Straightway Mathison put his arm under hers and began plowing along through the snow, which was more than ankle-deep. As his stride was long, she slipped and staggered to keep pace with him. There was a comforting strength in that arm of his.

The tension over, the encounter past, her mind was like her feet, heavy and without spring. A thought, entering her head, wandered about emptily, then went away. Her brain was like a vast cathedral, with one or two lonely tourists exploring. This droll imagery caused her to burst out laughing. Mathison merely tightened his grip.

She was soul-weary and body-weary. She would have liked to lie down in the soft inviting snow and never move again. The drab future that lay beyond! What might have been could not possibly be now. So long as Berta lived Hilda must walk in her shadow. It did not matter whether Berta roved free or was locked up in prison. And no doubt this man at her side, clean-cut and honorable above his kind, was already planning how to break the slender thread of their acquaintance. Why not? Seeing her, would he not always be seeing Berta, who in his eyes was a criminal of a dangerous type? From afar she heard his voice.

"There's a drug-store on the next corner. We'll order a taxi from there. Your feet will be wet.... I need not tell you I'm sorry."

"That my feet are wet or that the woman you know as The Yellow Typhoon is my twin sister? Why bother? I ought to hate her. Still, to me flesh and blood is flesh and blood. She is dangerous and should be punished; and yet instinct rebels at the thought. Free, she will be havoc. I know her of old. Her furies when she was little were frightful because they were always calculated. For days I've been dreading the encounter, dreading yet courting it. It was inevitable. Flesh and blood! What was God's idea? My poor mother! She has been through so much; and now this must strike her. She was a circus-rider in the Copenhagen hippodrome, beautiful and admired. My father won and married her because it pleased his vanity. He tired of her within a month. Then he beat her. He was half Prussian. Tortured and discarded her. Is there anything in prenatal influence? They say not. Yet look at Berta! My father's soul. I don't understand! brokenly.

"I am terribly sorry. An impasse; and I don't know which way to turn. She is a dangerous enemy, and this is war. For your sake I want to let her go, back to the East. For my country's sake I cannot. She must pay the grim reckoning. I have some influence. There will be no publicity. I can readily promise you that. You're a brick; and I'd cut my hand off to save you this hurt. But I repeat, this is war. Fortunately the affair is military, out of the reach of civil court, beyond the reporters. Winnowed of all chaff, the grain is that I'm powerless. In certain directions I have tremendous power, but only as an agent. I cannot judge, condemn, or liberate. I am desperately sorry. She is the wife or companion of the man I believe killed my friend. She is the woman who gratuitously spoiled my friend's life. The counts against her are heavy."

"I understand. You cannot break your oath of allegiance for me; and my oath of allegiance will not permit you. But it tears and rends. Still, she once passed out of my life absolutely. Perhaps my concern is for my mother. I am numb with the tragedy of it. Flesh and blood, but she denied it. I tried to save her. Suppose we let Berta's fate rest on the knees of the gods?"

"If it is proven she had nothing to do with Hallowell's death, there is a chance of merely interning her for the duration of the war."

"Hallowell! That afternoon he spoke to me in the Botanical Gardens. He thought I was Berta. I tried to save him, but I reached the villa too late. I saw it, in silhouette on the curtains! I called, rang the bell, shook the gate. Then the lights went out.... I tried to save him!"

"I know. He was the finest friend a man ever had. And somewhere up there among the stars his spirit is at peace. John Mathison has come through!"

"Alone, all alone, without aid from any one. With an immeasurable power behind you, you fought it out alone. It was splendid—American! That envelope! The tameness of your surrender hurt. I did not understand until after we were in that house and I saw you smile. That receipt was only a trap, a bait; and the man you believe killed Hallowell walked blindly into it. No one but you could touch that envelope, once it was in a hotel safe. Am I right?"

"The man is a prisoner in my room at this moment. When we enter this drug-store, it is a signal for the raiding of that house, fore and aft. A fly couldn't escape. We idiotic Yankees! I have him. It took patience. But there was a guardian angel watching over John Mathison. Had you not warned me they would have learned the dance I was leading them, and vanished. They had me for sleep. I thought I was awake, but actually I was sleep-walking."

