"Do what you think best," she murmured across Mathison's shoulder. "Please do not consider me at all."

But Mathison stepped out tamely, his hands above his head. She followed, slightly chilled. Her arms hung at her side. This was not quite as she would have had it. Why didn't he attempt to distract the man with the automatic—arguments, protests, threats? There was always a chance. She was not afraid of pistol-shots, and he ought to know that. Chilled and disappointed, she stood beside him.

"The lady will put up her hands also." Nothing of the speaker's face could be seen, only his pale-blue eyes, which snapped frostily over the rim of the black handkerchief.

"The lady will do nothing of the kind, for the obvious reason that the cut of her coat will not permit it."

Mathison tightened his lips. Unafraid!

"Brandt!"

The chauffeur jumped down from the taxicab.

"Search them for weapons."

The chauffeur rifled Mathison's pockets, and tossed the heavy Colt to his superior. Then he seized Miss Farrington by the arm. He started to run his free hand over her, when she struck his cheek with a lively report.

"No man shall touch me like that!"

Mathison intervened. "Just a moment. I'll keep my hands up, but on condition that no indignity shall be offered this lady. Otherwise you will have to shoot me."

"No indignity will be offered the lady. So far as I am concerned, she does not exist. Her word that she is unarmed, and no one shall touch her."

"I give it." A diversion for his sake, and he had not taken profit! What was the meaning of this singular tameness?

"March up those steps, both of you. The lady will have to share your luck until it is advisable to release you. March!"

Mathison put his arm under Miss Farrington's and helped her up the icy steps. In the faintest whisper: "Do not lift up your veil while in this house. There is danger. Do not speak unless I give you the lead."

The door opened to admit them and they stood in a dimly lighted hallway.

"The parlor; you will find it comfortable."

Inside the parlor Mathison was ordered to halt. With a detached air he obeyed. Miss Farrington shuddered. She saw the man in the black handkerchief search the little pocket at the top of Mathison's trousers and extract a bit of paper, folded. What was it?

"A long chase, but we are patient. The receipt!... Yankee swine!" The man struck Mathison across the mouth, stepped back quickly, the automatic ready.

Mathison did not stir, but his tan faded; and presently a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin.

"You despicable coward!" she cried. "How like the Hun!"

"Be silent! Your immunity is not irrevocable."

A receipt of deposit! She understood now. A receipt of deposit for that manila envelope. To have come all this way, and then lose! And it came to her like a blow that she herself was directly the cause. He had not wanted to get into the taxi, and she had forced him. In trying to save him she had merely led him to defeat. But the tameness, when she knew that he was quick as light!

"You will be detained about an hour. A telephone-call will release you. Madame, my thanks. You made everything very easy for us. Without your innocent assistance there might have been difficulties. Unwittingly, you have entered the war zone, with casualties."

Then, with an ironical wave of the hand, the man in the black handkerchief stepped forth and closed the door.

Mathison pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his lips, turning gradually so that his back was toward the double doors.

"I could cry!" she said. "All my fault!"

Mathison laid a warning finger on his bruised lips. Instinctively he knew that he was being watched. The affair wasn't over yet.

"Please don't feel badly. The fortunes of war. The thing is done. Don't bother any more about it."

"But you wouldn't have surrendered like this if I hadn't been with you!"

"I'd have put up some kind of a scrap, I suppose. I should have kept my head, and didn't."

"But through fault of mine...."

"It might have been worse," he interrupted. "They didn't hurt you. I'll be given my destroyer. I'm a good navigator. Better take off your coat; otherwise you will feel it when you go out." He laid his hands on her shoulders—and whispered: "Be on your guard! They must not know that you know. Follow my leads. They are watching or listening."

"I'll keep the coat on." She sat down, trembling.

He began to walk about. From time to time he touched his lips with his handkerchief.

She watched him. All through the night he had puzzled her as no man had ever puzzled her before. She knew that he was strong, resourceful, courageous. And yet he had taken that blow on the mouth without comment, without a sign of wrath. Resourceful, he had carried that receipt with him. Her fault, directly and indirectly. His discovery that Norma Farrington—Hilda Nordstrom—and The Yellow Typhoon were two individuals had befogged his foresight. He had probably dashed out of the hotel with no thought but of finding her. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to leave the receipt in the key-box. Beaten because of her!

