Meantime the jar of the battle had not passed unnoticed. The guests in the rooms adjoining and below had been telephoning the office. The clerk, aware that there were Secret Service operatives at all exits, hastily summoned them. And four plunged into Mathison's room just as he stepped away from the bed.

"It's all over, gentlemen," he said, thickly. "The man on the bed is wanted on two accounts—theft of naval plans and murder. He is Karl Lysgaard. In 1916, to cover his espionage endeavors, he became a naturalized citizen. Ostensibly he is Danish; but he was born in Holtenau, near enough to the Kiel Canal to make him a first-class Prussian. Take him to the Tombs, and keep your eye on him while taking him there. I will appear against him in the morning. The woman known as The Yellow Typhoon...."

"Has vanished," whispered one of the operatives.

"Escaped?"

"Like smoke! Telephone message came while you were up here. But she won't go far. Already all exits are being watched. No trains, no ships; and she will not be able to hide long in New York. Some scrap you must have had here. Your uniform's a wreck. Better wash up."

Mathison staggered into the bathroom, now mindful of his injuries. He was sure that one or more of his ribs were broken. Every beat of his heart was accompanied by a stab either in his head or in his torso. The floor wavered like sand in the heat; and he was none too certain about the walls.

Escaped! The Yellow Typhoon had slipped through that web! He did not know whether he was glad or sorry. Not one man in a thousand would have broken through that alert cordon; and yet this woman had done it. The pity of it! Brave and fearless and beautiful ... and absolutely lawless. He could not stir up a bit of hatred. She had broken Bob Hallowell's heart, and yet John Mathison could only admire her strength and cunning. The admiration a brave man always pays a fearless antagonist. Somehow he knew that she would be free for a long while. But how would she use this furtive freedom? Seek to injure Hilda, himself? Like as not. But he had in mind a solution for this problem. It would depend, though, upon the woman waiting down-stairs.

Entering the room again, he confronted the man he had outthought and outfought. He was dizzy, but he could navigate alone. The blond man had to be propped between two operatives. He was in a bad way. Mathison produced the manila envelope.

"Observe those photographs? That is why you did not succeed. We idiotic Yankees! They will hang you by the neck, Lysgaard. What! You believed I would risk carrying Hallowell's specifications in an ordinary manila envelope, depositing it when I stopped at a hotel, letting everybody know that I was carrying an important document? Your method, perhaps, but not mine. And the irony of it is the prints were always within easy reach of your hand. This manila envelope was merely a noose, and you drew it yourself. It is a forerunner of what your nation will receive at the hands of mine."

Mathison ripped open the envelope and displayed the contents—a dozen sheets of heavy blank paper.

"You will never see your woman again, Lysgaard. I had no evidence. I compelled you to furnish it. A man-hunt and you never suspected. Take him away, gentlemen; and thanks for your assistance."

Down-stairs Hilda waited, with growing wonder and anxiety. When she finally saw Lysgaard lurch out of the elevator, supported, her anxiety became terror. What had happened? Where was Mathison? She wanted to rush forward and ask questions, but she dared not. The value of her services would always depend upon the fact that her activities were practically unknown. So she sat perfectly quiet and watched the remarkable procession file past and vanish round the corner of the corridor.

The sight of the blond beast naturally brought back the thought of Berta. She, too, was now a prisoner. Prison. A cell with bars and filtered sunshine, interminable monotony and maddening thoughts. It was horrible. And she, Hilda, could do nothing. Berta merited whatever punishment an outraged nation might see fit to visit upon her. Flesh and blood—or was there something in the psychology of double-birth? Was there really an invisible connecting link? Yet, if so, why had she not felt that Berta was alive? Why had she shed tears over the poor, unrecognizable thing in Berta's clothes she and the mother had buried eight years ago? If only something occult had warned her! The mother might have borne up under such a blow—the return of the wayward. But to her Berta was dead; and a return under the present tragic circumstances would without doubt result in a death shock. Ah, if Berta had come back a penitent, the news might have been broken gradually. But a lawless Berta, predatory, vengeful...!

And to-morrow night Norma Farrington would romp across the stage, now tender, now whimsical; now making her audience laugh, now bringing them to the verge of tears. And all the while Hilda Nordstrom's heart would be breaking. She would complete the run because her word had never been broken. She could not possibly find it in her thoughts to be disloyal to loyal Sam Rubin.

