THEYEtlGf 
 T::^PliO0N 
 
 Hi^ROLD/ 
 MacGRATH 
 
CORNELL 
 JJNIVERSITX 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS3525.A1784Y8 
 
 The yellow typhoon / 
 
 3 1924 006 293 546 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924006293546 
 
THE 
 
 YELLOW 
 
 TYPHOON 
 
THE 
 
 YELLOW 
 
 TYPHOON 
 
 BY 
 
 HAROLD MacGRATH 
 
 HODDER AND STOUGHTON 
 LIMITED LONDON 
 
 
The Ybllow Typhoon 
 
 Copyright, 1919, by Harper & Brothers 
 
 Published October, 1919 
 
 I — T 
 
 Made and Printed in Great Britain. 
 
 William Lewis (Printers) Limited, Cardiff, 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter I 
 
 A NAVAL officer, trig in his white twill, 
 *^ strode along the Escolta, Manila's 
 leading thoroughfare. There was something 
 in his stride that suggested anger ; and the 
 settled grimness of his lips, visible between 
 his moustache and short beard, and the hard 
 brightness of his blue eyes emphasized this 
 suggestion. He was angry, but it was a 
 cold anger, a kind of clear-minded fury which 
 often makes calculation terrible. He had 
 been carrying this anger in his heart for six 
 bitter years. It was something like glacial 
 ice ; it moved always, but never seemed to 
 lose either hardness or configuration. To- 
 day it had the effect of the north wind — 
 that almost forgotten north wind of his 
 native land — in that it winnowed all the 
 chaff from his mind and left one clear thought. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 '• Come in ! " 
 
 He opened the door and closed it behind 
 him, standing with his back to it. He did 
 not take off his hat. A cold little shudder ran 
 over him. She was more beautiful than ever. 
 ^She rose from a dilapidated corduroy 
 divan, pressed the coal of a cigarette into 
 the ash-tray, and faced him, her air one of 
 hesitance and timidity. What she saw was 
 a squat muscular body, a beautiful head 
 with a rugged, kindly face. She noted the 
 hair, shot with silver. That was always a 
 good sign. Still, there was something in 
 the elevation of his jaw and the set of his 
 powerful shoulders she did not like. 
 
 What he saw was a woman of medium 
 height, slender but perfectly moulded, young, 
 beautiful, exquisite. Her hair was the colour 
 of spun molasses, lustrous because the colour 
 was genuine. Her eyes were velvety purple, 
 the skin was milk-white, with a hint of 
 peachblow under the eyes and temples. The 
 marvel of her lay in the fact that she never 
 had to make up. The devil had given her 
 all those effectives for which most women 
 strive in vain. Innocence ! She might have 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 stepped out of one of Bouguereau's master- 
 pieces. At one corner of her mouth was the 
 most charming mole imaginable. You might 
 look at her nose, her eyes, the curve of her 
 chin, but invariably your glance returned to 
 the mole. The devil's finishing touch ; it 
 permitted you to see the mouth indirectly, 
 and you lost the salient — a certain grim, 
 cruel hardness. 
 
 He waited with an ironical twist to one 
 corner of his mouth. But in his heart there 
 was great rejoicing. Aside from the initial 
 chill — nothing, not a thrill, not a tingle at 
 the roots of his hair. He could look upon 
 her beauty without a single extra heartbeat. 
 He was free, spiritually as well as legally. 
 
 " Well ? " he said. 
 
 " I came to Manila, to you, because I am 
 tired and repentant and want a home. I 
 am growing old." 
 
 He laughed and rested his shoulders against 
 the door. There was a repressed volcanic 
 flash in her eyes. That laugh did not 
 presage well. 
 
 " Is it so hard to forgive ? " Vocal honey. 
 
 " What is it you really want ? " he asked. 
 
6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 perfectly willing to see the comedy to its 
 end. 
 
 " A home . . . with you. I know, Robert, 
 that I was a wretch in those days. But the 
 world over here . . . men . . . the tempta- 
 tion . . . the primordial instinct of woman 
 to fight man with any weapon she can lay 
 a hand to ! . . . Won't you take me back 
 and forgive ? " 
 
 " Take care, Berta ! Don't waste those 
 tears ! In your eyes they are pearls with- 
 out price. Don't waste them on me." 
 
 " Then you won't forgive ? " 
 
 " Forgive ? What manner of fool have 
 you written me down ? Forgive ! I gave 
 you an honest man's love . . . and you 
 picked my pockets ! I would not give two 
 coppers to place on your dead eyes. Take 
 you home ? Innocent child ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Then it is war ? " 
 
 " War to the end, pretty cobra ! You don't 
 suppose I came here with any other idea ? " 
 
 How she hated this man ! Hated him 
 because she had never beaten him, never 
 seen him cringe nor heard him plead. She, 
 too, would remember that night in Yokohama, 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 six years gone. After the blow, silence, 
 not a word, or a look. Stonily he had packed 
 up his belongings and gone to the Yokohama 
 Club, whence he had gone aboard a cruiser in 
 the morning. Since that moment vmtil this 
 she had never laid eyes on him. Every six 
 months a cheque came ; but even that lacked 
 his signature — a draft from Cook's. War X 
 So be it. He would learn when she began to 
 turn the screws. 
 
 " You will take me home and acknowledge 
 me," she whipped back at him. 
 
 " Acknowledge you . . . what ? " 
 
 " As your wife ! " stormily. 
 
 Again he laughed. " You are not my wife, 
 and never have been." 
 
 " And how will you prove it ? " 
 
 " That will be easy. Curious old world, 
 isn't it ? I thought, when I received your 
 note, that nothing would satisfy me but to 
 wring your neck. And all I want is a kiss 
 . . . because I'm sure it would poison you ! I 
 know. You have in that head of yours schemes 
 for my humiliation, scandal, and all that. A 
 woman, known as The Yellow Typhoon, claim- 
 ing to be the wife of one Robert Hallowell, 
 
8 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 rampaging the office, storming the villa gate, 
 getting interviewed. No, Berta, it isn't going 
 to happen at all. On the contrary, you will 
 leave Manila on the first ship out." 
 
 " And if I refuse ? " 
 
 " Bilibid prison. While we are very busy 
 militarily, our civil courts have plenty of 
 time to try a prime case of bigamy. War ? 
 You will jolly well find out ! " 
 
 " Bigamy ! " 
 
 " Sure. Lieutenant Graham is dead, and 
 I had charge of his effects. I found some 
 interesting letters. These led me to the 
 Protestant Episcopal cathedral, where your 
 name and his were neatly inscribed on the 
 register ... six months before you laid your 
 trap for me. You found, after you had 
 married him, that he wasn't the Graham 
 who had inherited a fortune. Marriage ! 
 It seems to be a mania with you. How 
 many of us poor devils have you rooked 
 with your infernal beauty ? What's God's 
 idea, anyhow ? Or is it the devil himself 
 who fits you out, covers your black heart 
 with alluring flesh ? No matter. The first 
 ship out or Bilibid. I have warned you," 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Then he did something that he afterwards 
 regretted. But malice btirned so hotly in 
 his veins that he could not resist the impulse. 
 He walked over to her and, before she could 
 comprehend his purpose, swept her into his 
 arms, held her tightly for a moment, and 
 kissed her, her eyes, her lips, her throat. 
 Then he fltmg her roughly back upon the 
 divan, stalked from the room, and closed 
 the door with an emphasis which proclaimed 
 that it was to stand between them eternally. 
 Once he reached the street, he spat and rubbed 
 his lips energetically. 
 
 He had been a fool to do that. He had 
 slipped down to her lewel. But, hang it t 
 it was the only way he could make her feel 
 anything, the viper ! 
 
 A fool indeed ; for later that act was going 
 to cost him dearly. 
 
 He left behind a tableau. Not until his 
 footsteps died away did the woman stir. 
 Then she sprang to her feet, a fury. She 
 swept her hand savagely across her mouth. 
 She, too, spat. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, through her teeth, in a 
 kind of animal roar. She seized the divan 
 
10 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 pillow, tore at it, and sent it hurtling across 
 the room. " Oh ! " 
 
 " There, there ! Enough of that, Berta ! " 
 
 A man stepped from behind the screen. 
 He was notable for three things, his bulk, 
 his straw-coloured hair, and the pleasant 
 expression of his smooth, ruddy face. The 
 ensemble was particularly agreeable. But 
 in detail, somehow, the man lost out. There 
 wasn't enough skull at the back of his head, 
 his eyes were too shallow, there was a bad 
 droop to his nether lip. For all these defects, 
 everything about the man suggested power — 
 power never wastefully applied. 
 
 The woman whirled upon him. " But 
 you ! " her voice thick with passion. " You 
 saw what he did ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you let him go ? " 
 
 " I have told you. If there is one man in 
 Manila I do not care to meet, it's the captain." 
 
 " I despise you all ! " She flew about the 
 room, gesticulating. 
 
 " You will die of apoplexy some day, if 
 you ever have the misfortune to grow fat. 
 Enough of that nonsense. That goose is 
 
The Yellow Typhoon ii 
 
 dead ; but there are others, and larger golden 
 eggs." 
 
 " But I hate him ! I want him broken, 
 disgraced ! Didn't you hear him order me 
 out of Manila ? " 
 
 " Don't let that worry you. You'll stay 
 here until I'm ready to leave. I'll hide you 
 over in the Tondo." 
 
 " What ! Among the natives ? " 
 
 The man crossed the room and caught 
 hold of her. " Be sensible. The captain 
 will do exactly as he threatens. It's Bilibid 
 if I don't hide you at once. You couldn't 
 walk five blocks up the Escolta without run- 
 ning into some one who knows you. You left 
 a trail across these diggings, my tiger-kitten. 
 They don't call you The Yellow Typhoon 
 for nothing. You've got to keep under 
 cover, since we can't get you into that villa 
 of his. These are war-times and I've big 
 work to do. You'll go to Tondo because 
 it is my will. I've let you play your game ; 
 now you'll help me play mine. When this 
 job is done we'll return to the States and live 
 like nabobs. I tell you, Berta, there's a 
 fortvme for the picking. Risks, yes ; but 
 
12 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 not any more dangerous than we've been 
 accustomed to. These American swine — " 
 
 " Hush ! " 
 
 " All right." The man switched into 
 Danish. " These American swine don't shoot 
 spies ; they arrest them and let them out on 
 bail. Ye gods ! But I say, I've got a little 
 surprise for you. Rememlser those sables I 
 smuggled in last spring ? Well, Wu Fang 
 is making them into a coat that will be worth 
 seven thousand in the States." 
 
 " Manchurian ! " disdainfully. 
 
 " Real Russian." He smoothed her hair ; 
 but it was some time before she began to 
 purr. " No nonsense. We'll clear out of 
 here at once. I'll take you to the Tondo 
 and you can rig up in that Chinese costume 
 of yours. You can ride after sundown, and 
 I'll be out frequently. I'll fix you up like 
 the Sultan's favourite. You can wear a cap 
 outside of doors. Inside, it won't matter if 
 the natives see your hair." 
 
 " For how long ? " 
 
 " Perhaps two weeks." 
 
 "Something of naval importance," she 
 mused. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 13 
 
 " So big that the fatherland will pay a 
 million. One of the biggest things in the 
 world, here in Manila ; and it's packed away 
 in the brain of that experimental husband 
 of yours. That's why I wanted you out 
 there. There is a blue-print at that villa. 
 If I can't land the big goose, I can land that. 
 If we can't apply the principle, we can learn 
 what it is." 
 
 " And if he loses it, it will break him ? " 
 
 " Something like that." 
 
 " Then I'll go peacefully into the Tondo. 
 The thought of his being broken will keep 
 me alive. Make him pay for those kisses ! " 
 
 The man held her off at arm's-length. 
 " You're a queer hawk. I don't suppose 
 there's a man on earth you really care for. 
 You're afraid of me ; that's my hold." 
 
 " Afraid of you ? No. You are generally 
 sensible and necessary. And I happen to be 
 your wife. You're a port in the storm." 
 
 " There seems to be only one idea in your 
 head — ^to break men, twist their hearts and 
 empty their pockets." 
 
 " I hate them. I have always hated them. 
 As a child I fought the boys when they tried 
 
14 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 to kiss me. I was born that way. Analyze 
 it ? I've never tried to. Perhaps I am 
 Nemesis for all the wrongs mankind has done 
 womankind. I hate them. They never kiss 
 me — even you — ^that I don't want to strike 
 and cut." 
 
 " And you've been successful for one 
 reason only." 
 
 " And what is that ? " 
 
 " Naval officers, English and American, 
 proud and inherently afraid of scandal. You 
 may thank God you never tried your game 
 on a man of my kidney. Your pretty neck 
 would have twisted long ago. Mark me, 
 Berta, you are mine. Never try to play 
 any of those tricks on me. If you do I'll 
 kill you with bare hands. To you I am a 
 reliable business partner ; to me you're the 
 one woman. Remember that. You hold 
 me because you are always a bit of mystery. 
 What's behind that day in San Francisco 
 when you decided to cast your lot with 
 mine ? More than seven years gone, and 
 I've never found out. Some man, and 
 because he did not give you a square deal — 
 all these wrecks." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 15 
 
 " Do you want the truth ? You are the 
 first man who ever laid his hand on me. 
 I ran away from a humdrum world. I 
 wanted adventure, swift, red-blooded. I'm 
 a viking's daughter." 
 