"Think of finding you!" he said. He covered the length of the room again. "No doubt you think I'm a queer codger. The fact is I never waste time or energy in wailing. When I lose I pay. When I win I pocket the stakes. I never drop out of a game, once I take up the cards." He sat down beside her. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Good Heavens! But she managed to say, calmly, "In a play?" She lifted the veil to the tip of her nose. "Oh yes. It goes very well that way." A cue? Very good; she would follow up this bewildering lead, even if her heart did begin to act queerly.

"I mean in real life."

"I never fell in love with any one offstage; so I'm not in a position to speak. The trouble with me is I have a fatal gift of reading men at a glance. I have always revolted at the idea of marrying a man I knew all about on my wedding-day. He must be a fine story-book—to be read a page at a time, to offer a mystery tantalizing enough to create a longing to solve it. And if I ever do marry I shall go on with my work. Why? Because I shall always be puzzling him just a little. In marriage absolute knowledge always makes for dullness."

Of all the amazing, heartrending subjects to select! And she could not tell him that he was hurting her dreadfully.... His poor lips! All her fault.

That voice! he thought. In his ears it was sweeter than the intoning of choirs in cathedrals. He glanced at his wrist-watch. Probably the man was at the desk, presenting the receipt. God send he did not pass the job on to a confederate! In twenty minutes, perhaps, the call would come for their release. Mathison ran his tongue over his throbbing lips. Then he smiled—a smile through which his teeth flashed whitely.

She, watching him, waited for him to carry on. His bent head was so close that it was hard to resist that old inclination—to touch it with her hand. All this talk about love!... He was merely passing the time. But when she saw that smile her eyes widened behind her veil. It was a terrible smile, savage, relentless, and confident!

And then, in one of those blinding ribbons of light that flash across the storms, she saw distinctly the meaning of the whole affair. Each time the recollection of the manila envelope returned to her mind fog enshrouded it. She could see nothing but a childish whim in the superscriptions and decorations. His own name and rank sprawled across the middle and a photograph at each end—of himself in mufti and uniform. The Machiavellian cunning of it! Boy! Would she ever be able to call him that again? She thrilled.

"What shall I call you? Lieutenant-commander is so formal and Mister is an abomination."

"Call me John. My mother thought it a good name."

"Not Jack?"

"Too many Jacks in the navy. I'd like very much if you'd call me John."

"Mathison. I believe for the present I'll call you Mathison. That's comrade-y. And day after to-morrow we shall have tea together."

"And I'll bring Malachi. But I warn you he swears dreadfully sometimes, when he's happy."

"I'd love him!" She laughed. A few moments ago she hadn't believed she could ever laugh again joyously. After all, what did her affairs amount to in this great game? She was an infinitesimal grain of sand, inconsiderable. A trap for his enemy, and she had almost spoiled it. And casually he had said he had a few loose threads to pick up!

She was reasonably certain now that all recollection of the old lady on the Nippon Maru had passed from his mind. Why not? Why should a young man of thirty keep fresh in his memory an old woman ostensibly sixty? He had found Hilda Nordstrom, and that was sufficient for the present.

"Did I see the red and blue lights of a drug-store down the street as we came along?"

"I don't remember."

The double doors rolled back smoothly and The Yellow Typhoon stepped into the room, sending the doors shut again. She leaned with her back against one of the doors, and the crooked smile on her lips almost hid the little mole.

Mathison was on his feet immediately, his nerves singing. All along he had expected such a moment; and yet, now that it had come, it stupefied him. He stood so that he partially covered Miss Farrington. He wondered if any man had ever before been confronted by such a situation. He managed to throw a bit of gallantry into his bow.

"And how is the jealous husband to-night?"

"He is doing nicely at this moment, thank you. You and the lady are free to go."

"Ah!"

Mathison started to turn, but stopped, fascinated by the singular change which was passing over the face of the woman in front of him. Slowly her hands reached out on each side, fingers spread; her body seemed to shrink.

"Hilda?"