As soon as the curtain fell Mathison stood up and plowed his way out to the aisle. Once in the aisle, he rushed to the foyer, where he demanded the way to the managerial office. His uniform was open sesame.

The producing manager, a dapper, bright-eyed Jew, happened to be in, and he was outlining a campaign for his press agent when Mathison burst in.

"I am Lieutenant-Commander John Mathison," he announced, a bit out of breath for his run up the stairs.

"What's the difficulty?" asked the manager, coolly. "Anchor afoul my unlighted sign?"

Mathison laughed. He understood at once that here was a good sport. "Pardon my abruptness," he apologized. "I'd like to use your telephone."

The manager waved his hand. He heard Mathison's side of the conversation.

"Mathison. What's the report from Fiftieth Street?... The woman still inside? Thanks.... No, that's all." Mathison hung up the receiver dreamily.

"What's happened?" asked Rubin, ironically. "Have we sunk the German fleet?"

"We are going to," said Mathison. "I want a messenger the quickest way I can get him."

"War stuff?" thrilled in spite of his resentment at the intrusion. Rubin was an autocrat in the theatrical world.

"Well, I don't believe you'd call it that. I want to get some flowers."

The manager sank back. "You sailors! I thought maybe a submarine was loose outside!" He was going to add a sting, when a boot came into contact with his shin, a sign that the alert press agent had something on his mind. "Flowers!"

"I have come ten thousand miles to send these flowers," replied Mathison, smiling.

"Get a head usher, Klein," said the manager, secretly bubbling. What a humdinger for the morning papers! As the press agent vanished, Rubin turned to Mathison. "You may send flowers, but not across the lights. I will not break that rule for anybody."

"So long as she gets them. May I write a note?"

The manager got up and indicated his chair. "Write as many as you like. I take it that the flowers are for Miss Farrington."

"They are."

"Do you know her?" curiously.

"I do." The smile was still on Mathison's lips.

"In that case, go ahead. But if it happens that she doesn't recall you, your posies will go directly to the ash-can. She isn't easy to know."

"I know her," insisted Mathison.

"I rather wish, though, that you would put this off until to-morrow night. Miss Farrington will be very tired. She's done a fine and generous thing—gone on without rest, after an unbroken journey from the other side of the world."

"No one is better aware of that than I. She will see me."

Rubin knew confidence when he saw it.

He twisted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. A vigorous, unusual chap, this, and handsome enough to wake up The Farrington. Ten thousand miles! Her aloofness toward men was now accounted for. An old affair nobody had heard of. There was an ominous portent in this affair for Broadway. She was the loyalest of the loyal; she'd stick to her contract. But after!

Mathison settled down to his note. Each time he balled up a piece of paper and flung it into the waste-basket Rubin frowned.

The press agent came storming back, an usher in tow. The latter was given fifty dollars and ordered to purchase Parma violets.

"No tinfoil, no tinsel strings, no bouquet; loose, as they came from the soil. Carry this note and the flowers to Miss Farrington's dressing-room. And here is something for your trouble." To the manager he said, "Thanks for your courtesy."

"You're as welcome as the spring."

"Oh, boy!" cried the press agent as the door closed behind Mathison. "In a dead world like this! A real yarn, no faking. Did you lamp the roll he dragged out? That was real money, all yellows. Think of it! Our Norma, a navy man, ten thousand miles, flowers, a wad of yellows! She'll set up a holler. Pass the buck to me. I'll be the goat with the cheerfulest smile ever!"

"Klein, we sha'n't use this."

"What?" barked the press agent.

"No. It's real. This is no Johnny. Norma is no chorus beauty. Of course, I jumped at the idea, but we'll have to pass it up. I wouldn't lose Norma's genuine affection for me for a million three-sheets, free of charge. No. Lock it up and forget it."

"Well, what do you know about that?"

Mathison returned to his seat, apologizing to every one so courteously and agreeably that even the men forgave him. He was quite calm now. All incertitude was gone; he knew. The Yellow Typhoon was in a house in Fiftieth Street, and Norma Farrington was yonder on the stage, delighting his eyes, thrilling his ears. The wonder of her! God bless her, she had tried to save Bob Hallowell that night! And he would never have known but for that posed photograph!

She did not wear any of the flowers in the second act, nor in the third; but when she came on in the fourth she carried a small bouquet in her corsage. She was Joyousness. It radiated from her into the audience. Faces all over the house were beaming, not with merriment, but with good humor.

There came a little moment when throats became stuffy—one of those flashes of tenderness whose link is generally laughter. When the whole house was watching the comÉdienne tensely, in absolute silence, Mathison laughed aloud, joyously! Heads swinging resentfully in his direction woke him up. His cheeks flushed.