"Then I wasn't useless, after all?"

"No." He smiled at the sky, at the stars he couldn't see but knew were there. Day after to-morrow!

Mathison was a one-idea man. What I mean is, when he undertook a task he went at it directly, whole-heartedly; there were never any side issues.

Presently he spoke again. "There is one favor I must ask of you, to tighten the noose around this man's neck. Will you testify before the authorities that you found the blue-print in his kit-bag? Otherwise I cannot prove that it was in his possession. The theft of the receipt constitutes a military crime; but the blue-print convicts him of murder, either as principal or accessory. I can promise you there will be no publicity. Will you help me?"

"I have sworn to."

"Do you know that blond man's name?"

"No."

"Neither do I. Curious thing. In that little red book there are three descriptions; these vary only in the occupations of the men described. All three are bulky, blond, and ruddy. Until now I dared not be inquisitive."

"And will you do me a favor?"

"Ask it."

"Let me see it through."

"You mean, go back with me to the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Very well. And you can take Malachi home with you."

They entered the drug-store, stamping the snow from their feet.

To be with him just a little while longer.... Because she loved him, she, Hilda Nordstrom, the proud! Not because she wanted to, but because it was written. The one man in the world, and he did not care. Friendly and interested, mystified until now; and to-morrow he would go his way. The daughter of a circus-rider, the sister of The Yellow Typhoon. The Farrington was no more; to him she would always be Hilda Nordstrom. Her fame would not touch him, for he was without vanity. What had her heart been calling out through it all, since the miracle of the violets? "Love me! Love me!" She had thrown it forth as a hypnotist throws the will. "Love me! Love me!" And all the while he was busy with this affair of the manila envelope, the blue-print and vengeance. All he had sought her for was to prove that there were two women, so that he might minimize the confusion, make no future misstep. Was there another woman? Had he not hinted at the supper-table that there was? And yet, on board the Nippon Maru, hadn't he told her there was no one? She just could not make him out. There, on the Pacific, his every act had been boyish, tender, whimsical. Here, he was smiling, bronze, inscrutable, primordial. Blood and iron. The one man; and he was only friendly, he didn't care. When she paused to analyze the situation, however, the question arose: Why should he care? As Hilda Nordstrom—The Farrington—he had known her less than three hours. It was so hard to remember that on board the ship he had been John Mathison to her, but she had been to him a baffling, begoggled old lady, hugging shadowy corners and keeping her back to the moon.

What had happened to the world? Only a little while gone—a few months—she had been happy, gay with the gay, enjoying life, success, the rewards of long and weary endeavor. And up over the fair horizon had risen The Typhoon. Berta, always Berta!

"Pardon! I did not hear," she said.

"I said I was going to do a bit of telephoning. I'll round up a taxi. The boy is making you a cup of hot chocolate. Better drink it."

"Oh."

Mathison was gone for a quarter of an hour. He came back to her smiling. The taxi was at the curb.

"Better let me take you straight home," he suggested.

"You promised."

"But to-morrow...."

"To-morrow," she smiled, "always takes care of itself."

"Come. After all, it will be a matter of only a few moments. All I've got to do is to run up to the room and give the Secret Service men their orders. And I'll bring down Malachi. You are sure you want him?"

"Of course I am!" His little green parrakeet!

Later, when they entered Peacock Alley—totally deserted at this hour—he flung his greatcoat into a chair, pinning the green ribbon to the breast of his jacket.

"Suppose you sit here on this divan? I sha'n't be gone more than ten minutes. I ordered the taxi to wait."

"Go along, sailorman. And don't forget Malachi."

He wondered if she realized how easily that name fell from her lips.... Well, day after to-morrow! He marched briskly up to the desk.

"Take a good look at me," he said to the clerk; "then go to the safe and get the manila envelope with my photographs on it."

"Yes, sir. I was waiting for you," replied the clerk, with subdued excitement. "The man who presented the receipt is in charge in your rooms." He returned shortly with the envelope.

Mathison crumpled it into a pocket. "Of course you understand that all these mysterious actions have to do with the government and that there must be absolute secrecy on the part of the management."

"I have my orders to that effect, sir."

Mathison nodded and turned toward the nearest elevator shaft.