 " I can believe that. You don't care for 
 money or jewels. It's the game, the sport. 
 Typhoons ! that's you. You come and go 
 across men's lives exactly like a typhoon. 
 Wherever you pass — ^wreckage. But our 
 captain seems to have escaped." 
 
 " I have your promise in regard to him." 
 
 The man laughed. " That's one of your 
 charms — ^you stick it out. What are you — 
 German, Dane, Finn ? To this day I don't 
 know. But always keep in your pretty 
 head that you are mine. Marry them, kiss 
 them, and say good-bye ; but always recollect 
 that I'm under the latticed window. After 
 all, it's just as well that you didn't go out to 
 San Miguel. The captain has a partner. 
 He'd have been too much for you." 
 
 " In what way ? " 
 
 " Your way. Handsomest man in the 
 Asiatic fleet, and rich. He's to be trans- 
 ferred shortly to the Atlantic. And if I've 
 
i6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 got the right of it, you and, I are going to be 
 very much interested in his journey." 
 
 " Rich and handsome," she said, rumi- 
 natingly. 
 
 The man smiled ironically. " An officer 
 who has never had an affair ; ice, where 
 women are concerned. I dig up their his- 
 tories ; part of my game. You would have 
 about as much chance with him as I would 
 in a sampan in the middle of one of your 
 happy-go-lucky typhoons. A handsome, 
 vigorous young man, who carries a Rajputana 
 parakeet with him when he travels, a talking 
 parakeet, Everybody in Manila has heard 
 about that bird." 
 
 " A handsome young man with money and a 
 talking parakeet! "The woman began to 
 laugh. " I never heard anything like that 
 before. I am interested. What's he look like?" 
 The man took out a wallet from which he drew 
 a newspaper clipping. "That's a good likeness." 
 
 " He is handsome ! . . . Good Heavens ! " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " But this isn't his photograph. It's a 
 crook's — ' Black ' Ellison, wanted for diamond 
 robbery and assault in San Francisco." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 17 
 
 " The two look enough alike to be useful 
 . . . maybe. Not a physical likeness ; it's 
 merely photographic. I never overlook any- 
 thing. If he takes the journey I have in 
 mind, it may be of use. Photographically, 
 they look enough alike to be twins." 
 
 The woman returned the clipping, her 
 eyes sombre. She walked slowly over to a 
 window and stared down into the street — 
 without seeing anything of the busy life 
 below. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter II 
 
 /^UT San Miguel way there are many 
 ^^ two-storied brick villas with Spanish- 
 red tiles. Sometimes there are three or four 
 almost neighbourly, then one aloof and alone. 
 In Manila most white folk live up-stairs, 
 the servants down. It permits white folk 
 to talk over their affairs without listeners — 
 and the servants to run away to cock-fights 
 as often as they dare. 
 
 One of these isolated villas was walled 
 in, except on the river side, by a wall of 
 rubble coated with whitewash. Rising above 
 the chevaux de frise of broken bottles was a 
 fringe of feathery bamboo. There was an 
 alley of these trees from the gate to the door. 
 There was also a garden; but the precise form- 
 ality with which it had been laid out was a 
 mute testimony of the absence of womankind. 
 
 t8 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 19 
 
 Two Americans lived, there — ^bachelors. 
 One of them lived there continuously ; the 
 other, whenever his ship was in port. They 
 were officers in the United States navy. An 
 odd pair, agreed official and social Manila ; 
 and after futile efforts to make friends 
 with them, dismissed them. Odd, because 
 bachelor officers who have incomes outside 
 their pay are generally gay sailormen. Off 
 duty, these two formed an association of 
 hermits. They never went anywhere except 
 officially, and avoided women as other 
 men avoided the plague. One of them was 
 woman-shy ; the other hated them, it was 
 said. 
 
 Captain Hallowell of the staff would in 
 all probability never go to sea again, actively. 
 An experiment had severely injured one of 
 his eyes, though the defect was not noticeable, 
 
 Lieutenant-Commander Mathison was an 
 officer of the line — a fighting sailor. They 
 were as unlike physically as it is possible 
 for two men to be. 
 
 Hallowell was the dreamer, ^ the thinker. 
 He was short, thick, rugged, and a trifle 
 grey. His head and short beard were shot 
 
20 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 with silver, though his moustache was still 
 black. There was something about him that 
 reminded, you of the gorilla. You were 
 likely to carry this idea in your head until you 
 knew him ; then you understood that he was in 
 the same category as the St. Bernard — ^the 
 gentlest and friendliest dog in the world 
 until thoroughly aroused. They called him 
 a woman-hater with some justice, though 
 no one in official Manila ever learned the true 
 facts, not even Mathison, who surmised 
 that Hallowell had run afoul some worthless 
 woman and had got past the reefs by a hair. 
 
 Mathison was the man of action. He 
 was tall, slender, and handsome, with a 
 smooth olive skin. This deep colour gave 
 conspicuity to his grey eyes, the whites of 
 which were dazzling. Every line and turn 
 of his face gave you the impression that by 
 nature he was amiable in the extreme. Given 
 cause, he could be as savage and relentless 
 as the gorilla his friend resembled. 
 
 Woman-shy, they called him, because they 
 could find no other suitable name for the 
 puzzle. He was always courteous when, 
 by those accidents of chance called official 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 21 
 
 receptions, he found himself among women. 
 But there was always a cold reserve the 
 brightest eyes could not batter down. Rest 
 assured, there were many feminine campaigns. 
 He was the combination of two things women 
 prize highly, greedily or sentimentally — 
 money and good looks. 
 
 What had the aspect of shyness was 
 merely an idea, held to with surpassing resolu- 
 tion. I shall tell you about this idea later 
 on. There are, here and there across this 
 world, men like Mathison, who are neither 
 mollycoddles nor sanctimonious nincom- 
 poops. They are not gregarious — the type from 
 which explorers come, men who know how 
 to live alone, to whom the most necessary and 
 alluring thing in life is to overcome obstacles. 
 
 This resolution had toughened Mathison, 
 morally and physically. Packed away in that 
 lithe body of bis was tremendous vitality. He 
 was perfectly willing to be called woman- 
 shy. Such a reputation was a considerable 
 barricade. He was content to rest behind 
 it. There had been battles, bitter conflicts. 
 There are certain fires which hypnotize ; 
 one must reach out and touch them. I 
 
22 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 might say that this idea of his was always 
 in a state of siege. 
 
 After this exposition, it sounds odd to 
 remark that Mathison was as full of romance 
 as a Chinese water-chestnut is of starch ; 
 that his day-dreams were peopled with lovely 
 women. He never saw a beautiful woman 
 that he did not immediately clothe her in 
 his colourful imagination. He rescued her 
 from Chinese pirates, he was shipwrecked 
 and cast away on a desert island with her, 
 he tore her from the hands of brigands or 
 the latticed window of some rajah's haremlik ; 
 and he always married her in the end. Every- 
 thing in him inclined toward the companion- 
 ship of women, and he had built a Chinese 
 wall arotuid this inclination. 
 
 Among men, however, he was companion- 
 able, witty, htimorous, and full of sound 
 common sense. But no one ever called him 
 Jack, not even Hallowell, the best friend 
 he had. He was always John or Mathison 
 to his equals and superiors, and " sir " to 
 his subordinates. Hallowell, however, had 
 compromised on " Mat." And yet Mathi- 
 son bubbled with personal magnetism. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 23 
 
 You never get deeply into a naval officer's 
 character by rubbing elbows with him in 
 wardrooms or officers' clubs. If you want 
 to know the real man, go down into the 
 boiler-rooms, the gun-rooms, anywhere but 
 the quarter-deck. The rough-necks will tell 
 you. They sometimes weigh you with a 
 glance. Two things they require of you — 
 absolute justice and firmness. That was 
 Mathison to his men ; and he always backed 
 these attributes with a smiling eye. There 
 was something in the snap of his voice that 
 inclined men to obey him at once, without 
 question ; not that they were afraid of him, 
 but that they knew he was right. In the 
 navy — in all navies — ^there are tinderground 
 wireless stations. A man's reputation travels 
 from ship to ship, and when an officer is 
 transferred the men try him out just to see 
 if his crown is of tinsel or of gold. 
 
 A fighting-sailor with red blood, with a 
 born gambler's interest in chance, winning 
 or losing with a smile, as you shall see ; thirty 
 years of age, and no anchor to windward. 
 
 He never forgot anything. They said of 
 him that he could hide his collar-button 
 
24 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 during a dream and go directly to it in the 
 morning. Hallowell, however, was very 
 absent-minded. Often he would go about 
 the living-room in search of his pipe, in the 
 end to find it dangling in his teeth. Or he 
 would wash his' face with his spectacles on 
 and wonder what in thunderation ailed his 
 sound eye. 
 
 Hallowell he, too, was full of romance — 
 miracles in steel, visions which cast into 
 shape huge fighting-machines, tremendous 
 guns, flying torpedoes. He was, aside from 
 his official duties, a successful inventor. Few 
 of the grim floating forts of the navy were 
 without certain devices of his. He had just 
 completed plans which eventually were going 
 to cause the German Admiralty a good deal 
 of anxiety. 
 
 There were still two or three points he had 
 not cleared up to his own satisfaction. The 
 plans were absolutely complete as they stood ; 
 and he believed he saw a chance to reduce 
 the complexity of certain phases ; and he 
 was hammering away at this problem after 
 hours, often far into the night. 
 
 Mathison, Hallowell and Company (the 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 25 
 
 Company being the Rajputana parakeet) ; 
 an odd pair of men, rather misunderstood, 
 with few intimates, sharing a deep, abiding 
 love, never spoken of, but tacitly understood. 
 They were jocularly known as " The Two 
 Orphans " and the villa as " The Orphan- 
 age," as both men were without immediate 
 family ties. 
 
 Lately Hallowell had formed the habit 
 of going to the Botanical Gardens for a 
 half-hour's ramble, between four and five. 
 He had discovered that this mild exercise 
 cleared his mind of all routine and left it 
 free to creative musings. He tramped about 
 the paths at a moderate gait, his hands 
 behind his back, the tip of his short, grey- 
 peppered beard projecting like a bowsprit 
 over his collar. I doubt if during these 
 pleasant peregrinations he ever saw anything 
 but the white markings on blue-printS; Half 
 an hour to the minute, then he would shake 
 off the spell, set his shoulders, and hurry 
 away for the trolley to San Miguel. 
 
 Having delivered his ultimatum to the 
 woman known as The Yellow Typhoon and 
 having learned, on the following day, that 
 
26 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 she had left the hotel in the Escolta, all 
 thought of her went out of his mind com- 
 pletely. It was an unhappy page turned 
 down for good. But to-day, one week later, 
 as he came out of his day-dreams, she popped 
 into his head. 
 
 A wave of shame ran over him. He 
 would never forgive himself for that violence. 
 Not that he felt any pity toward the woman. 
 The act had lowered himself eternally in his 
 own eyes ; the lustre was gone from his 
 self-esteem. He had kissed another man's 
 wife, not his own. And what was worse, 
 she might interpret the act as a sign that he 
 still cared for her and try to re-enter his life 
 at some later day. Fool ! A mad impulse 
 to hurt her, and he had hurt only himself. 
 Well, the damage was done ; berating his 
 folly would not wipe it off the slate. 
 
 Suddenly his sound eye lost its introspec- 
 tive look and became alert. Coming down 
 the path toward him was a woman. She 
 was dressed in pongee, a sola-topee on her 
 head. Roimd this sun-helmet ran the folds 
 of a grey veil which could be lowered or 
 raised at will. At this moment the woman's 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 27 
 
 face was clear. It was young and vividly 
 beautiful. Her hair was a ruddy gold, like 
 the tips of ripe wheat after rain. The sun, 
 directly behind her, cast a golden nimbus 
 on each side of her head. Her eyes were 
 purple-blue, like wood-violets, and her skin 
 was the tint of pale amber. She walked 
 with a free stride of one who loved the air 
 and sunshine. She saw Hallowell only after 
 he had deliberately stepped in front of her, 
 blocking the way. 
 
 Her mouth opened slightly and a vague 
 bewilderment took the zest out of her face. 
 
 " Still in town, then ? " 
 
 "Sir ... ! " 
 
 He interrupted with a laugh. " You're 
 magnificent ; 1 11 always grant you that . You 
 should have gone on the stage. But I'm no 
 longer to be fooled. The pearl is gone from 
 the oyster, the juice from the orange ; so why 
 tarry, pretty blackmailer ? I warned you 
 to clear out, and I thought you'd have sense 
 enough to do so. To-morrow morning I'll 
 hunt for you ; and if I find you I'll have you 
 locked up. God knows how you women do 
 it ! Here you are straight out of perdition, 
 
28 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 with more beauty than ever. And inno- 
 cence ! That's the pitfall ; your look of 
 innocence. That's what draws us poor, 
 trusting fools. Well, the night to clear out 
 in. If I find you to-morrow I'll stamp on 
 you as I would a cobra. The Yellow 
 Typhoon ! Some poor devil named you well. 
 But you'll never break another white man, 
 not in these parts. I apologize for those 
 kisses. I forgot you weren't my wife.^ I'm 
 giving you until morning." 
 