Love! It was not enough that Berta should return to life. She, Hilda, must give her heart unasked to a man who appeared to be quite satisfied with friendship. She hadn't even fought against it. Non-resistant, she had permitted this crowning folly to creep into her heart. She had forgotten that to him Mrs. Chester was an old woman, and that he had sought her society because he was just humanly lonesome. She hadn't had her chance. With the physical attributes of a Venus and the mental attainments of an Aspasia, a woman might not win the heart of a man in three short hours. Love at first sight! She trembled. He had used that subject merely to pass the time and to keep the conversation away from dangerous channels. She was very unhappy.

She heard the elevator door rattle in the groove. Mathison stepped forth. Malachi's cage bobbed against a leg. He paused a moment (truthfully, to get his sea-legs, for he was still groggy) and brushed his forehead with his free hand. The movement left a bloody smear.

She flew to him and cried, in passionate anger, "The beast has hurt you!"

"Banged me up a bit. But my teeth are all sound, and I still can bite. He got loose somehow, and ... well, I went berserker. I'm a sight! Malachi did a fine thing to-night. I was killing that man, when Malachi spoke up. I'll see you home."

"Indeed you shall ... straight up to my apartment, where I can take care of those cuts and bruises."

"At this hour?" tingling.

"What matters the hour? Wouldn't you prefer me to the hotel physician?" raising the veil and letting him look into her eyes, which were full of sapphire lights.

"All right. You may do with me as you please."

Day after to-morrow was now very far away. At no time in his life had he craved so poignantly for the touch of a woman's hand. To be ministered to, coddled, made of; a memory to take away with him to the high seas, from which he might never return.

She ran back for his greatcoat, held it for him and noted the grimace as he stretched his arms backward for the sleeves.

"What is it?"

"Ribs, head, and shoulder; all in the sick-bay. Lord, but I'm a wreck!"

She picked up the cage and grasped his sleeve. Her heart sang. For an hour or two; to use all her arts in making the episode unforgettable to this man. To mother and coddle him; to run her eager fingers through his fine hair. An hour or two, all, all her own!

In the taxi he told her briefly what had happened and brought the Odyssey to an end by disclosing the fact that Berta had escaped the net.

"But don't worry. I've an idea she'll be too busy to trouble you. She's keen. By now she must understand that the game is up. She will be concerned with little else besides her efforts to get clear of New York. Ten to one, she'll strike for the Orient. I'm sorry. Not that she escaped, but that she was able to hurt you. We're all riddles, aren't we?"

"Berta free?... I'm glad. I can't help it. It may be the turning-point. In all these years she has never met with any serious defeat. Who knows? For if she is her father's daughter, she is also her mother's. God bring her vision to see things clearly! That blond beast's evil influence removed, who knows?"

In the cozy living-room of the apartment a fire burned low. Hilda threw on a log, then helped him off with his coat. As a matter of fact he really had to be helped. Obsessed with the idea of getting his hands on the man Lysgaard's throat, he had laid himself open to many terrible blows. He was going to be very sore and lame to-morrow.

She swung the willow lounge parallel to the fire and forced him to lie down.

"Back in a moment!" she said, flying away.

He lay back and closed his sound eye; the other was already closed. And as he lay there, awaiting her return, the Idea came. He could never win this glorious creature by simply telling her he loved her. He would have to take her by storm, carry her off her feet—and he was only a mollycoddle among the women. Still, he knew what he knew. Presently he smiled; at least it was meant for a smile. How the deuce would he be able to kiss her when the time came, with his lips puffed and bleeding? The glory of her!

Obliquely he could see Malachi. "The little son-of-a-gun! And he hasn't the least idea that he saved his master from being as beastly as the Hun.... Close shave!... Bob's voice, calling out the name of the man who had killed him, like that!... I'll be a trig-looking individual when I strike Washington to-morrow!" ruefully.

Hilda returned with basin, alcohol, lint, bandages, and salves. And he let her have her way with him. After she had bandaged the gash on his forehead and his raw knuckles, she wet her finger-tips with alcohol and ran them back and forth through his hair. Not since his mother's death had this happened; and never had he experienced such a thrill. He longed to seize the hand and kiss it, but he conquered the desire.

By and by he spoke. "The blue-prints, with No. 9, are in the hollow under Malachi's basin. They are in a rubber sack such as you roll up slickers in. I'll take them out when I go. Be sure you talk a little to him every day. He likes it. He's a gossip. Rice and fruits and nuts; he's frugal. It will buck me up to know that he is in good hands."

"The funny little green bird! I'll take care of him until you come back."

"That's odd. Somehow I know I'm coming back.... Where's this man Rubin live?"

"Rubin? He has an apartment near by." Rubin? What had Rubin to do with this hour, resentfully!

"What's a successful week amount to?"