In a room on the ninth floor were three men. One sat near the window. His arms were folded, and in his lap was a Colt. The fire-escape was outside this window. In a manner peculiar to Americans, he rocked on the rear legs of his chair; and every little while there was a slight thud as the chair-back hit the wall or the forelegs hit the floor. The second man sat with his back toward the bathroom. From this point of vantage he could watch both the entrance to the room and the man on the bed. He evinced signs of boredom, as did the face of his companion. He was toying with an automatic. He was sunk in his chair, his legs resting on the heels of his shoes.

The prisoner, his hands clasped behind his head, seemed particularly interested in a pattern on the ceiling; but in reality he was counting the thuds of the Secret Service operative's chair; and out of this sound developed a daring campaign for liberty. Because he had surrendered docilely, without a sign of protest or struggle, he was confident he had by this time broken a wedge into the vigilance of his captors. He was a big man, blond, but his cheeks were no longer ruddy.

On a stand by the radiator Malachi occasionally shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He didn't love anybody, and he never was going to love anybody again. His nose—or rather his beak—was thoroughly out of joint with the world. Rooms that swung high and swung low; rooms that rattled and banged, the red walls of which hurt his eyes; and rooms with glaring lights. And always, just as he believed his troubles over, up went the cotton bag and he was off to other surprises. No; he was never going to love anybody again.

The man near the bathroom inspected his watch. "He ought to be along now."

The man on the bed sat up. Slowly he swung his legs to the floor. He rubbed his palms together, and the links between the manacles clinked slightly. He stood up.

"May I go to the bathroom?"

The man in the chair near the bathroom nodded. There was no exit from the bathroom.

"Leave the door open," he advised.

Alone, he would have risen and faced the bathroom door. But across the room was his companion, who, from where he sat, could see into the bathroom obliquely. Slowly the prisoner passed the chair. He was the picture of dejection. With unbelievable swiftness in a man so big he turned and threw his arms over the Secret Service man's head, bringing the manacle chain against his throat, murderously, all but garroting him. The automatic had scarcely touched the floor before the blond man, releasing his victim and stooping behind the chair, recovered it.

Now comes the point upon which his endeavor had been based. When you lean back in a chair, to recover necessitates a sharp forward tilt. Sometimes you get all the way down and sometimes you have to make a second effort. So it happened to the operative by the window, dumfounded by the daring and suddenness of the attack. As he threw himself forward the second time violently the automatic slipped. He caught it, but not quick enough.

"Drop it! For I shall shoot to kill. Get up. Now kick it in my direction. Very good." These words were uttered with dispassionate coolness.

The victim of the garroting was writhing and coughing on the floor. He would be out of it for several minutes. There was only one idea in his head—to get air through his tortured throat.

To the other operative the blond man said: "I am a desperate man and I promise to kill you if you do not obey me absolutely. Unless I go forth free I might as well go forth dead. It is my life against yours. Walk toward me with your hands up."

The Secret Service operative had heard voices like this before, and he wanted to live. Moreover, he knew that every exit would be covered until the patrol arrived, if it were not already at the curb. At the utmost the blond devil's victory would be short-lived.

"You win," he said, quietly, stepping forward.

"Face the other way."

The operative obeyed. The manacled hands rose above the unprotected head and the gun-butt came crashing down. The operative slumped to the floor. The blond man's subsequent actions bespoke his thoroughness in handling this kind of an affair. He sought the handkerchiefs, wet them, and tied the operatives' hands behind their backs. Few fabrics are tougher than wet linen. The man he had hit was either dead or insensible; so he paid no more attention to this unfortunate. His interest was in the operative who was now slowly getting air into his lungs. The blond man threw him on his face, sat on him, then rifled the pockets for the manacle key. He found it and freed his wrists. He ran to the bathroom again and returned with a wet towel which he wound about the half-strangled man's head. Next he calmly pocketed his belongings which lay on the bureau-top.

He was reasonably certain that he could not escape by any of the hotel entrances. There was only one chance. A window on the first floor, from which he would have to risk a drop of twelve or fourteen feet to the sidewalk.

Malachi was climbing up to his swing and clambering down to his perch.