Doubtless by this time you have formed the impression that Mathison had lost his compass, that he was drifting, that he had forgotten the vital business which had brought him all these thousands of miles. Nothing could be farther from the truth. All these little eddies, currents, whirlpools were at the sides of the stream, that flowed on, impervious, inevitable.

For a man whose soul was in haste he took his time. His movements within the theater and outside in the lobby were leisurely. On the street he made no effort to bore through. But when he reached the corner he was off like a shot toward the dark alley which led to the stage door. This he plunged through recklessly—into the arms of the ancient Cerberus who tended the door.

"Outside, outside! The comic opera has went!"

Mathison presented his card. "Miss Farrington is expecting me."

"Oh, she is, huh? Well, she said nothin' to me about it."

"I'll wait."

"You're welcome; but in the alley, admiral, in the alley. Nobody gits by me to-night, comin' in. Orders."

"I don't suppose ten dollars would interest you in the least."

"Not unless I saw it. Honest, now, are you meetin' Miss Farrington?"

"I am. I'll be peaceful, Tirpitz; but if you send for the stage-hands, I'm likely to shoot up the place."

"All right. I'll take it in two fives."

Mathison discovered that he was now free to walk about as he pleased, so long as he did not amble in the direction of the dressing-rooms. He anchored himself by the wall, from where he could see all who came down the narrow iron staircase. The draughty, musty, painty odors were to him like perfumed amber from Araby.

By and by two women came down. They went past Mathison without taking any notice of him. They were followed shortly by a man whom Mathison recognized as the conceited ass who made love to Miss Farrington in the play.

A row of lights overhead went out. The stage was now in a kind of twilight. I wonder if there is a sadder place than a stage when the actors have left it to the tender mercies of scene-shifters, carpenters, and electricians? To Mathison it was only the door to Ali Baba's cave.

At length—thirty minutes, to be exact—a woman came down the stairs slowly. A veil was wrapped about her face and hair. But Mathison would have recognized that sable coat anywhere. He stepped forward shakily and took off his cap.

"I suppose it's still snowing outside?" casually.

"What we sailors call thick weather." No questions; just an ordinary, every-day query about the weather. No confusion. "You are not afraid to shake hands?"

"I don't know just what to do."

"Oh, I'd return the hand." His laughter rocked the lurking echoes above.

And something in that laughter made her afraid of him, of herself.

"Where in the world did you find all those violets—loose, the way I love them?" She did not give him time to answer. "My car is at the end of the alley. Where shall we go? I'm going to give you a half-hour.... I suppose it was written."

"That I should find you? Yes."

"I like the way you say that." Had the porter betrayed her? And yet the porter could not have betrayed anything beyond the fact that she, not Berta, had given him that box. Some unforeseen stroke of luck; certainly not that feather. He was no brother to the CumÆan Sibyl. Still, he had found her. She was tremendously curious to learn how. On the other hand, she was determined to ask him no questions and, as adroitly as she could, evade his. If he persisted, she would cut the meeting short. Some day—if she ever saw him again—she would tell him the story. She was too weary to-night. She was at once happy and miserable; happy because it was as though his finding her had been written, miserable because the sordid dÉnouement might break at any moment. To save Berta, not for Berta's sake, but for the mother's.

She knew that she was beautiful, that she possessed extraordinary talent in attracting men, though she had never used it. She knew what power lay in expression, in vocal music. She might have made this man love her. For if he had not been drawn to her through some mysterious forces, why had he sought her? Those flowers! There were gall and wormwood in this cup, but she drank it with a smile. Romance, and she must let it go by!

What had he learned within these four short hours? That she was not The Yellow Typhoon, certainly. Had there been a cable from that man Morgan, after his solemn promise? The gray wig and the goggles....

"What did you say?"

"That we had better be moving. You take me wherever you think best."

"Give me your arm. It will be slippery in the alley. There's an umbrella in the corner by the door. Take it."

Outside, he put up the umbrella; and as she took his arm she knocked against something heavy and hard in his pocket.

"What is that?"

"Part of a sailor's paraphernalia."

"It is not over yet?" with sudden suspicion.

"No. There are a few threads that need picking up."

The metal in his voice did not escape her. She was puzzled, for, logically, all his land adventures should be over.

It was only a short distance to the restaurant, which was a famous one.

She selected it tactfully, solely on his account. She herself had never been inside of it before in the evening. But she knew a good deal about men, that even so nice a one as this fresh-skinned, blue-eyed sailorman would not object to having his vanity played up to. There was another kind of thought besides in her mind. The night would be far more memorable if there was a background of color and movement and music. She was weak enough to want him always to remember this night.

The moment she took off her veil and coat she was recognized. That is the penalty of theatrical fame in New York. The head waiter passed the word, and the people at the near-by tables stared and whispered; and Mathison wouldn't have been human if he had not expanded a little under this patent interest in his lovely companion.