 Insolently he swung on his heel and 
 marched down the path. 
 
 The woman remained exactly where he 
 had left her, in the centre of the path. Have 
 you ever seen a clean, upstanding flower 
 suddenly beaten down by a squall of rain ? 
 Her bodily attitude resembled that, at least 
 for a space. One hand went slowly to her 
 eyes, then fell limply to her side. But soon 
 she stiffened, and there were volcanic flashes 
 in her eyes. As Hallo well vanished behind 
 the clove-trees, she turned. Near by she 
 saw a marine and he was eyeing her curiously. 
 Evidently he had witnessed the scene, She 
 approached him. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 29 
 
 What followed, the marine himself re- 
 counted, at mess that night. 
 
 " I was amblin' along at a safe distance. 
 My orders were t' keep ol' Pop Hallowell 
 under eye s' long as he was in th' Gardens. 
 Hennessy picks him up outside an' follows 
 him until he gits safe on th' trolley. Well, 
 he was goin' along, when down the path 
 comes a lady. She walked as if she didn't 
 know where she was goin', either. An' 
 out steps Pop in front of her, like he was a 
 gay bird with the ladies. Th' dame gives 
 him th' haughty. But he comes back. Her 
 mouth opens a little, but she don't make 
 no move. I couldn't hear nothin', but Pop 
 was lajdn' down some law or other, which 
 he winds up with a bang on his palm, an' 
 marches off, with the lady starin' after him 
 like I'd stare if I saw a flyin'-fish come int' 
 th' mess port an' ask for whitebait. 
 
 " I kind o' thought I'd move on, when she 
 pipes me an' comes over. 
 
 " ' Who was that officer ? ' she asks me. 
 Bo, believe me, she had all the little Marys 
 an' Normas an' Paulines in th' movies laid 
 away with the long-cruise eggs. Gee! You'll 
 
 3 
 
30 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 gimme th' ha-ha, but I on'y needed a look 
 t' tell that she was straight. 
 
 " ' Well/ I says, ' that's Captain Hallowell, 
 miss,' I says. 
 
 " ' Captain Hallowell,' she repeats after 
 me. ' Where does he live ? ' 
 
 " ' He has a villa out in San Miguel, on th' 
 Pasig,' I says. ' He an' Lieutenant-Com- 
 mander Mathison live there together.' 
 
 " ' He's not married, then ? ' 
 
 " I laughs. ' No, lady. Both of 'em are 
 gun-shy.' She looks ■ puzzled an' I adds, 
 ' They don't have nothin' t' do with the 
 ladies, miss.' 
 
 •" Oh ! Then he's th' inventor ? ' 
 
 " ' That's him, miss.' Then I freezes up 
 a bit, rememberin' orders. I'm t' report 
 anybody who asks questions about ol' Pop. 
 But I tumbles that she ain't no officer's 
 wife or nothin', an' I asks what he'd said 
 to her. 
 
 " ' He mistook me for some one else,' she 
 says. So help me, if there's two like that 
 in Manila, th' place is due t' go on th' blink 
 in a week. Then she lowers th' veil an' 
 goes off toward th' exit, me trailin'. Had 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 31 
 
 t' find out where she was putting up. An' 
 hang me if she doesn't go plump into that 
 joint in th' Escolta where Murphy an' me 
 was thrown out last month an' just missed 
 restin' up in th' brig. Which shows that 
 you can't dope a woman out by her looks." 
 
 The young woman — she was possibly 
 twenty-six — eventually reached her room. 
 Her maid welcomed her effusively. 
 
 " Sarah we must leave here at once. 
 Pack." 
 
 " Another hotel before we sail ? " cried 
 the astonished maid. 
 
 " Yes. And until I give you further orders 
 never speak my name. Always call me 
 madame. Be on your guard about this. 
 I'm very fond of you, and I've let you have 
 your way often. It may be a matter of life 
 and death. We shall dine here in the room. 
 Have a carriage at the curb at six-thirty. 
 Fortunately our heavy luggage went on. 
 When you pack .the steamer-trunk, lay all 
 the darker and heavier things on top. And 
 the box of make-up where I can reach it 
 handily. I have decided to grow old quickly. 
 
32 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 I understand, Sarah. You are becoming 
 bewildered. No less so am I." 
 
 " Madame 's nerves ..." 
 
 " They happen to be steel now. Don't 
 worry about me. Only, be sure always to 
 obey me ... if you love me ! " 
 
 " If I love you ! Oh, madame, a mother 
 could not love her daughter more than I 
 love you ! You left America so gaily and 
 happily to see this Orient. The sea voyage 
 built you up. And then, that dreadful 
 night in Shanghai. You came and woke me 
 and clung to me all night, and you would 
 not speak. And then it began. We move 
 from one place to another, not like persons 
 touring — like people who have done some- 
 thing wrong. And I know that you have 
 done nothing wrong. Ah, madame, what 
 is happening to us ? " 
 
 " So strange a thing, Sarah, that your 
 poor brain would not accept the facts ' if 
 I told them. Be patient with me." 
 
 /' Oh, madame, who would not be patient 
 with you ? I am French ; we know what the 
 word gratitude means. Command me ; I 
 obey. But yes ! Here is a cable for you, 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 33 
 
 madame. I will go order the dinner and 
 the carriage." 
 
 Her mistress took the cablegram absently. 
 She was not at all excited over the receipt 
 of it, for the simple reason she knew exactly 
 what it would contain — a single word. Hurry. 
 Once a week, often twice, this same distracted 
 word. Hurry. It was always at Cook's 
 or at the American Express. The poor man ! 
 He would soon be pulling his hair. When 
 she heard the door close behind the maid, 
 instinctively she picked out a channel twixt 
 the bed and chairs and proceeded to navigate 
 it back and forth. 
 
 The Yellow Typhoon ! They called her 
 that, strange men, in Yokohama, Tokio, 
 Hong-Kong, Shanghai ; and always with that 
 air men use toward women of a certain type. 
 Everything in her called out wildly for 
 vengeance, reprisal ; and she was bound 
 tragically, inconceivably, like a dreamer in 
 the mesh of some monstrous nightmare. . . . 
 To stamp on her as he would a cobra, if 
 he found her ! Helpless ; all she could do 
 to defend herself would be to move on, 
 hide. That was what galled her ; she could 
 
34 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 not retaliate. But one thing she could do — 
 forestall, anticipate, nullify. And oh ! she 
 would do that with all the strength and 
 cunning she possessed. 
 
 Horrible as it was, that meeting in the 
 Gardens was fortunate. She now possessed 
 hand hold. Hallowell, a naval inventor, 
 living in a villa out in San Miguel, on the 
 Pasig. Blue-prints. There was sense to all 
 those broken sentences which had come 
 through yonder door a few days gone. Danish 
 words — ^her own blood-tongue ! She had not 
 seen the man, so she could not describe him. 
 But his companion ! 
 
 She stopped before the mirror and studied 
 her face carefully. What an incredible thing 
 it was ! Mirrors, once so pleasant to gaze 
 into, had now become chambers of horror. 
 She no longer saw herself — she saw a grave 
 open and the dead arise. After eight years ! 
 And to stumble upon the truth through the 
 agency of strange men addressing her 
 familiarly ! The Yellow Typhoon ! Drawn 
 by instinct, repelled by intellect and breeding, 
 she felt as if invisible wild horses were rending 
 her. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 35 
 
 In that room there, within reach of her 
 voice and hand ! Whither had she gone, this 
 ghost ? Terror and cowardly fear had held 
 her back from making her own presence 
 known ; and now it was too late. She had 
 fallen asleep somewhere, back there in China, 
 and hadn't yet waked up. That must be it ! 
 The Yellow Typhoon ! And she had stumbled 
 across the wrecks innocently — across an 
 open grave which had never been filled ! 
 Berta, in the next room ! Who, then was 
 in the grave in Greenwood ? The malicious 
 cruelty of it ! 
 
 Very well. She would telephone this 
 Captain Hallowell. She would warn him. 
 
 She became conscious of the unopened 
 cablegram. She tore off the edge of the 
 envelope. For a moment she thought there 
 must be some mistake. Jargon. Then she 
 awoke. 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried. She ran over to her 
 steamer-trunk and things flew about for a 
 space. The result was a diary-book from 
 the rear pages of which she took a folded 
 square of tissue-paper. She sat down, cross- 
 legged, and laid this square carefully upon 
 
36 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 a knee. Ten minutes later she had the 
 message decoded. 
 
 Mathison. Hallowell's blue-prints. Nippon Maru. 
 He may be followed. Sail with him. Keep in touch 
 with Washington wireless. This is your chance. 
 
 She sprang up, found a m,atch, and applied 
 it to the cablegram, powdering the ashes. 
 Alive ! She was alive again. What she 
 had stumbled upon disconnectedly was now 
 made clear. Her chance ! She had a great 
 debt to pay, and here was the opportunity 
 to pay it. Pay it she would, through fire 
 and water. She would show them that 
 there was one who could be grateful. Fame 
 and riches and honour, she owed for these. 
 She would pay the debt. 
 
 Singular thing ! In these months of wan- 
 dering in this bewildering maze of dark and 
 yellow peoples no one had ever recognized 
 her. And yet it wasn't so singular, if one 
 thought it out. Her world was at home, 
 busy with war. ^^-■■ 
 
 She would telephone Hallowell at once 
 and warn him that he was in danger. And 
 the thought of him bfbught back the thought 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 37 
 
 of Berta. The colossal irony ! So be it. 
 If Berta stood in her way, she would, crush 
 her, relentlessly, inexorably. And what was 
 Berta ? Only a wandering ghost, a lie. 
 A phantom men called The Yellow Typhoon. 
 
 Her telephone call, however, was not 
 answered. There was no one, apparently, 
 at the villa in San Miguel. She would have 
 to drive out and leave a note. Either the 
 captain or Mathison, his friend, would find 
 it when he returned. She found a Tagalog 
 boy with a tough Manchurian pony, and she 
 went clattering away into the night. The dry 
 monsoon carried the dust along with them. 
 
 Just about this time a man in civilian 
 clothes, but with authority written distinctly 
 on his tanned face, entered the hotel in the 
 Escolta. The proprietor began obsequiously 
 to dry- wash his hands. 
 
 " The Senor Morgan ! " 
 
 " Where's Berta Nordstrom, the woman 
 known as The Yellow Typhoon ? " 
 
 " She ? " A gesture. " She went away a 
 week ago, seiior." 
 
 " She is here now. She was seen to enter 
 here a little after five." 
 
38 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " That is impossible." 
 
 " I say she did. Bring her down. She 
 wore pongee and a white pith helmet." 
 
 " She ? Oh, that was not the Nordstrom 
 woman. No one here has seen this woman's 
 face. She wears a veil always, and dines 
 in her room." 
 
 " Bring her down." 
 
 " But, seiior, she left at six-thirty." 
 
 " What ? Where did she go ? " 
 
 " That I don't know." 
 
 " The devil ! Any man with her ? " 
 
 " No, senor. Shall I take you to her room?" 
 
 " No. She fooled you." 
 
 " That is not possible, for the two women 
 were here at the same time. I can prove 
 that, sefior." 
 
 " I have seen the Nordstrom woman. 
 The description of the woman in the pith 
 helmet agrees absolutely." 
 
 " I cannot help that, senor. They were 
 here at the same time, though they did not 
 meet." 
 
 "All right. If I find you haven't told 
 me the truth, we'll lock up the place. You 
 are not very good Americans around here. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 39 
 
 Good night." Outside in the street Morgan 
 of the Intelligence — ^who switched from 
 uniform to mufti frequently — pushed back 
 his hat, perplexed. " Two ? Impossible ! 
 A trick. I'll set a man to watch. I'll quiz 
 that marine again. If he didn't describe 
 the Nordstrom woman, I'll eat my hat ! " 
 
 Could he have peered into one of the 
 thousand huts of bamboo and nipa palm, 
 in the Tondo, he might have been convinced 
 of one thing — ^that there was still a thrill left 
 in the dizzy old world for men even as hlas'e as 
 himself. A woman, wearing the gay little 
 costume of a high-caste Chinese woman, 
 sat on a cushion, her legs curled under 
 her. She was smoking a cigarette. From 
 a brass bowl at one side of her rose faint 
 spirals of smoke; Into this bowl she flicked 
 the ash. There was a smile, inscrutable, 
 on her lips — ^the smile particular to one god 
 and one woman, Buddha and Mona Lisa. 
 By and by she picked up a fresh cigarette ; 
 but she did not light it. She broke it in 
 two. In fancy it was a man. 
 
 The little Tagalog serving-girl, squatting 
 on the floor and blowing chaff from rice. 
 