The blond man, the automatic ready, opened the door ... and Mathison stepped in! The advantage of surprise was in this instance on Mathison's side. A fighting-man of the first order, he struck first. He brought his fist down hammer-wise upon the pistol, at the same time sending the toe of his boot to the enemy's knee-cap. Instinctive actions, but both blows went home. The blond man was forced to give back in order to set himself.

There began, then, in that small room, one of those contests which the Blind Poet loved to recount and which we nowadays call Homeric. Mathison was lighter than his opponent by thirty pounds, but he gave battle with a singing heart. This was as it should be, man to man. No tedious affair of the courts; cold, formal justice. Hot blood and bare hands!... An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!

The blond man, as he looked into Mathison's eyes, sensed that he was about to fight for his life; thus he became endowed with a frenzy which doubled his strength. His one blind endeavor was to get his gorilla arms around this Yankee swine who had tricked and beaten him. He lunged, head down. Mathison jabbed him, and with lightning speed shut the door with a backward kick.

He met the blond man at every point; boxed him, used his boots, employed the science of the Jap wrestler, threw obstacles, laughed, taunted sailor fashion; in fact, fought with the primordial savagery of the Stone Age, scorning the niceties of sportsmanship. He knew what his antagonist was—a Prussian, or one who had been Prussianized. And with devilish cunning and foresight he carried the Prussian idea to this blond giant.... To kill him with his bare hands!

The blond man's desperate swings landed frequently; for with his eye upon a single point, Mathison was often compelled to expose his face. That throat! To reach it with that Japanese side-cut, a blow that saps and blinds.

Once the enemy succeeded in gripping Mathison's jacket where its fastenings met: and Mathison, wrenching back, left half the front of his smart jacket in the eager hand.

Bloody, an eye half closed, his lips puffed and bleeding—but his teeth showing soundly through the grotesque smile—a gash across his forehead, Mathison continued to play for the throat. Queer thing about such contests: there isn't any pain until it is over.

A dozen times they stumbled over the operatives on the floor. The one with the towel around his head was now alive and tugging powerfully at the wet linen binding his wrists. Finally he managed to get to his feet, only to be hurled against the wall.

The inconvenience of these obstacles, animate and inanimate, reacted against Mathison as often as it did against his enemy; and one time Mathison was borne back against the foot-rail of the bed. But a violent thrust of his knee extricated him.

Suddenly and unexpectedly Mathison was offered his opening. The operative, who was still blinded by the wet towel, rose again and staggered about. He struck against the blond man's shoulder, and as the latter thrust him aside Mathison struck. Not an honorable blow, this cut at the throat; not the sort white men use in fisticuffs. But I repeat, these two were bent on killing each other.

When you touch a hot coal your hand jerks back. It is reflex action purely; the conscious brain has nothing to do with it. So it is with the blow on the Adam's apple. The hands fly to the throat because they must.

Mathison did not pause to note the effect of the stroke. He knew that it had gone home. He had been badly punished, but he was still fighting strong. The years of clean living, of unsapped vitality, were paying dividends to-night. He sent in a smothering hail of blows, with all the power he had left to put behind them.

It was now that the other man began to realize that he was no longer interested in killing Mathison, that he sought only to get away from this force and fury which were superior to his own. He looked about desperately for a corner to turn; but there wasn't any. Back he went, back until his legs struck the edge of the bed. Even as he wavered Mathison leaped, bore his man down, knelt on his ribs and dug his fingers into the bull-like neck. No doubt Mathison would have throttled him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But a singular event stayed his hands.

During all this surging to and fro, this battering and scuffling, Malachi's fear and agitation had grown to the point where he was compelled to express his disapproval in the only way he knew—by sounds, hoarse, raucous sounds, human words.

"Mat!... Chota Malachi! ... You lubber, where's my tobacco?... Mat!... Lysgaard!... To hell with the Ki!... Mathison, Hallowell and Company, and be damned to you!... Mat!... Lysgaard!"

Slowly Mathison drew back. The berserker lust to kill evaporated, leaving him cold and sick. The revelation that the name of the murderer was Lysgaard was insignificant beside the fact that Hallowell had reached out from Beyond and saved his friend from carrying blood-guilty hands to Hilda Nordstrom, who waited down-stairs!