How was he to know that the gown she wore had been donned expressly for him? How was he to know that it had been sent for after the arrival of the flowers, or that she had worried all through the performance for fear her mother would send the wrong one, or that it might reach the theater too late?

Later, Mathison could not have told whether she wore green or blue or red. No normal man would have paid any attention to her gown—with her face, her eyes, her lips to watch.

Their orders scandalized the waiter. Miss Farrington ordered two apples and Mathison a bowl of bread and milk. They laughed.

"That's all I ever eat at night—fruit."

"And I didn't come here to eat," he said.

About this time the blond man, occupied by a single idea, entered the restaurant lobby, gave his hat and coat to the check-boy, then walked out to the curb and approached the footman.

"Dismiss Miss Farrington's limousine. She will go home with us."

"Yes, sir." The footman went down to execute the order.

The blond man waited until he saw the gray limousine maneuver out of the line and swing into the street; then he returned for his hat and coat. The Farrington was nothing to him. He had never heard of her until to-night. Ordinarily he might have been curious enough to have had her pointed out. To-night such curiosity might dissipate his cleverly conceived plans. Perhaps Mathison had not seen him actually. Anyhow, he did not intend to risk the future to satisfy a curiosity which was only negligible. If he had looked into that dining-room, it is quite possible this tale would have had a different ending. As matters stood, he had reason to be grateful to the actress. She had opened a way for him. A man with a pretty woman in his charge would not be particularly keen mentally.

"Did you like the play?"

Mathison shook his head.

"You didn't like it?" astonished.

"I'll see it before I sail."

"Then you weren't in the theater to-night?"

"Oh yes; in Q. I was the ass who laughed out loud when the whole house was so still you could have heard a pin drop."

"You?... I heard that, and wondered what had happened. But if you saw the play...."

"That's just the point. I wasn't an audience; I was a spectator."

Something in his eyes, a lurking fire, warned her not to press in this direction. After all, he had not come to see the play; he had come to see her. And the knowledge was like the warmth from a wood fire.

"A sailorman! No doubt a girl in every port."

"No." Without vehemence. "The same girl in every port, in the fire, in the moon-mists; the girl who has been in my heart since I was a boy."

"Oh." A little dagger-stab in her heart. "Then you have come back to marry before you go across?"

"Quite likely."

"Love, marriage, off to the wars!... What is she like?"

"Petrol on water."

She stared blankly.

"If you have never seen wide spreads of petrol on a smooth sea," he explained, "then you have missed something indescribably beautiful. Fire! Dawns, sunsets, moonlight; all the flashing gems in the world, moving, circling, advancing, retreating. The soul of a woman should be like that."

"Are you a poet?"

"Possibly, but inarticulate. I don't know one rhyme from another."

"But poetry isn't rhyme. Your description of oil on water is poetry."

He laughed. "If the wardrooms ever find that out, I'm done for." The glory of her! All his life he had been dreaming of an hour like this.

A pause followed. His utter lack of inquisitiveness intrigued her beyond expression. Not a word about how he had found her. Not a word about the Adventure. Why? What kind of a man was he, that he could sit opposite her without deluging her with questions? And he had a right to know many things. She had given him one opening without meaning to—the query relative to the automatic in his pocket. Why hadn't he taken advantage of it?

She broke the silence and led him into the war; but after a few phrases he veered away from this. He spoke of the snow, how he longed for the north country of late, how he had grown weary for the need of cold, lashing winds and the smell of snow.

When she could stand it no longer she said, "Tell me by what magic you found me!"

"I'm a queer codger. I have a strange memory for sounds. Possibly because I've lived much in the open. My leaves were generally spent in the jungles. Foliage moving—I can tell almost instantly whether it is the wind or animal life. The same with the crackling of a twig. Sometimes the recurrence of a sound confuses me. There may be some difficulty in placing it. But I know I have heard the sound before."

Then he produced the photograph. She stared at it bewilderedly. Sound? What was he talking about?

"You found me by that? But you did not hear that!"

"Still, it recalled a sound."

Her glance fell on the photograph again. She had forgotten the posing for it. This was not the sort of dÉnouement she wanted; he had found her quite ordinarily. Yet she could not make him out. This was not the man she had known on the Nippon Maru, the boy who had been like crystal or an open book. This was an inscrutable stranger, of velvet and steel.

"I begin to understand," she said. She felt the mantle of weariness falling again on her shoulders. The hide-and-seek of the encounter irked her. Why didn't he speak, demand questions, satisfy her curiosity? She was very tired. He would never know how much awake she had been on that journey. She had walked the car corridors at all hours; she had watched for Berta to pass the crack in the door until the concentration had made her dizzy. She was tired, and she hadn't the power to resist her own curiosity. She flung open Bluebeard's door recklessly. "I begin to understand."