40 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 could not keep her wondering gaze off this 
 exquisite creature whose hair shone like the 
 gold bangles on the ankles of the dancing- 
 girls. There would be a good deal of chaff 
 in that rice when the time came to cook it. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter III 
 
 IMMEDIATELY after " chow " that night 
 ■•• Mathison and Hallowell entered the 
 living-room, filling their pipes. They were 
 both smiling, each with the idea that he 
 was bucking up the other. For they were 
 at the parting of the ways, these two, and 
 they might never meet again. At dinner 
 they had talked of everything but that 
 which was uppermost in their thoughts. In 
 the centre of the living-room was a long 
 trencher-table — a slab of wonderful mahog- 
 any propped by enormous boles of Calcutta 
 bamboo. One end was stacked with books 
 and magazines. The blank space at the 
 other end was Hallowell's pet abiding-place. 
 Here after the day's work was done, he would 
 wrestle with his mechanical problems. 
 
 Hallowell fired his pipe and held out the 
 41 
 
42 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 flaming match toward Mathison, who man- 
 aged to catch the last flicker. 
 
 They waited until Paolo, the Spanish 
 servant, went below with the dishes. Of 
 late they had become a little suspicious of 
 the Spaniard. He loitered in the dining- 
 room when there was no legitimate excuse. 
 
 " Well, you lucky son-of-a-gun," said 
 Hallowell, " in a few weeks you'll be ram- 
 paging up the Main, with proper sea-boots 
 on your feet and a drab terrier under them. 
 Lord ! how I wish I were thirty instead of 
 forty-five ! But I've walked my last bridge. 
 This is my chart-room. Of course, if I 
 wanted to pull a wire or two, I could get 
 to Washington. But I've certain ideas about 
 the navy, and I don't want them actually 
 touched. In Washington a chap sees the 
 seams of the service, wires, time-serving, 
 and all that. But out here it's the fighting- 
 machine. We can't all go potting subs, but 
 some of us can make the potting easier." 
 
 Mathison put his hands on the other's 
 shouldeis. " Bob, you're the most lovable 
 man God ever gave to another for a 
 comrade. And I'm going to miss you like 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 43 
 
 the devil. And more, I'm going to worry over 
 you, you're such an infernally absent-minded 
 dub." 
 
 " That's a gift, that. We absent-minded 
 dubs are always too busy to waste time 
 wailing. Lord ! but this coming and going 
 of yours has been pleasant to me ! I know, 
 sometimes I have been moody and grumpy ; 
 but I believe you always understood." 
 
 " Yes. A woman somewhere who wasn't 
 worth it." 
 
 Hallo well nodded. 
 
 " And she's gone, vanished," went on 
 Mathison. 
 
 " How do you figure that out ? " asked 
 Hallowell, curiously. 
 
 " For some days now you have been going 
 about with a tune on your lips — airs from 
 old light operas we went to in the happy 
 days. I've never asked questions. I'm not 
 going to now." 
 
 " A nightmare, and I've just waked up," 
 said Hallowell, staring at the coal in his 
 pipe. " It wasn't natural for me to gloom. 
 I'm cheerful by nature, the same as you. 
 I'd tell you the whole story if I thought it 
 
44 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 worth while. Women are all right. It was 
 my misfortune to become interested in the 
 wrong one. I wonder if Cunningham would 
 come up and share the place with me ? " 
 
 " That's odd ! This very day I tapped him 
 on the subject and he's crazy to get out here." 
 
 " That's fine ! Two years, and they've 
 been the happiest I've ever known." 
 
 " God bless you, Bob ! Remember, I made 
 no pull for this." 
 
 " You poor lubber ! The whole lot of us 
 have been watching you eat your heart out. 
 You had to go. And they had to send you. 
 Saturday. It's a great adventure ; an adven- 
 ture the moment you step on board the 
 Nippon Maru until you march up Fifth 
 Avenue in the Peace Parade ! Fvmny thing. 
 You'll get through. Feel it ; one of those 
 old wives' hunches. Made all your plans ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How are you going to carry them ? " 
 
 Mathison laughed. " Not even to you, 
 Bob. But these little blue-prints of yours 
 are going to Washington. Fire and water 
 and poison gas won't stop me. This is going 
 to be rather an imusual stunt. The moment 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 45 
 
 I land in San Francisco I shall be under 
 the friendly shadow of the greatest organiza- 
 tion of its kind in the world — the Secret 
 Service, When I step from the ship I shall 
 wear a little green ribbon ; from train to 
 train I shall wear it. I sha'n't know any- 
 thing about it, but those boys will have their 
 eyes upon me. Simple ; can't fail. At any 
 time, if I'm in trouble, all I've got to do is to 
 set up a yodel and the trouble is eliminated. 
 On the other hand, I'm going to stay snug 
 in my cabin. I'm not going to stick my head 
 out until I step from one train to another. 
 On board the Maru, however, I've got to 
 depend upon myself. The thing has got 
 about. Bob. I don't mean my end of it. 
 It's got about that you've done a big thing. 
 I've a strong idea that I'm being watched." 
 
 " No doubt of it. You're the only intimate 
 friend I have. Those damned Germans ! 
 They're as thick as flies in this town. And 
 how is a man to know ? Swedes, Danes, 
 Norwegians, Finns — ^Teutonic, all of them. 
 But so long as their papers are correct we 
 can't lay a hand on them." 
 
 "When will you have the extra stuff ready?" 
 4 
 
46 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 "To-night. I'll have it all out on old 
 No. 9 print. And you'll carry that along 
 with you." 
 
 " Honestly, Bob, I'm worried about that 
 print being here in the house. I don't trust 
 Paolo. He's Spanish ; and while the Euro- 
 pean Spaniard has forgotten, the Philippine 
 Spaniard still covertly hates us." 
 
 " Nonsense ! No. 9 is utterly worthless 
 without the key-print. But if anything 
 should happen to me before you go, don't 
 forget that little red book in the wall safe. 
 Morgan of the Intelligence gave me those 
 names. They'll be worth looking at. Sus- 
 pects, too clever to handle." 
 
 " To hell with the Ki ! " came raucously 
 from the darkened dining-room. 
 
 The two men laughed. 
 
 " You'll be taking Malachi along with 
 you ? " asked Hallowell. 
 
 " Would you like him ? " 
 
 " Like him ? Why, God bless you, I'd 
 be having you to talk to, with that bird 
 around. He's a wonder. The way he picks 
 up things is uncanny." 
 
 " He's yours." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 47 
 
 " Honestly ? Well, by George ! That's 
 mighty fine of you." 
 
 " He's served his turn. He amused me 
 when I hadn't any one to talk to. He's 
 yours as much as mine, anyhow. He talks 
 for you as much as he does for me. Besides, 
 the poor little beggar hates the sea. If I 
 took him aboard the destroyer he'd break 
 his neck trying to keep on his perch." 
 
 "That bucks me up a lot, Mat. I'm very 
 fond of that parakeet. Going out ? " 
 
 " Tailor. I'm buying a cits. Best for me 
 to travel incog, if I can. Last fitting. I'll 
 be back." 
 
 " Fire and water and poison gas ; you'll 
 pull through." 
 
 "You bet I will! Think of the yarn- 
 spinning when I'm off duty ! I can tell the 
 wondering gunners that I saw the beginning 
 of the idea, that I know the old son-of-a-gun 
 who invented it. Nine o'clock." 
 
 " I'll be here," replied Hallowell, " wait- 
 ing for you. Though I may turn in any time 
 later than nine. So long." 
 
 Mathison went down the path. Halfway 
 to the gate he turned and stared at the 
 
48 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 lighted windows. He could see the shadow 
 of Hallowell's huge shoulders on the curtain. 
 The dear old stick-in-the-mud ! What 
 would he do without some one to watch 
 over him ? He strode on, closing the gate 
 behind him with a musical clang. 
 
 His tailoring required more time than 
 he had made allowance for ; the Chinaman 
 hadn't made the coat-sleeves quite short 
 enough. Thus, when he stepped off the 
 trolley-car which bisected the street less than 
 a quarter of a mile from the villa — a five 
 minutes' walk, tonicky on glorious nights 
 like this — ^it was nine-twenty by his wrist- 
 watch. 
 
 He swung along with a jaunty stride, 
 whistling the latest tune that had " come 
 out," " Oh, boy, where do we go from here ? " 
 He felt like a butterfly that had just cut 
 through its cocoon and found the world a 
 pretty good place to live in. In two months' 
 time he would have his drab little terrier 
 under his sea-boots. But for the thought 
 of leaving Bob behind, he would have been 
 the happiest man on earth. 
 
 These cogitations came to an abrupt end. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 49 
 
 He stopped. A picture had flashed into 
 range, A carriage, driven like mad, had 
 swooped under an arc-light ; and the vehicle 
 was coming in his direction. A golden fog 
 of dust rose up under the lamp. As there 
 was another arc-light opposite to where he 
 stood, Mathison decided to wait. 
 
 The carriage came thundering on. The 
 driver was standing up. As it rattled past — 
 on the two port wheels — Mathison had a 
 glimpse of the passenger. A woman ! And 
 she was holding on for dear life. He gathered 
 one vague impression — ^that she was young. 
 
 " What the dickens is her hurry ? " He 
 drew his hand across his chin. " No boat 
 or train at this hour. Drunken Tagalog, 
 probably. Too late for me to do anything." 
 
 He continued on. He began whistling 
 another tune. " Where's the girl for me ? " 
 
 " She may pass me by and never know 
 She was the girl for me I " 
 
 When he reached the villa gate he looked 
 up inquiringly. The incandescent lamp pro- 
 jecting from the keystone was out. Usually 
 this burned tmtil dawn. Mathison gave it a 
 passing thought — ^wires burned out, probably 
 
50 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 — ^unlocked the gate and, marched down the 
 bamboo-lined path to the villa door. Here 
 again he paused. No lights. 
 
 " I see. Beggar's gone to bed, and that 
 rogue Paolo has sneaked off to a cock-fight. 
 Bob ought to give him the boot." 
 
 He climbed the stairs silently and went 
 to his room. He did not cross the centre of 
 the house to accomplish this ; he merely 
 followed the veranda corridor. He tossed 
 his cap on the bureau, yawned luxuriously, 
 for he was tired, and sat down on the 
 edge of the bed to take off his shoes ; but he 
 immediately ceased all movement. The 
 parakeet was talking — vulgar Hindustani 
 and equally vulgar English. 
 
 " Mat, you lubber, where 's my tobacco ? 
 Chup ! " Which is, Hindustani for " Stop 
 your noise ! " 
 
 Mathison stared, his expression one of 
 puzzlement. Malachi never made a racket 
 at night unless he was profoundly disturbed. 
 What ailed the bird ? And where was Bob ? 
 He decided to investigate. 
 
 " Mat ! . . . Bahadur Sahib ! . . . Chota 
 Malachi I . . . Bounder, take that ace out of 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 51 
 
 your sleeve ! ... To hell with the Ki ! , . . 
 Mathison, Halloweir, and Company, and be 
 damned to you ! . . . Malachi ! " in a singular 
 kind of wail. 
 
 A word about this parakeet. He was well 
 known in Manila, at least among the younger 
 officers in the navy and the army stationed 
 there. Certain parrots and parakeets talk 
 fluently. The brain, about the size of your 
 finger-tip, is memory in the concrete. Men 
 of science are still pulling their beards over 
 the talking parrot, but their phrases haven't 
 fooled anybody ; they are just as much 
 in the dark as you and I. The birds are 
 childlike in some respects. You teach the 
 feathered emeralds this or that ; and then, 
 some day, in trying to show them off, they 
 confound you (and regale your company) 
 by rattling the family skeleton. Like children, 
 they store away a good many things not 
 intended for their ears. 
 
 Malachi — I believe they named him after 
 Mulvaney's elephant — ^had been taught many 
 phrases which pass in wardrooms but are 
 taboo in parlours. Only, Malachi did not 
 know it. Why men teach birds to swear 
 
52 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 I don't know, unless it be that a ribald oath 
 uttered by innocence in the absolute is a 
 man's idea of humour. Malachi's masters 
 had taught him to memorize the names of a 
 few cronies who occasionally dropped in 
 for poker or bridge : and there was always 
 a hilarious uproar when the bird gravely 
 and unexpectedly demanded that So-and-so 
 drop the ace he was hiding in his sleeve. 
 
 But he had the habit of all talking parrots, 
 big or little, of shutting up shop for hours 
 at a stretch and not even a plantain or a 
 plump mangosteen would tempt him to 
 break his silence. A truculent little green 
 bird, no bigger than a robin, but with the 
 spirit of a disgruntled Bayard. 
 
 There were no doors up-stairs except to 
 the cement shower. All the other doorways 
 were hung with bead-and-bamboo curtains. 
 Mathison parted the one which fell between 
 the corridor and the dining-room. It tinkled 
 mysteriously as it dropped behind him. 
 Where was Bob ? He listened. He could 
 hear the parakeet moving about in his cage. 
 When agitated, Malachi had a way of pull- 
 ing himself up to the swing and solemnly 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 53 
 
 clambering down to the perch, repeating 
 the manoeuvre over and over. 
 
 Mathison's glance trailed to the curtain 
 between the dining-room and the living- 
 room. A broad band of moonshine entered 
 through one of the windows, broke against 
 objects, splashed the lower fringe of the 
 curtain, and ended in a magic pool on the 
 grass matting. 
 
