Mathison stepped aside, not only physically, but figuratively. He saw that for a little while he was to be an outsider. There was a strange tragedy here, and it was going to be threshed out immediately. The attitude of the two women was a dead reckoning that there were accounts to settle. Already they seemed to have forgotten him.

Of course he had known, or at least suspected, that these two remarkable women were sisters—twins. From the moment he had discovered that posed photograph, located The Yellow Typhoon in this very house, established the fact that Norma Farrington was acting on the stage that night, he had known.

From where he stood, ill at ease and restless, he could see the two faces. So alike that, separately, it was impossible to tell which was which or that there were two. Witness his own adventures in that hotel room. The detective had declared that two women had mounted that fire-escape because he had seen nothing but footprints. But the two together, as Mathison now saw them! The one with the white soul of her shining in her face; the other—a sphinx. Hilda—he would never think of her as Norma again—a white page with a beautiful poem written thereon; the other, a page with a cryptogram. A miracle; he could call it nothing else; a physical allegory, the good fairy and the bad. The forest pool that slaked your thirst; the lying mirage of the desert. And yet the mirage was no less glorious to the eye than the honest pool. He knew he would never again mistake the one for the other.

The shock over, the reality confirmed, The Yellow Typhoon gathered her shattered forces. She folded her arms, and her body seemed to expand.

"Hilda!... Well, why not? I knew that if I returned to New York our paths would cross again. I did not will it. But what will be will be. Always meddling, always trying to thwart me!"

"Yes, Berta; the same old Hilda, always bearing the brunt of your misdeeds, always sacrificing herself to shield you ... to save the mother a hurt. For what I did never hurt her; she loved you, tolerated me. And the bitter irony of it all lies in the fact that she would have stood away from you but for my sacrifices, which misled her. Yes, I am Hilda."

"You!" rasped Berta. "It was you, then, who wore that kimono! You, turned Yankee swine!"

"I, who have sworn loyalty to the land you would betray. I tried to save you, but you would not have it."

"Save me? On the contrary, your safety depends upon my good nature. I hold you and this mollycoddle in the palm of my hand. Take care!"

"You never could frighten me, Berta. You know that. Eight years! Do you realize that you have been dead eight years?"

"There are many kinds of death—some of our own choosing," said Berta, insolently.

"I mean the dead who never more return. Eight years ago the mother and I buried you in Greenwood."

"What?" explosively. "What are you telling me?"

"The Berta who was found in the river, recognizable only by the dress she wore and the locket. And every spring the mother goes there with flowers. Your ghost is not pleasant to see, Berta. The horror of that night in Shanghai, when I learned the truth, that you were alive, notorious! The owner of a gambling-house in the Honan Road! Nightmare! Who was it we buried?" Hilda stepped forward menacingly.

Fine steel and hammered brass, thought Mathison. He could not touch the woman of brass now; she was Hilda's sister, and Hilda should say what should be done. Nor could he smother the spark of admiration. Bad she might be, ruthless and predatory, but she was no weakling. Whatever her end, she would meet it hotly. He saw that Hallowell had been stronger than Samson, since this Delilah had not shorn his locks.

Sisters who had not seen each other in eight years—deadly antagonists! He could not help philosophizing a little over this phenomenon of life. Sisters and brothers; the long roll of bitter tragedies from the day Cain grew jealous of Abel! He wished he was elsewhere. It was sacrilege to witness the baring of two souls.

"Who was it we buried?" repeated Hilda.

Berta frowned. Eight years, a long time to remember the trivial incidents associated with the abandonment of her people. All at once her eyes flashed and a corner of her lip went up in a twisted smile. "I remember now. I gave the old clothes and the locket to a creature on the street. So she killed herself, and I am dead! No wonder you left me in peace!"

"Thief!" cried Hilda, flaming. "You cold-blooded thief! You took the last jewel that mother had and pawned it—the jewel she had been clinging to desperately—the last link to the life she had known. The tragedy was nothing to you. You pawned it to buy a new dress, a new hat. What was her love for you? Something for you to prey upon; and, having preyed upon the last morsel, you took wing, like the kite you are! I discovered what had become of the jewel. Without her knowing it, I worked nights for months to reclaim it. Then I 'found' it. I would waste my breath if I cried 'Shame!'"