"What?"

"Why you were sent on this hazardous mission. You are quite sufficient unto yourself. I believed I was doing a fine, brave thing."

"Ah, but it was a fine, brave thing. You made it possible for me to go on. Secret service!"

"It would be useless to deny it." She leaned on her elbows, locking her ringless fingers under her chin. "It's not generally known, but I am of Danish stock. I came to America when I was very little. I spoke no English. There were lean years; yes, even poverty. But I had a little talent—the faculty of making people smile. Not all aliens are ungrateful. This is now my country. I love it!" Her eyes flashed. "It made me all I am, gave me all I have. It has been glorious to me. Long ago I vowed if ever the chance came I would pay back these benefactions—with my life if need be!"

Mathison's conduct was logical enough. All he had wanted was to see her, hear her voice for a little while, get one absolute fact, a fact she could not withhold from him, being unaware of what he was seeking. He would satisfy his curiosity, disperse these mysteries, after his work was done. Before this night was over one of two things was going to happen. He was going to succeed or he was going to be badly hurt. He now had a tolerably keen insight into the character of this glorious woman. She was brave and resourceful. The slightest hint of what was on foot and she might seek to intervene, with the best of intentions, and spoil everything. But day after to-morrow—when he returned from Washington!

"It is very wonderful to be here to-night," he said.

After that her heart grew warm again. She, too, knew the value of sounds. At least he was grateful. That weapon in his pocket—she longed to ask him about that. But a question here might alarm him. He must not suspect the plan she had in her head. Logically the great adventure was at an end; but they may have threatened his life. She stood up.

"I'm a brute!" he cried, contritely. "I forgot that you must be weary beyond measure."

He held the sable coat for her, particularly careful not to touch her. As she was wrapping the veil about her hair and face he asked if he might come to tea the day after.

"I'll tell you. In a little while I shall be in the thick of it. I may not come back. In my room at the hotel I've a little Rajputana parrakeet—green as an emerald. Fact is, he's the only pal I have to-day. He hates the sea. May I give him to you?"

She trembled. "To me?" Malachi!

"Yes—that is, if you'd like him. He talks. Wait." He fumbled about in a pocket. "Here's a little feather of his. It will give you an idea of what a brilliant color he has. May I give him to you?"

"Yes!" The blood whipped into her throat. The girl he saw in every port: what about her? Why didn't he offer the bird to her?... That feather! It wasn't humanly possible that he understood and was playing with her.

Truth is he was thousands of miles away from the message. But there were other roads to Rome; and he knew what he knew.

"Then I may come to tea day after to-morrow?"

"Yes," She turned away from the table. Upon reaching the curb she wheeled upon Mathison. "My car!" she cried, dismayed.

"What's the matter?"

"It isn't here!"

Mathison hailed the footman. "What has become of Miss Farrington's car?"

"Why, sir, she gave orders to dismiss it!"

Mathison returned to Miss Farrington. "Some mistake. They've dismissed it."

"Taxi, sir?" said a man at Mathison's elbow.

"Yes. Here, Miss Farrington; jump into this. Day after to-morrow at four. Good night."

"But you are coming with me!"

"No."

"I say yes!"

"No."

"Then I'll walk to the Subway—four blocks. I shall ruin my dress, my shoes, and my temper. I am going to take you back to the hotel."

The last place in the world Mathison intended going at this hour. The devil and the deep blue sea! He was confident that she would do just as she threatened—walk. But this he knew: the moment he entered this taxi it would become a trap—a trap he would jump into with the greatest cheerfulness, alone. What to do? He could not give her any warning, with the strange chauffeur's ear scarcely a foot off. And under no circumstances must the blond man see Norma Farrington's face this night.

"A compromise," he said, believing he had found a solution to the difficulty. "I'll go with you if you will let me take you home first."

"Agreed!" she cried, readily. She smiled in the dark of the cab. This was exactly what she wanted. Once at the apartment, she would discharge this taxi and order one she was tolerably sure of.

He laughed and sprang into the cab. The snow was coming down thickly. Corners were dim; the street-lamps hung in a kind of pearly twilight. A strange silence fell upon them.

I don't suppose either of them marked the turns. Perhaps the impenetrable haze had something to do with it. You are not ordinarily attracted by nebulous objects. Again, it might have been due to the fact that they were both fatalists. Suddenly the cab stopped with a slewing jerk. The door opened. The man who opened it presented his arm stiffly. Neither Miss Farrington nor Mathison had to be informed regarding that blue-black bit of metal at the end of that arm. She shrank back, but not in fear. Her idea was to give Mathison all the elbow room he might require.

"Step out, both of you, with your hands up—quickly!"