 It seemed to him as if every nerve and 
 muscle in his body winced and pressed back. 
 It was almost like a physical blow. It took 
 a full minute for the vertigo to pass, and 
 when it passed it left his tongue and lips 
 dry, his throat hot. 
 
 In the centre of that magic pool of moon- 
 shine was a hand, sinisterly inert. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter IV 
 
 jVyiATHISON fought nausea, terror ; fought 
 the paralysis gathering in his legs, and 
 pushed through the curtain, feeling along the 
 wall for the key-button to all the lights. He 
 blinked a moment in the glare that followed. 
 Then, whichever way he looked — havoc ! 
 
 The long table, the stands and chairs 
 overturned, the phonograph-record files empty 
 and flung about, the glass in the bookcases 
 shattered and the books in a helter-skelter, 
 the top of the piano swept clear of Hallowell's 
 antique bronzes, drawers out, papers and 
 blue-prints scattered everywhere — and the 
 quiet form of his friend on the floor ! 
 
 " Bob ? " cried Mathison, the anguish of 
 that moment the greatest he had ever known. 
 " Bob ? . . . God in heaven ! " 
 
 He knelt. Dead. The body was still 
 
 54 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 55 
 
 warm. Fifteen or twenty minutes ago 
 Hallo well had been alive. . . . The length of 
 a pair of coat-sleeves — an infinitesimal thing 
 like that ! Mathison strangled the great, 
 heaving sob. A pair of coat-sleeves. . . . 
 The irony of it ! But for a trifle like that 
 he would have been home in time, and this 
 would never have happened. . . . Bob ! 
 
 Slowly Mathison rose. The anguish, the 
 tenderness, slowly left his handsome face. 
 It became hard, a little older, and there 
 flashed from his eyes a relentless fury. He 
 neither cursed nor gesticulated ; all his sub- 
 sequent acts were quiet ones. He prowled 
 about the room, his scrutiny that of a man 
 who knew how to hunt for little things ; but 
 he found nothing which would indicate the 
 identity of the assailants. 
 
 A foot or so beyond the Bokhara lay a 
 small bronze elephant, one of Hallowell's 
 paper-weights. Mathison did not touch it ; 
 he would never be able to touch that again. 
 
 Bob Hallowell, matey, straight and loyal 
 and brave ! — done to death in this fashion ! 
 Mathison leaned against the jamb of the door, 
 his face in the crook of his elbow. The 
 
56 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 one human being he had loved in years — as 
 men sometimes love each other ! And while 
 he had been fussing over the sleeves of a 
 civilian's coat, Bob had sobbed out his life 
 on the floor thereJ. It was not the end itself, 
 it was the manner of the end that was so 
 horrible. Bob, who had always prayed that 
 he might die at sea ! 
 
 Mathison flung his arm from his eyes. 
 The woman in the white pith helmet ! But 
 immediately he dismissed this idea. There 
 had been no woman here. Only three men 
 or more could have beaten down Hallowell, 
 who was tremendously strong and active. 
 God, what a fight it had been ! and in the end 
 — probably as he was getting the best of it — 
 some one had struck him down from behind. 
 And he had crawled toward the dining- 
 room ; for there was a sinister trail across 
 the grass matting. Dying, he had crawled 
 toward the dining-room. Why ? 
 
 In God's name why had he not let them 
 search ? The uselessness of it ! He had 
 thrown away his life to justify an instinct — 
 the active resentment of a brave man against 
 permitting alien hands to meddle with his 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 57 
 
 belongings. Bob had always been without 
 guile, moral resiliency ; like a bulldog, he 
 had never retreated, stepped back. 
 
 " Mat, you lubber, where 's my tobacco ? . . . 
 Malachi ! " Once more that singular wail. 
 
 Mathison shuddered. It was horrible to 
 hear the bird scream these familiar words. 
 All at once he was struck by an oddity. 
 Malachi had never wailed his name like that 
 before ; whenever he uttered it he did so 
 briskly and cockily. The sight of a blue- 
 print, however, caused Mathison's thought 
 to switch instantly into another channel. 
 
 No. 9 ! Now he understood why Bob had 
 fought. Swiftly Mathison sifted the prints 
 — old ones Hallowell had probably been 
 mulling over. No. 9 was not among them. 
 Still, to make sure, he opened the wall safe 
 behind the piano. This was empty except 
 for a small red book such as men use to 
 carry addresses in. He restored the prints 
 to their hiding-place, but he retained the 
 book. No. 9, with all Hallowell's new 
 annotations and computations, in the hands 
 of the enemy ! What if they had no key- 
 print ? What mattered it if they could not 
 
58 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 apply the principle, so long as they under- 
 stood that this menace existed, of what it 
 comprised ? 
 
 " Damn them all — the low, murderous 
 sneaks ! " 
 
 Once more the militant sailor, he stepped 
 to the telephone which was attached to the 
 wall and took down the receiver. He stared 
 blankly into the black cup of the transmitter 
 and slowly replaced the receiver on the 
 hook Wires cut, outside somewhere, and 
 all official Manila to be notified at once of 
 the double catastrophe ! He would be 
 obliged at once to run down to the governor's 
 bungalow. 
 
 A sickening weakness swept over him 
 again. He reached blindly around for a chair, 
 righted it and sat down, with his head in his 
 hands. He would have to get a good grip 
 on himself before starting out. After a while 
 he raised his head and kept his gaze upon the 
 walls of the room, with strange detachment 
 noted many of the curiosities which sailors 
 pick up in Oriental ports, not for their intrinsic 
 value, but for their associations. . A good 
 deal of it was junk, from a collector's point 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 59 
 
 of view ; but Mathison knew that there was 
 not money enough in the world to buy a 
 single blade, pistol, bird wing, butterfly, claw. 
 He would keep them always. 
 
 It was dreadful to sit there, blinking and 
 choking and trying not to look. It was 
 almost as if the body cried out : " Look at 
 me ! Look at me ! " A terribly compelling 
 attraction ! Damn them ! They had ran- 
 sacked the room while Bob lay there sob- 
 bing out his life. 
 
 Air ! The room was stifling him. He 
 staggered out to the east veranda. Here 
 he fell to pacing and gradually his strength 
 returned. 
 
 " Malachi ! " cried the parakeet, but 
 briskly now. The sound of one of his masters 
 moving about reassured him ; for these odd 
 little ringnecks recognize their friends even 
 as dogs recognize theirs. 
 
 But the living master no longer heeded. 
 Up and down the veranda Mathison strode, 
 his step now springy and noiseless. He was 
 in full command of his faculties. From 
 time to time he made gestures ; they 
 were catlike. To tear, bruise, rend ! A cold 
 
6o The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 berserker rage had taken possession of him, 
 one of those upheavals of hate which, instead 
 of blinding, clarify, the fires of which burn 
 steadily until the end is attained. Only 
 strong natures are capable of sustaining it. 
 Mathison saw the future with astonishing 
 clearness. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a 
 tooth ! 
 
 " Mat, you lubber, Where's my tobacco ? " 
 called Malachi. 
 
 This time Mathison heard with comprehen- 
 sion. He paused, struck by a singularly 
 bizarre thought. Malachi ! Supposing that 
 was it ? Supposing Hallowell had called 
 out to Malachi the name of the man ? A 
 chance shot in the dark that the bird might 
 remember and repeat it ? 
 
 This trend of cogitation was interrupted 
 by a furious ringing of the gate bell. 
 
 The visitor proved to be Morgan of the 
 Intelligence. He was out of breath from 
 running. 
 
 " Anything wrong in these diggings ? " 
 
 " Hallowell is dead," said Mathison, gravely. 
 
 " The devil ! Murdered ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 6i 
 
 " I knew it ! I felt it in my bones. 
 Always something on this order when she 
 passes. And like a yokel, I let her slip 
 through my fingers ! . . ." 
 
 " No woman did this." 
 
 " Actually, no ; potentially, yes." 
 
 " How did you learn anjrthing was wrong ? 
 The telephone wire has been cut." 
 
 " She came along in a carriage. Stopped 
 just as I was about to enter the governor's 
 bungalow. Said she'd seen men fighting 
 here — ^shadows on the curtain. And I let 
 her get away ! " 
 
 " In a white pith helmet ? " asked Mathi- 
 son, with the first sign of eagerness he had 
 shown. 
 
 " Yes. Been hunting all over town for 
 her. You saw her then ? " 
 
 " Just as I left the trolley." 
 
 " Get a good look." 
 
 " No. Light clothes and pith helmet gave 
 me the impression that she might be young." 
 
 " Young," mused the Intelligence man, 
 ironically. " Well, yes ; young and beauti- 
 ful and the innocent expression of a child, 
 with the heart of a hell-cat. I pick up lots 
 
 5 
 
62 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 of odds and ends in my business, unofficial 
 stuif. This female once tried to wreck 
 Hallowell; and she never forgave him for 
 having a spine " 
 
 " She ? " 
 
 " Yes Ever heard of a woman called 
 The Yellow Typhoon ? " 
 
 "No," said Mathison, after a moment. 
 
 " Well, perhaps a man like you wouldn't. 
 But ask the gay lads from Yokohama to 
 Shanghai, and they'll tell you Typhoon is a 
 happy choice Look at this room ! 
 
 What a fight ! . . . And I stood yawping 
 while she ran away again ! Well, she sha'n't 
 get outside the Bay. You may lay to that. 
 Now then, anything missing ? " 
 
 " A blue-print, relative to the U-boat 
 business." 
 
 " But I thought that completed and out 
 of the way ! " 
 
 " It is ; but Bob had some ends to tighten 
 up. . . . Morgan, they struck him from 
 behind ! He was beating them off, and they 
 struck him from behind ! " 
 
 " Buck up, Mathison ! You musn't let 
 this get you. There's a whale of a man's 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 63 
 
 job in front of you. Uncle Sam's depend- 
 ing on you to get to Washington. Don't 
 let this get to your nerves . . . Old Bob 
 Hallowell ! I'll round up the suspects. I'll 
 crucify them, but some one will speak. How 
 valuable was the print ? " 
 
 " It will give them an idea of what they'll 
 be up against, and that will rob the thing 
 of fifty per cent, of its value. The surprise 
 will be gone." 
 
 " I see. Bad business. They'll try to 
 get East ; Mexican wireless. Well, it will 
 take a clever man or woman to slip through 
 my net ; and I'll settle it inside an hour. 
 I suppose they came by the river. We'll 
 take a look-see there later. Remember this 
 is ordinary burglary with murder. It won't 
 do to let the public know that anything serious 
 has happened to our war plans." 
 
 " My friend ! . . . And he was so happy to 
 have done something for his coimtry ! " 
 
 " But keep hold of yourself. Don't let 
 this break you down. It's up to you to 
 make Hallowell's plans good. Keep that in 
 your head." 
 
 " The Yellow Typhoon." 
 
64 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " That's the name. I'll describe her later. 
 Where's your servant ? " 
 
 " Out. . . . An eye for an eye ! " 
 " That's the way to talk ! " said Morgan, 
 patting Mathison on the shoulder. " And 
 nothing will hurt the Hun so much as your 
 safe arrival in Washington. . . . Poor devil ! " 
 he added, under his breath. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter V 
 
 TV yiATHISON, his pipe dead in his teeth, 
 ^'•'" leaned against the starboard rail and 
 stared with unseeing eyes. It was Sunday, 
 the first day out of Manila. The north- 
 east trade was blowing briskly and the blue 
 Pacific flashed and tumbled. 
 
 Loneliness. Never had he known any- 
 thing like this before. A sudden inexpli- 
 cable craving for crowds, talk, laughter . . . 
 women ! With Bob at his elbow, night after 
 night, he hadn't been conscious of a void 
 in his life. Woman. No doubt he was a 
 madman, a kind of super-madman, to have 
 held out as long as he had. Nerves. It 
 was quite possible that the craving would 
 subside and he would become normal, once 
 his raw nerves had steadied down. 
 
 His errand was in jeopardy. He would 
 65 
 
66 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 soon need all of his cunning, all his strength, 
 to pull through. He had set for himself 
 something more than the mere role of a 
 secret messenger. He had buckled on the 
 sword of Nemesis. An eye for an eye, a 
 tooth for a tooth. He was letting his grief 
 dig in too deeply. He must find some 
 diversion shortly or he was done for. 
 
 He had had to fight Morgan bitterly to 
 win his point. Morgan maintained that the 
 arrival of the blue-print in Washington would 
 be vengeance enough for any reasonable man. 
 In the end, however, he had surrendered, 
 reluctantly agreed not to disturb the passen- 
 gers beyond careful scrutiny of their pass- 
 ports. But why had the taciturn Morgan 
 chuckled, thwacked him jovially on the 
 shoulder, and continued chuckling as he 
 went down the gang-plank just before it 
 was hauled aboard ? Mathison was still 
 mystified over this peculiar conduct. 
 
 Anyhow, one thing was off his mind. 
 That long, thick manila envelope was in 
 the purser's safe. It did not matter that 
 the purser might still be cudgelling his 
 brains as to the why and wherefore of the 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 67 
 
 remarkable decorations on the face of that 
 envelope for which the owner had not required 
 a receipt of deposit. 
 