"We'll probably draw from ten to twelve thousand." What in the world was the meaning of such irrelevant questions?

"About thirty thousand in two weeks," ruminatingly. "I am, even in these days, a comparatively rich man. Lots of ready money, bonds, and stock. It's been piling up for years. And now I'm glad it has."

She understood. He had been struck a dangerous blow on the head, and his mind was wandering. She patted his hand reassuringly.

He went on. "The old home—which I haven't seen in nearly ten years—is up-state, on the edge of the North Woods. The man who farms it keeps up the house. A day's work would make it habitable. Just now it must be wonderful. Skating and snow-shoeing. Lord! how I've hungered for the snow!... I wonder if that extension 'phone will reach over here?"

"Yes." Poor boy! Did he expect to get his farmer on long-distance at this hour?

"Splendid! Now suppose you bring it over?"

She did so. She knelt beside the lounge and held out the telephone.

"No. You're going to start it. Call up Rubin. He'll be asleep; but what I've got to say will wake him up."

"What in the world...."

"Call him up! I'm an invalid and must be humored."

For a moment her fingers seemed all thumbs. She succeeded in calling the number. There came a long wait. She stole a glance at Mathison. He might have been asleep, for all the interest he evinced in this extraordinary proceeding. What could he want of Rubin?

"Hello! It is you, Sam? This is Hilda.... No, no! nobody's dead.... There's a gentleman here.... Oh, it's perfectly proper.... He wants to speak to you.... I don't know.... He is not a dub.... Yes; the flowers and the note ... you knew it! What do you mean?... All right."

She turned to Mathison. "I have him."

Mathison managed to lift himself to a more comfortable angle. "This Mr. Rubin? Ah!... I'll break it gently. Hilda and I are going to be married in the morning.... Keep your hair on!... Then we are going to Washington. On our return we are going to spend the honeymoon at my home in the North Woods.... Contract? What the deuce is that to me?... No; you can't talk to her until I'm through.... Contract!... Listen to me. You will announce that she is ill. She will be if she goes on to-morrow night, after all she's been through.... Hang it! She and I have a right to two weeks of happiness. To you it's business; to me it's love. I will give you fifty thousand dollars in cold, hard cash for these two weeks, which is about twenty thousand more than you would ordinarily make. I'll give my permission to make a feature story out of it. And if I know anything about human nature, on her return you'll pack the house all summer. If you refuse my offer, not a bally copper cent! I'll break her contract for her and you may sue from Maine to Oregon.... What's that?... Well, by George, that's handsome! I thought you were a good sport. Buy out the house for exactly what it would be worth. Come around in the morning and be best man! Oh, about nine-thirty. Good night!"

Mathison turned to the stupefied Hilda. There was a short tableau; then she laid her head on the arm of the lounge and cried softly.

"Girl, I can do only one thing well at a time. I couldn't tell you verbally I loved you until I'd cleared the deck.... Sounds! Remember? When you came in through that window it was your voice, but I couldn't place it then. I opened that red book and one of Malachi's feathers dropped out. That recalled the old lady who called me Boy. I wanted to write something, and couldn't find my pen. It was in my cits. And then I found that photograph of you. That's how I learned there were two of you. When you talked on the stage to-night I shut my eyes. Then I knew. That's how I came to laugh out loud. Sheer joy! Fourteen years! You've got to love me. You've got to marry me. God is just. He won't deny me now. Didn't you tell me I'd find Her?... Sounds! That's what I meant—your voice. I didn't know why I came to you every morning on board the Nippon Maru, but my heart did. My eyes saw only a queer, whimsical old lady; but my heart saw youth and beauty and love. Will you marry me?"

A nod.

"You are going to try to love me?"

"No!"

"What?"

"You ... you can't go to do something when you already do!"

"Wabbly rhetoric, but I understand!... Hilda, I love you with all my soul! Love you, love you! I've been saying in my heart all night: 'Love me! Love me!'".

"So have I!... But I'll never forgive you!"

"For what?"

"You told Rubin before you told me!"

"Lord! Lord! I've been telling you all night with my eyes that I loved you." He brushed her shining hair with burning lips. He couldn't even put his arms around her! "Now there's just one thing I've got to hear to make this the most perfect hour in my life." He raised her head. There was a violent stab in his side, but he considered it negligible in this supreme moment. "Say it!"

"Boy!" she whispered.

The way she had always dreamed of being loved. Berserker love! To be swept off her feet and carried away to an enchanted palace! That little magic green feather! Malachi! She pressed her cheek against this wonderful lover's and her hand instinctively found his.

"Mat, you lubber!" grumbled Malachi, from the rosy hearth.