! It sounds too much like German, and we'll be held up. Mother Nordstrom, you must remember!"

"Nonsense, Sammy!" cried the daughter. "You're always such a fussy old dear! Glad to see me?"

"I should say yes! But come along. We've no time to waste."

The quartet—which included the Breton maid—were soon in the comfortable limousine below.

"My!" said the dapper little man. "You're big medicine to these eyes! Always Johnny on the spot. You're the only woman of the kind."

"It was a narrow squeak this time. Wrecks, delays, snow, and all that."

"How do you feel?" anxiously.

"Splendid!"

"Letter-perfect?"

"Never doubt it!... New York!... Home! The glorious noise of it! The magnificent hurry!... Where are we going to eat?"

"Theater. Everything's ready in the office. You'll have half an hour to doze in. No new people to confuse you; old cast complete. House sold out week in advance. The whole town is on its toes to see you. I am a brute to force you on to-night, without any rest; but you were due three days ago. And say! when I got that cable I swore. Never heard of such a thing. And it turned out to be the most original stunt of the winter. The town swept clean of your photographs and lithos, the papers agreeing not to run Sunday cuts; not even a tintype in the lobby. And the whole town is crazy to know why. Some little advertising stunt, believe me! Nothing in town but your name on three-sheets and small bills. Hereafter you boss your own publicity campaigns."

A dry little smile stirred the lips of the actress.

"Sarah," said the mother to the Breton maid, "have you taken good care of my Hilda?"

"She's been a trump, mother!" interrupted the daughter.

"But she looks as if she had been ill."

"No, madame ... the journey...." Two faces, thought the maid, so alike that only the good God Himself might distinguish one from the other!

Her mistress leaned back and closed her eyes. The train would be in the tunnel now and the box in Mathison's hands. What would be his wonder? She could only imagine. But she knew that to him she was The Yellow Typhoon, the Snow-leopard, the gambling woman of the Honan Road.

In a little while all these momentous events would become a vague memory to him. He would shortly be busy with the problems of active warfare. He would never know that a guardian-angel had been at his elbow for days. How easy it was to visualize him!—sitting on the deck beside her chair, that funny little green bird clinging to his shoulder! And then that night, when he told her of his promise to his mother.... The tenderness of his voice! "Am I a mollycoddle?" He had asked her that in all seriousness.... Boy!

His puzzlement would be large for a while; and out of the chaff of speculation he would find the grain of fact: The Yellow Typhoon, to save herself, had betrayed her companions. Thus Berta would escape prison, perhaps death.

Irony! The same ancient story—Hilda, sacrificing herself for Berta, now as always; throwing away what might have been happiness to prevent the ghost from re-entering the life of the white-haired woman at her side. And she was practically turning Berta loose in New York, where she would be likely to draw a stain across a stainless life. Berta, free, there would soon be strange tales afloat, and each and every one of them would be credited to Norma Farrington. No matter, so long as the truth could be kept from the mother. The mockery of the grave in Greenwood!

An infinitesimal clue: she had left that because she would not have been human else. There would be one chance in a million of his understanding. A little green feather—Malachi's—which she had picked off the deck one morning. She had hidden it in the little red book. He would find it, but he would not understand. A miracle, nothing short of that; and this was not the day of miracles.... Good-by!

As the train drew out of One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station the blond man returned to No. 2, where he found his companion completely dressed and waiting. She was heavily veiled.

"Where's the keys?"

"Your keys? Oh, there they are, on the berth."

"What was it you wanted?"

"Wanted?" The woman raised the veil above her lips. "I haven't wanted anything."

"But you came and got my keys!"

"I ... what? I don't know what you are talking about. I went directly to the dressing-room and came straight back."

"Berta, what nonsense is this? You came for the keys and I gave them to you. Wittel and Franz saw you."

"Karl, you certainly did not!" alarmed.

The man stared at her for a space. Then swiftly he knelt before his kit-bag, opened it and rammed his hand to the bottom, plowing about.

"Gott!" he whispered, his color fading.

"What has happened?"

"Gone!... You devil, what game are you up to?" he cried, springing up. "I warned you once never to play with me. Where is it?"

"Are you mad or am I?... I haven't touched that bag.... I will kill you if you lay a hand on me! Some one has tricked you. Call the porter."

"Furies of hell! I saw you! The rose-kimono; it was you!"

"Karl, I tell you it was not I! We have been tricked. Call the porter."

The man opened the door furiously and bumped into George, who was sailing airily along the corridor.

"Come in here!"

George did not like the tone, but he obeyed.

"What's that under your arm?" demanded the woman.

"Kimono. Lady in number six done got off an' fo'got it."

The woman seized it. "Karl, don't you see? It is so nearly like mine it would fool any one!... Porter, what was this woman like?"

"Can't say, ma'am. Always wo' a veil. Boss, dat young man nex' do' is goin' t' de Waldorf. I'll be back in a minute fo' de grips an' de kimono."

George backed out diplomatically. He did not like the flavor of the atmosphere; too electrical. Besides, he had a box to deliver. He was plumb in the middle of the war.

"Berta, I don't understand this. I saw you! Franz and Wittel will back me!"

With the kimono spread over her knees, The Yellow Typhoon frowned into space.

"Some spy. Saw me somewhere, perhaps back in that hotel. You were playing cards; your scrutiny wouldn't be keen. A bit of court-plaster, a veil, and this kimono...."

"The full face, Berta.... Yours!" ominously.

Mathison had donned his uniform, his greatcoat, packed his kit-bags, and drawn the cotton-flannel bag over Malachi's cage. On his breast was pinned the bit of green ribbon. Presently he heard the signal on the door. George came in.

"A box fo' yo', suh.... My lan'!" he broke off.

"What's the matter?" asked Mathison, eying the box curiously.

"Dem regimentals! Is yo' an officer in de navy?"

"Yes, George. What's this box? Where did you get it?"

George jerked his thumb toward the partition.

"The woman next door?"

"Yes, suh!"

"She gave it to you for me?" astonished beyond measure.

"Yes, suh."

Mathison rubbed his chin. It might be some infernal-machine. Still, it had to be opened. With the lightest touch he untied the string. With a slow, steady pull he drew off the cover. Hypnotized, he stared at the contents. A manila envelope, a little red book ... and a folded blue-print!