 There were twenty-one first-class passen- 
 gers and eighty steerage. Mathison had 
 applied himself intensively to the memoriza- 
 tion of the twelve descriptions in that little 
 red book of Hallowell's. None of the first- 
 class passengers tallied. It was conceiv- 
 able that his enemies would keep under 
 cover until they were ready to strike ; and 
 nowhere could they keep hidden so well as 
 in the steerage, among the Chinese, Japanese. 
 Filipinos, and Russians. 
 
 They had found Paolo in the Pasig River, a 
 hundred gold in his pocket, conclusive evidence 
 of two things — ^that the servant had betrayed 
 his master and had known too much for the 
 safety of the men who had bribed him. 
 
 Mathison knocked the dottle from his 
 pipe, turned toward the smoking-room, when 
 he saw a book coming along the deck, flopping 
 and bumping like a gull with a broken wing. 
 He recovered it. Probably it belonged to 
 some passenger aft the smoke-room. The 
 
68 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Life of the Bee : Maeterlinck. There was 
 nothing on the fly-leaf to indicate the owner- 
 ship, however. He tucked it under his 
 arm and walked aft. 
 
 In a steamer-chair between the port and 
 starboard projections of the deck-house was 
 a woman. He recognized her as the old 
 lady who occupied the cabin opposite to his 
 on the main deck. A grey cashmere shawl 
 was wrapped about her head and shoulders. 
 The rest of her body was snug in the folds 
 of a plaid rug. A wisp of gray hair, the 
 sport of the wind, was fluttering, now across 
 her forehead, now above the edge of the 
 shawl. She wore a pair of mandarin spec- 
 tacles with amber lenses. Mathison could 
 not tell whether she was asleep or awake. 
 Nevertheless he approached. The craving 
 for companionship was not to be denied. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he began, " but per- 
 haps this book is yours. It came galloping 
 around to starboard from this direction." 
 
 " Thank you. I saw it start on its journey, 
 but I was too lazy to go after it." She 
 held out her hand — concealed in a grey 
 cotton glove — and he laid the book on it. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 69 
 
 It did not occur to him then, but it did 
 later, that the voice was singularly rich 
 and full for one who appeared to be well 
 along in the 'sixties. But he was not unaware 
 of the fact that breeding and education 
 may preserve the tonal quality of a voice 
 through life. 
 
 " You ought to have a chair in a more 
 comfortable place," he suggested ; " out 
 where the sun is." 
 
 " That's just my difficulty. The sun 
 bothers my eyes, and I'm obliged to find 
 nooks where it cannot reach me. We old 
 folks have to be careful. Won't you sit 
 down ? " 
 
 He opened a chair and sat on the foot- 
 rest, conscious of a vague exhilaration ; it 
 was the human look of her and the human 
 sound of her voice. 
 
 " My name is Mathison." 
 
 " And mine is Chester — ^Mrs. Hattie M. 
 Chester. My cabin is opposite yours. If 
 a submarine should pop up, you'll promise 
 to come for me ? " 
 
 " I promise. But there won't be any subs 
 over here except in dreams," 
 
70 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Something to scare naughty children 
 with. I see." 
 
 The hint of raillery convinced Mathison 
 that there was a vigorous, fearless person- 
 ality under the shawl and the rug. What 
 a curious spot to select ! Swinging grey 
 shadows that passed and repassed, baffling 
 scrutiny in a most amazing manner. 
 
 The conversation turned upon the war, 
 and here again she surprised him by her 
 clear understanding of what was happening 
 to the world. 
 
 " You've a son over in France ? " he ven- 
 tured. 
 
 " No, unfortunately. But if I had a 
 thousand sons, I'd disown them one and all 
 if they weren't over there. Once upon a 
 time white men worshipped many gods. 
 To-day where are they ? To-morrow we 
 shall laugh when one speaks of kings. The 
 Teuton idea did not invade Belgium so 
 much as it dug its own grave. . . . Oh, if I 
 were a man ! " 
 
 Mathison smiled — something he hadn't 
 expected ever to do again ! He asked her 
 what she was doing alone in this part of the 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 71 
 
 world. She had a nervous breakdown in 
 the spring, and her doctor had advised her 
 to take a long sea voyage. 
 
 " And where else could I take a sea voyage ? 
 I always wanted to see India, China, Japan. 
 I suppose you are going back to enlist ? " 
 
 " No, I am going home to fight. I am 
 already in the service." 
 
 " What arm ? " 
 
 " The navy. I have been transferred to 
 the Atlantic," he admitted, frankly. "I'm 
 to command a destroyer in British waters." 
 
 "Splendid! And you are travelling in 
 mufti?" 
 
 " A special dispensation." He sought a 
 safer channel. " You are rather brave, to 
 tour this part of the world these days." 
 
 " Grey hairs go safely anywhere. Besides, 
 I've a French maid who is something of a 
 grenadier. I am not afraid of anything . . . 
 except ghosts ! " ■ 
 
 This time Mathison laughed. He was 
 positively enjojdng himself. Then he recol- 
 lected that he hadn't fed Malachi. He rose. 
 
 " I've a little parakeet in the cabin, and 
 I've forgotten to feed him." 
 
72 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Does he talk ? " 
 
 " In three languages — Hindustani, Spanish, 
 and Yankee." 
 
 "Bring him up. One like those I saw 
 in Agra, flying about in the ruined fort ? " 
 
 " Yes ; green, with a lemon collar. I'll 
 bring him up this afternoon at tea." 
 
 " To-morrow morning. The sun is in this 
 corner in the afternoon." 
 
 " You ought to walk." 
 
 " I shall ... at night." 
 
 "I'll bring the bird up to-morrow, then." 
 
 " And thanks for returning the book." 
 
 This was the beginning of what may be 
 written down as one of the most amazing 
 situations ever devised by Fate. The woman 
 behind those amber spectacles was young, 
 and it was the youth of her that drew 
 Mathison, though he was utterly unconscious 
 of this fact — drew him morning after morning 
 as the magnetic pole draws the needle of the 
 compass. 
 
 By the time the ship reached Honolulu 
 and went on his depression was a thing of 
 memory ; his nerves became normal ; he was 
 more alive than he had been in years. With 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 73 
 
 all the cunning of her superb art she made 
 her lure one of motherhood, so irresistible 
 that he no longer bothered his head over 
 her avoidance of sunlight or the fact that if 
 he saw her at night it was by the port rail, 
 her back to the moonshine. There was one 
 clear thought regarding her : what a com- 
 rade she must have been to the man she 
 once called husband ! Whimsical, deeply 
 learned, sound in philosophy, humorous, 
 and unafraid ! she made him think of his 
 mother ; and all the tenderness he had bot- 
 tled up in his lonely heart these fourteen 
 years went out to her. Lightly he fell into 
 the habit of calling her Mother, and in her 
 turn she called him Boy. 
 
 For all the pleasure and satisfaction he 
 found in this companionship, there was a 
 line and he never crossed it. Of his own 
 affairs he was remarkably reserved. Several 
 times — merely as a test — she laid traps for 
 him, but each time he evaded them. Morgan 
 — ^to whom she had gone sensibly with a 
 frank confession — ^had summed up this odd 
 handsome young man : " He is likely to 
 fool you. Under that amiable exterior there 
 
74 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 is a lot of blood and iron stuff. Always 
 keep that in mind. Just now he is in a bad 
 shape. Get him out of it. He's a bit of a 
 mollycoddle where women are concerned, 
 but among men he is an ace." 
 
 Had Mathison been of her world^ — a world 
 to which she was returning gladly, though 
 she had left it indifferently enough — ^he 
 would soon have seen through her art, clever 
 and vigilant as it was. She could not disguise 
 the slender youthfidness of her foot. No 
 hand sixty-odd years old could be so firmly 
 fleshed. The grey glove hid nothing. But 
 his guilelessness served to carry her over a 
 rather shaky bridge. 
 
 On the third night out of Honolulu — it 
 was near eleven— Mathison stood in the 
 little shelter between one of the life-boats 
 and the rail, whence he could look down into 
 the waist, at the recumbent forms of the 
 steerage passengers who were sleeping on 
 deck. Night after night he had watched 
 from this lookout; but moonlight and star- 
 light had a way of dissolving and blotting 
 out salients. 
 
 To-night, however, his persistence was 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 75 
 
 rewarded. From the black rectangle of 
 the companion door a Chinese woman, 
 apparently of high caste, stepped forth. She 
 stood poised for a moment, then trotted 
 across to starboard and laid her arms on the 
 broad teak rail. She wore a radiant jacket, 
 full of gold thread which caught the moon- 
 shine and threw it back — a spider-web hung 
 with dew. She was smoking a cigarette. 
 
 He knew China ; and suddenly he sensed 
 something wrong, and discovered the flaw. 
 No Chinese woman, high or low, ever wore 
 such a thing on her head. Mathison couldn't 
 have named it ; but a white woman would 
 have had no difficulty. It was a dainty 
 boudoir cap. 
 
 One of the recumbent forms on the deck 
 rose slowly. A big man, with blouse, boots, 
 and cap of the Russian soldier ; the peak of 
 the cap was drawn well down. He lounged 
 over to the Chinese woman, and the two 
 began to talk. Presently Mathison heard 
 the woman laugh It was unmistakably 
 Occidental laughter. 
 
 So ! For a long time Mathison stared, but 
 he was too far away to gather an impression 
 
76 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 such as might count in the future. Sooner 
 or later he would, see the face of this Chinese 
 woman who laughed — white. He would 
 never forget Morgan's description of the 
 woman called The Yellow Typhoon . . . the 
 woman who had tried, to break Bob Hallowell 
 and might have been one of the contributing 
 causes of his death. Old Bob ! An eye for 
 an eye, a tooth for a tooth ! Let them begin 
 the play. He was ready. 
 
 He had reasoned, and with sound logic, 
 that his enemies might not strike at all while 
 crossing, to lull him into a false sense of 
 security, so that once they stepped ashore 
 they might find he had grown careless, over- 
 confident. One thing, they would never be 
 able to get into his cabin when he was out 
 of it. The night and day stewards — depend- 
 able Japs — ^had been liberally subsidized. 
 One or the other was invariably on guard 
 up to the hour Mathison turned in for the 
 night. With Manila envelope in the purser's 
 safe, the human wall around his cabin, an 
 attack would have small chance of success. 
 No doubt they were already aware of his 
 precautions. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon yy 
 
 On the night before making San Fran- 
 cisco, however, he was given an insight as 
 to the patience and Machiavellian range of 
 the Teuton forces opposing him. It was 
 twelve when he turned in — an hour later 
 than usual. As he came abreast his cabin 
 companionway, he stopped, rocked to the 
 bottom of his soul. The Japanese steward 
 was plunging toward him at top speed. 
 Mathison spread out his arms, but the little 
 brown man dipped, eluded him, and flashed 
 up the main companion. 
 
 Against the opposite side of the cabin 
 companionway stood the grey lady . . . 
 Malachi's cage hugged tightly to her bosom ! 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter VI 
 
 VV7ITH the blood pounding in his throat, 
 ^' Mathison rushed to her side. He saw 
 that the lights were on in his cabin. 
 
 " Just a moment . . . until I get my 
 breath ! " 
 
 " The steward . . . ? " 
 
 "No, no ! Ran out to identify the man, 
 if possible. I'm afraid there's something 
 deadly in your room." 
 
 " But Malachi ! " The bird was huddled 
 on the bottom of his cage, a bad sign. 
 
 Mathison dashed into the cabin, inhaled 
 sharply, and his inhalation thrilled him. An 
 unknown but pleasant odour tingled his 
 nostrils. His glance roved quickly. On the 
 floor, under the port, was a brown box, 
 perforated. He seized it and tossed it 
 through the port-hole, beyond the rail, into 
 
 78 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 79 
 
 the sea. Then he stepped out into the 
 companion. 
 
 " Come ! . . . Outside, where the air moves 
 . . . Malachi ! " Mathison's voice broke. 
 "Hurry! ' 
 
 She followed him, still clutching the cage 
 and wondering if he would remark her eyes, 
 now without the baffling spectacles. He 
 led her to a spot where the rail opened, 
 took the cage from her, and set it on the 
 deck. He sat down beside it, and' 'she 
 imitated him. 
 
 " The poor little bird ! " she murmured. 
 Was the wig on straight ? She dared not 
 put up her hand to feel. 
 
 Mathison stared at Malachi. He should 
 have taken a cabin in the lower deck. Still, 
 he couldn't understand how the port had 
 been opened. He had kept it locked, despite 
 the stuffiness. No matter. Inspection would 
 solve that. Thought he had turned in. He 
 had, until to-night, gone to the cabin 
 regularly at eleven; and they had planned 
 the stroke accordingly. Their only hope of 
 entering the cabin was after midnight, when 
 he was in it. He had liberally subsidized 
 
8o The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 the two Jap stewards. Day and night the 
 companion was guarded. But after mid- 
 night the companion was empty. 
 
 Clever. To stupefy him, to send him into 
 a deep, artificial slumber, force his door and 
 ransack his belongings leisurely. He was 
 confident the fume was innocuous beyond the 
 sleep-producing effect. But Malachi . . . 
 it would have been the death of Malachi. 
 