"Then don't waste your breath, Hilda. Shame? I am my father's daughter, and I take what pleases me when and where I find it. I ran away because I was tired of poverty, tired of you all. I hated you because you were always whining at my elbow not to do this and not to do that. Fine music! We were born in an hour of hate and terror. I am the daughter of my father, a noble; you are the daughter of a Copenhagen circus-rider. I am a law unto myself, and you are the puppet of circumstances. Love my mother? Love anything? I don't know. But I have avenged her. I have made mankind pay for the blows my father dealt her. And I never forgave her for not claiming her rights when father died. We might have grown up in comfort, and her stupid pride kept us in rags. I did not ask to be born; my birth was not my will. Flesh and blood? What is life but an accident? Selfish? Who would look out for Berta but Berta? I am myself, no more, no less; and the path I travel is of my own choosing. Life! I have lived. No law can take that away from me. You have called me the kite. What is the kite but cousin to the eagle? Look back. Did I ever cringe, whine? If a blow was struck, did I not always strike back? The fault is you were always trying to pour me into another mold. I had already been poured. What you wanted of me was something like this fool parrakeet—something content to live in a cage. Not for Berta Nordstrom! I don't know what my end shall be, but it will be a free end."

A wave of pity surged over Mathison. For Hilda's sake he had contemplated letting this wild, untamed thing go; and now for the same reason he would not dare let her go. There was a chill of fear, too. There was no knowing how far this rising fury might carry The Yellow Typhoon. Never would he forget this picture. The angel and the destroyer; the same blood, the same physical perfections—sisters! And beyond the blood-tie, total strangers. And for days he had been shuttlecock to their battledores; the one trying to save him, the other trying to break him.

"One question," he interrupted, grimly.

Berta whirled upon him. "Ask it!"

"Had you a hand in Bob Hallowell's death?"

"If I had I'd answer, wouldn't I! No. But I had killed him a thousand times in my heart. I hated him above all other men. Men call me The Yellow Typhoon. I accept. Woe to those who stand in my way. If I did not break Hallowell, I spoiled his life. And I have beaten you. You and your sanctimonious Hallowell! Fools, I had but to crook my finger and how beautifully you danced! I'd have twisted you around my finger with half a chance."

"Berta, do you ever stop to think?"

The Yellow Typhoon laughed. "A sermon? Save it."

"No regret, no pity?"

"Oh, I have my regrets ... failures. But if you mean do I regret you and the past, a thousand times no. You say I have returned from the grave. You have yourself to thank for that. I had almost forgotten you. I promise you that I shall seek the mother."

"Take care, Berta! I am my father's daughter, too!"

"A threat?"

Mathison began to grow alarmed. Never had he felt the danger so near. If Hilda suspected the game he was playing and dropped a single hint, they were lost; he, at any rate. The Secret Service would not strike until he was out of this house. Such had been his order. But if this madwoman caught one glimmer of the truth!

"Come, Miss Farrington," he said.

"Very well. But always remember I tried to save you, Berta."

"Farrington, Farrington! And I had all but forgotten! One of the men here told me. Farrington, the Broadway celebrity, rich and famous! Oh, if I but had the time!"

"To injure me? You will not find it, Berta."

"No? Wait and see. To-morrow I shall search for the mother."

"You shall never find her. I wish you no evil. After all, you are still the child that was always touching the stove. Take care of yourself; and good-by forever, sister."

In reply The Yellow Typhoon sped across to the hall door, which opened with such violence that the knob was shattered.

"Go! I am ordered to free you. But for that!... Go! Meddle no more with my affairs, Hilda Nordstrom!"

Hilda passed into the hall. Mathison ran ahead and unslipped the door-chain; and a moment later they stood on the sidewalk, shadowy to each other in the blinding snow.