 He still clung to that idea. He had read 
 of such things, but until now had never con- 
 sidered them in the light of facts. If Hallo- 
 well had called to Malachi, the little bird 
 knew. But would he ever speak ? Had he 
 understood that one of his masters had been 
 trying to tell him something ? 
 
 Every morning for an hour Mathison had 
 worked patiently to get the bird to speak ; 
 but, aside from grumbling in parakeetese, 
 Malachi refused to utter a word. All this 
 confusion annoyed him. There was a strange 
 swing to the world, now up, now down, now 
 from side to side. It kept his temper, 
 normally, irascible, in a state of feverish 
 vindictiveness. True, he would climb up 
 Mathison 's arm, nip his master's ear gently — 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 8i 
 
 the only way he had of expressing affection ; 
 but he was generally unhappy. 
 
 " I don't know why," said the grey lady, 
 when Mathison's silence began to get upon 
 her nerves, " but my first thought was of 
 Malachi. I . . . you have told me so often 
 how much you loved him." 
 
 " And you have probably saved him. In 
 ten minutes he would have been dead." 
 
 Malachi turned slowly head-on to the 
 wind. The beak was closed. This was a 
 good sign. 
 
 " Malachi, old boy ? " 
 
 The woman stifled the sob that rose in 
 her throat. A strong, vigorous man, young, 
 handsome beyond ordinary, all alone but 
 for the little green bird. Why ? What was 
 the meaning of this self-imposed isolation ? 
 " A mollycoddle so far as women were con- 
 cerned," Why, there was nothing about 
 him to suggest bashfulness. She had not 
 studied him through all these hours with- 
 out learning that fundamentally he was 
 light-hearted in temperament and tremen- 
 dously interested in living. No woman in 
 the background, for he was not cynical. 
 
82 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 And here he was, his sole companion a 
 Hindustani parakeet. 
 
 Mathison thrust a finger into the cage, 
 and Malachi struck at it drunkenly. 
 
 " He'll come around. I can't thank you ; 
 I haven't the words. But it would have 
 broken my heart if anything had happened 
 to him. Won't you please tell me exactly 
 what happened ? " 
 
 She did not begin at once. She had to 
 weigh her words. She must never let him 
 suspect that, night after night, she never 
 went to bed until she heard him enter his 
 cabin. What a coil ! He would never know 
 who she was ! To-morrow, after landing, the 
 grey lady would vanish forever. Only a 
 few months gone her existence had been 
 joyous, if strenuous ; and now there would 
 be always at her side a shadow and a fear. 
 She had stepped upon a whirligig, and per- 
 spectives were no longer clear. The horizon 
 of the future was dark with complications. 
 She dreaded New York, and she was honour- 
 bound to return. Berta in New York ? 
 The kite in the dove-cote ? Escapades which 
 would become the talk of the town and 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 83 
 
 which the public would naturally lay at her 
 door. She shivered. 
 
 Yes, to-morrow she must vanish com- 
 pletely, even though she would always be 
 close at hand, all the way across the conti- 
 nent. The Yellow Typhoon ! Her heart 
 swelled in bitterness. He would never know. 
 Filled with the grim business of war, he 
 would be rushing in and about Washington 
 or the great naval yards. He would spend 
 his leave in activities which concerned his 
 future. There would be only one chance 
 in a thousand of his stumbling upon the 
 truth and finding her. Ah, but if he should ! 
 
 " I could not sleep," she began. " I left 
 my door open and knelt on the lounge to 
 watch the sea. I don't know how long I 
 remained in that position. Suddenly I 
 observed a man stealing along the rail. His 
 face was in a complete shadow. I watched 
 him. He stopped in front of your port-hole, 
 then approached it. This looked so sus- 
 picious that I stepped into the companion. 
 Your door was open the width of the hook, 
 and I could see the port-hole clearly. I 
 saw the glass swing inward. There was 
 
84 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 plenty of moonshine. I saw an arm reach 
 into the port -hole and something was dangling 
 at the end of the shadowy hand. Quickly 
 I threw up the hook, opened your door, and 
 turned on the lights. Saki, the steward, 
 came running up. In a word I told him 
 what had happened. There was a peculiar 
 odour in the air. I caught up the cage 
 and rushed out . . . just as you appeared." 
 
 " All my life I shall be grateful. I can't 
 explain anjrthing to you,^much as I'd like 
 to. You will never realize what you com- 
 panionship has done to buck me up. I 
 came aboard very nearly a broken man." 
 
 " Boy, you don't have to confide." She 
 laid a hand on his arm. 
 
 "I'm an odd duffer. They used to call 
 me mollycoddle, back at Annapolis, until I 
 had whipped half the class. And all the 
 while I've been just as normal as the average 
 man." There was a pause. " You know 
 Kipling ? " 
 
 " His books ? Yes." 
 
 " Then you remember that yarn called 
 ' Love o' Women ' ? My father ... he was 
 like that. Handsome and lovable and weak 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 85 
 
 in fibre. He was also in the navy. For a 
 hundred years we Mathisons have been in 
 the army or navy. We had money. We 
 were soldiers and sailors from choice. My 
 father died when I was sixteen. He died 
 terribly. He broke my mother's heart. 
 But I knew nothing of that until after his 
 burial. Then one day she called me to 
 her ... I wish you could have seen and 
 heard her. Tender and plucky and beauti- 
 ful .. . and unafraid. She talked to me as 
 fathers always should talk to their sons. 
 Frankly and truthfully she drew life. I 
 had the example of my father. She told 
 me that somewhere in the world there was 
 a mate for me. Should I take her a clean 
 heart or a muddy one ? Should I know real 
 happiness or should I choose a bed like my 
 father's ? I listened, dulled and appalled. 
 Then she asked me to promise to go clean. 
 There's a point. We Mathisons always keep 
 our promises. It is the motto on the shield. 
 But we never give our promises hastily. 
 My mother knew that. My father had never 
 made her any promises of reformation. He 
 knew he would have kept them. She told 
 
86 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 me to fight it out, then come and tell her what 
 I had chosen to do with my soul and body." 
 
 " And you promised ! " 
 
 " Yes. And I've kept it. She died shortly 
 after. The wild streak was in my blood. 
 I've had to fight. I have sown my wild 
 oats in work and adventure. This took 
 away a good deal of the gregarious instinct. 
 I have fought wild beasts on foot ; I have 
 explored poisonous swamps ; I have climbed 
 precipices— and always the thing tugged at me." 
 
 " And the dream- woman ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid she's been a little too long 
 in coming." 
 
 " But how would you know ? " 
 
 "I'd know. I can't tell you how or why. 
 Only, I shall know. Something will tell 
 me. I wonder, am I a mollycoddle ?" 
 
 " Boy," she said, pressing his arm, for 
 she hadn't taken her hand away, " I did 
 not believe that there was such a man in 
 all this world Why, you have won your 
 Marne ! . . . And she will come, this mate, 
 for God is just If I had a son, I'd want 
 him like you. All mothers long for sons 
 like you. . . . She will come ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 87 
 
 " She'll have to hurry," he replied, lightly. 
 " I'm heading into the war zone. I may 
 never come back." He laid his free hand 
 on hers. " I wonder if I can make you 
 understand what your kindness had done 
 for me ? When I came on board I was all 
 but done for. I had just lost the one human 
 being I loved. May I come and see you in 
 New York ? " 
 
 " I shall be waiting for you. You have 
 my address." 
 
 Later, in her cabin, while sleepy Sarah 
 brushed and aired the wavy coils of hair 
 which had been confined all day beneath 
 the hot wig, she turned with shining eyes — 
 eyes like purple grapes in the rain. 
 " Sarah, am I beautiful ? " 
 " Ah, madame, all the world . . ." 
 " Bother the world. What do you think ? " 
 " I ? Madame is more than beautiful. 
 She is famous. She is good. She is worthy 
 of a good man, of many healthy children." 
 
 Her mistress laughed. " Thanks, Sarah. 
 That is all I wished to know." 
 
 " Will madame continue wearing this 
 make-up ? " 
 
88 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " I shall change it for another in the 
 cab that takes us from the dock to the 
 train to-morrow." 
 
 When the ship lay alongside her pier the 
 following afternoon Mathison put in his 
 buttonhole the bit of green ribbon. Then 
 he rang for the steward, assigned the cage 
 and one of the two kit-bags to his care, 
 took the other himself, and went up on 
 deck to bid Mrs. Chester good-bye. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said from behind a heavy 
 veil. " You will not forget me ? " 
 
 " Never in this world ! I have your address. 
 I'll dig up New York from one end to the 
 other but I'll find you, little mother ! " 
 
 " Take care of yourself. And please come 
 and find me ! " But she went down the 
 gang-plank with a queer, empty feeling 
 in her heart. He might find her, but the 
 grey lady would shortly vanish forever. 
 
 Had she been mothering him ? Or had 
 she been attracted from another angle ? 
 She had never met a man like this before, 
 wordly in his understanding, handsome, 
 virile, a man's man, but an utter child in 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 89 
 
 the presence of a woman. Perhaps the 
 attraction was its novelty. Hitherto she 
 had looked upon men cynically. She was 
 like one who had been chasing a mirage 
 across the desert, to find a water-hole un- 
 expectedly. 
 
 It had been so easy to deceive him. Her 
 voice, the roundness of her body, the firm- 
 ness of her hand and foot, these hadn't 
 told him anything. How many times had 
 she almost reached out to rumple his hair ? 
 Why hadn't she ? Why did she want to ? 
 She carried this riddle with her for many days. 
 
 Mathison walked down the gang-plank 
 into the vast shed. Almost at once a man 
 approached him and handed him an envelope. 
 He made off without a word. Mathison, 
 without glancing at the envelope, stuffed 
 it in his pocket and proceeded toward the 
 customs barrier. He passed this with little 
 or no delay, got into a taxicab and was 
 driven to the ferry Over in Oakland he 
 found the train made up, so he went into 
 his compartment immediately. He put away 
 the green ribbon and rang for the porter. 
 
 " Screens in the window," he said. 
 
go The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Yes, suh." 
 
 " I shall ring for you whenever I need 
 you. Knock three times shortly on the 
 door when you answer." 
 
 " Yes, suh." 
 
 " I shall have my meals in here. Always 
 bring the waiter to the door yourself." 
 
 " Yes, suh," said the porter, the whites of 
 his eyes growing. 
 
 " Follow these instructions and you will 
 be ten dollars richer when we draw into 
 Omaha. That will be all." 
 
 Mathison left the door wide open until the 
 arrival of the conductor, when he pro- 
 duced the envelope he had so mysteriously 
 received. It contained his tickets. After 
 surrendering these, he closed and locked the 
 door and took inventory. Imitation maho- 
 gany — steel. Above the little door in the 
 lavatory was an electric fan. He discovered 
 that one of the windows went up easily. When 
 his bunk was made up he would be able to 
 reach the light and fan buttons without 
 difficulty. 
 
 " Well, Malachi, old scout, this is America. 
 How do you like it ? " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 91 
 
 Malachi teetered on his perch grouchily. 
 
 "I'm beginning to think that you're 
 Irish — a Sinn-Feiner. You don't like any- 
 body, anything or anywhere. Poor little 
 beggar ! I wonder if you'll ever chatter 
 again. I suppose I'd better break the news 
 to you. When we get to New York I'm 
 going to give you away. Yes, sir. To the 
 dearest old lady a chap ever had the good 
 fortune to meet. To have met a woman 
 like that . . . when she was young ! My luck ! 
 They call us idiotic Yankees, these Huns, 
 Malachi ; but we're going to fool them. 
 Ever see a spider weave his web — and then 
 wait for the fly to walk in ? Wait and see ! " 
 
 Mathison turned slowly and faced the 
 rear partition. He stretched out his arms 
 and curled his fingers sinister ly, his jaws 
 set, a savage lustre in his eyes. 
 
 " With these two hands, by God ! ... All 
 right. Bob. Trust me to see it through." 
 
 But how was he going to secure that blue- 
 print — No. 9 ? He possessed the power to 
 search every human being on this train. That 
 would, if used, serve to recover the print ; 
 but it would set Messrs, the Flies winging 
 
92 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 to parts unknown the moment they sus- 
 pected what was on foot. The long arm of 
 the Secret Service at his beck and call, and 
 he would not dare to use it ! Beyond iden- 
 tifying himself to the watching agents by 
 the display of the green ribbon, he would 
 never dare call for help. His enemies would 
 be in this train, probably in this very car : 
 they would be on the same trains all the 
 way to New York, whither he must draw 
 them. Once there, he would not have much 
 difficulty in recovering No. 9. But if they 
 mailed it ! If it entered their calculations 
 to mail it ! 
 
 How many against him ? He would never 
 know until the end. The Yellow Typhoon ? 
 Let the vipers beware ! Morgan had 
 described her minutely, but Mathison 
 doubted he would recognize her unless she 
 entered some extraordinary situation. 
 
 To live in this infernal bulkhead for days, 
 eating, sleeping, reading — ^that would be the 
 supreme test, that would prove whether 
 the metal in him was iron-casting or forged 
 steel. Never to question the porters, to 
 confuse his enemies by a grim silence, to 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 93 
 
 force them into offensives out of sheer 
 curiosity. 
 
 " We idiotic Yankees ! " 
 
 That night as he lay in his berth — ^it was 
 after one o'clock — solving mathematical 
 problems which had to do with jumps 
 between trains, he became conscious of a 
 pleasant odour. He recognized it. Instantly 
 he sat up and hauled away at the window. 
 Next he brought over Malachi and lowered 
 the covering of the cage. The cold night 
 air came in at the rate of a gale. Then he 
 remembered the fan. He groped for the 
 button, and the fan began to hum. Still 
 he could smell the fumes. Suddenly he 
 laughed. It was the cold, tranquil laughter 
 of a man who had lived among men. He 
 pressed the porter's bell. If there was any 
 one waiting in the corridor, he would have 
 to vmove on. But if the porter did not 
 arrive ! 
 
 The porter, however, came almost at once. 
 Mathison, holding his automatic behind his 
 back, opened the door full wide. 
 
 " Any way of getting a cup of coffee ? " 
 
 " No, suh." 
 7 
 
94 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Sorry to have bothered you, then." 
 
 All Mathison wanted was an open door 
 for a minute or two — ^a clearing draught. 
 When he shut the door there was only a 
 vague taint. Clever work. Not a lethal 
 fume ; neither his heart nor his lungs were 
 troubled in the least. A sleep fume There 
 had been an almost irresistible desire to 
 curl up and let the world go hang. 
 
 Malachi's feathers were ruffled, but he 
 clung to his perch, his eyes beaming with 
 their usual malignancy. 
 
 How had they got the fumes into the com- 
 partment ? Forward there was no danger, 
 as he was occupying No. i. He went over 
 every square inch of the base of the rear 
 partition. In the corner under the berth — 
 a difficult spot to get to— he found an oily 
 thimbleful of steel filings. He drenched a 
 towel and dammed the aperture. Com- 
 pressed air had forced the fumes into the 
 compartment. Evidently they were going 
 to keep him awake nights ! 
 
 So his friends were next door ! Some- 
 thing to find that out. But what was the 
 idea? They could not force that door 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 95 
 
 without dynamite. Had they speculated 
 upon his running out into the corridor ? 
 Or was this the beginning of a series of night 
 attacks to break him down physically and 
 mentally ? ... To keep him awake until he 
 threw caution to the winds ! There were 
 big storms forward ; there would be delays. 
 Very well ; he would sleep afternoons and 
 stand watch through the night. A man's job. 
 
 The next offensive came while they were 
 crossing the Rockies. It had calibre. It 
 convinced Mathison that he was dealing 
 with a man of brains, a man who was not 
 untrained in psycho-analysis. They ran 
 afoul a tremendous storm in the mountains 
 and became stalled for several hours because 
 of a fallen snow-shed. It was near eleven 
 o'clock when the porter came along and 
 announced what had happened. 
 
 Though Mathison was sleeping as much 
 as he could through the day, he undressed 
 at night, propped himself up under the 
 reading globe and studied navigation 
 peculiar these days to British waters. Round 
 about midnight he heard a pistol-shot, 
 another, then a fusillade from opposite 
 
96 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 directions. He jumped out of his berth 
 and got into some of his clothes — and sat 
 down suddenly, grinning. Had he been 
 dressed they would have got him ! What 
 would be surer to call forth a fighting-man 
 than the sound of shots in the night ? They 
 were going to keep him thinking fast. They 
 wanted him out in the open. 
 
 Before the train reached Omaha — a day 
 and a half late — Mathison began to feel the 
 strain. Sleep in the afternoon is never 
 energy-producing ; a number of minutes pass 
 into oblivion, that is all ; body and brain 
 stand still ; they do not recuperate. Mathison 
 upon coming out of these naps, felt as if he 
 had been pla5dng cards for hours. He had 
 to apply cold water to shake off the lethargy. 
 He was full of confidence, however. 
 
 There wasn't any doubt at all that they 
 were after bis nerves. The door-knob 
 rattled mysteriously during the small hours 
 of the night. Whenever the train stopped 
 there was clicking on the window-pane. 
 But he never opened the door nor raised 
 the window-curtain. The vantage was still 
 on his side of the net. While he knew what 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 97 
 
 they were attempting to do, they hadn't the 
 least idea where their endeavours were 
 getting them. 
 
 At Omaha passengers for Chicago would 
 be transferred to another train. Mathison 
 was last to leave. He put the green ribbon 
 in his buttonhole, picked up the kit-bag 
 which contained the manila envelope, and 
 sauntered forth. The freshness of the winter 
 air and the joy of swinging his arms and 
 legs freely ! 
 
 The porter preceded him with the bag 
 and Malachi. He did not hurry. He was 
 among a dozen or so moving in the same 
 direction. As he reached the platform of 
 the new car two men broke away from the 
 group and hurried off toward the gates. 
 Negligible and unnoticed, unless you knew 
 what it signified. On the lounge in his 
 compartment — ^which was still No. i — ^he 
 discovered some novels and a bundle of the 
 latest magazines. A present from the Secret 
 Service. He would look through them all 
 with particular care. There might be a 
 message. 
 
 A point in passing. If Mathison was 
 
98 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 confusing his enemies he was also confusing 
 the various chiefs of the Secret Service 
 along the route. Here, the latter reasoned, 
 was a man who temporarily possessed colos- 
 sal power, Orders had come from Washing- 
 ton to obey him absolutely. He could 
 commandeer a car for himself, a diner, put 
 operatives in the cars fore and aft, order the 
 arrests of suspects, knock railway schedules 
 galley-west ; and to date he had issued, but 
 two orders — to engage No. i compart- 
 ment on all trains and to have three taxi- 
 cabs at the station in Chicago. And these 
 orders had come from mid-Pacific by wire- 
 less. On the other hand, they appreciated 
 the fact that if Mathison could make it on 
 his own, so much the better. Still, they 
 were puzzled. 
 
 There were three novels. As Mathison 
 idly rifled the pages of one he saw a word 
 underscored. He followed this clue, and 
 at length came upon the message : " You 
 understand your powers ? Car straight to 
 Washington if you order it." Mathison 
 chuckled. If the Secret Service was baffled, 
 what was going on in the minds of the men 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 99 
 
 following him ? He had determined from 
 the start to send no wires. The green 
 ribbon must suffice. Telegrams passing to 
 and fro might create confusion, alarm the 
 quarry. 
 
 There were two empty compartments on 
 this car — 4 and 5. Mathison had No. i. 
 No. 2 was occupied by a man with straw- 
 coloured hair and a ruddy complexion and a 
 woman with a charming mole at one corner 
 of her mouth. In No. 3 were two men, 
 pla5dng canfield. In No. 6 there were two 
 women. 
 
 Both women had entered the car heavily 
 veiled — the woman in 6 and the woman in 
 2. Neither removed the veil until the con- 
 ductor passed. From San Francisco to 
 Omaha, all on the same car ; and they would 
 be on the same car from Omaha to Chicago. 
 Mathison nor the woman in 2 had stepped 
 outside their compartments until this trans- 
 fer from one car to the other. But the 
 woman in 6 walked the corridor at all hours 
 of the day and night, her face hidden behind 
 a thick grey veil. Her maid, however, 
 brought all the meals to the compartment. 
 
100 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 The blond man stood up and put a cigar 
 between his teeth. 
 
 " Well, once more luck is with us. And 
 yet I am vaguely puzzled." 
 
 " Over what ? " snapped the woman with 
 the mole irritably. 
 
 " It is almost too easy" — ^scowling. 
 
 " The stupid Yankee pigs ! " 
 
 " Not this one, Berta. We haven't got 
 him clear in the open yet." 
 
 " Ah ! Then you are beginning to doubt 
 that superior eificiency of yours ? ... I'm 
 tired. To keep me cooped up like this ! " 
 
 " You may open your wings as wide as 
 you please, once we are in New York." 
 
 " But if he goes on this way ? " 
 
 " I have still some traps. There will be 
 a little journey in Chicago between one 
 station and the other. Who knows what 
 may happen ? " 
 
 " But why coop me up ? " 
 
 " The hour may come when I shall need 
 you. If he saw you it would not be pos*sible. 
 Did Hallowell have a photograph of you ? " 
 
 " In his watch-case. But he destroyed 
 it the night he left me." She frowned. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon loi 
 
 " Nevertheless, he must never see you. 
 On board the ship it was your impatience 
 that caused me to fail. We merely put him 
 on his guard. The blue-prints were in the 
 purser's safe, and his signature was not in 
 the receipt-book. Have patience. No man 
 is perfect. Patience often overcomes skill. 
 Sooner or later the skilful man grows care- 
 less, or he forgets, or he comes to believe 
 he is a godson of luck. And then, there is 
 the lack of sleep. Somewhere along the 
 route I'll find a weak spot." 
 
 "I hate all Yankees!" 
 
 "So do I, Berta. I hate them because 
 some of them are not boasters. Have 
 patience. A small city east of Chicago, a 
 chief of police who likes newspaper noto- 
 riety. A couple of hours ; we shan't need 
 any more than that. New York ! " jovially. 
 
 " Champagne and beefsteak ! " she 
 retorted, contemptuously. 
 
 " Well, and why not ? Haven't I pro- 
 mised you all the dresses you can pack in 
 two trunks ? I haven't had a decent meal 
 or a good cup of coffee since the war began." 
 
 " New York ! . . . after all these years ! " 
 
102 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Bah ! Who in the world will recognize 
 you ? We are a good many miles away 
 from that gambling-house in the Honan 
 Road. You're moody. You've missed the 
 parade for nearly five weeks. You'd be all 
 right if you could walk through the cars to 
 the diner and have them gape in wonder at 
 you. Somewhere between Chicago and 
 Buffalo we'll use that crook scheme. Now, 
 I'm going in next door for a few rubbers at 
 bridge." 
 
 She did not reply. She turned her face 
 toward the window and stared out into the 
 night. New York ! What was the matter 
 with her that she did not blaze with pleasure 
 at the thought of New York ? Fifth Avenue, 
 Broadway, the theatres, the brilliant restau- 
 rants, the shops — why did the thought 
 of New York set a little chill in her heart ? 
 Were they alive or dead ? In all these years 
 she had not made the least effort to find 
 out. New York . . . youth that had known 
 nothing but poverty ! With a repellent 
 gesture she cast out these thoughts and 
 picked up a fashion magazine. 
 
 In compartment 6, the young woman 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 103 
 
 read a manuscript, while the elderly maid 
 with the broad, stolid countenance of the 
 Breton peasant, brushed the golden hair 
 tenderly. By and by the manuscript flut- 
 tered to the floor. She knew it so absolutely, 
 even after these months. She stared at the 
 partition . She saw in fancy a window-curtain, 
 forms swaying back and forth, then darkness. 
 She would never be able to identify the men. 
 She had cried and shaken the iron bars of the 
 gate until her palms had peeled. 
 
 " Sarah, dear, am I tiring you out ? " 
 " I love to brush your hair, madame." 
 " I mean the slaving I've set you to." 
 "No, madame. The only happiness I 
 know rests in serving madame faithfully. 
 Besides, madame has told me that all this 
 is for France ; and that is enough for me, who 
 am Breton." 
 
 " Then I am still beautiful to you ? " 
 The maid smiled. " Madame, that hand- 
 some young man with the little green bird ..." 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Madame is not offended ? " 
 " No, Sarah. Speak on." 
 " Well, it would appear that madame — 
 
104 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 and madame knows that I am observing — 
 no longer despises mankind." 
 
 " Oh, but he isn't a man, Sarah ! " 
 
 " But yes, madame ! " 
 
 "No. He is an anachronism — a half -god 
 who has lost the way to Olympus." 
 
 " Ah ! If madame is not interested ? " — 
 with a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Men ! How well I know men ! The same- 
 ness of them ! What do they offer me ? 
 Orchids, hothouse grapes, jewels that I return. 
 Never a flower that is free and wild. What is 
 it I want, Sarah ? Romance ! A whirlwind, an 
 avalanche, to sweep me up, to carry me off — 
 berserker love ! A man who'll take me if I'm 
 what he wants, without pursuing me in circles. 
 I am a viking's daughter ! This man ? . . . We 
 shall wait and see. Get me to bed. I am weary." 
 
 Meanwhile Mathison went through his 
 magazines, taking in the pictures first. Then 
 he fell upon a good story. It was illustrated 
 by photographs, and one of the photographs 
 made him forget the story. What was it ? 
 What was it that stirred in the back of his 
 head at the sight of this bit of dramatized 
 photography ? He studied it near and afar 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 105 
 
 from this angle and that, but the lure re- 
 mained, tantalizingly beyond reach. 
 
 Fate never hurries. She takes time in 
 writing her human scenarios ; she can afford 
 to. She knows that inexorably they will be 
 enacted, without deviation. She had chosen 
 this moment to place before Mathison's eye 
 the photograph of a beautiful young woman. 
 
 The train from Omaha arrived in Chicago 
 exactly twenty-four hours late. Great 
 storms were raging across the land. 
 
 As Mathison was passing through the 
 gate — the green ribbon in his buttonhole — 
 a man approached him covertly and thrust 
 an envelope into his hand. More tickets. 
 Mathison did not accelerate his stride in 
 the least. He knew that everything was 
 prepared for him. Upon reaching the cab- 
 stand he stopped. At once three taxis rolled 
 up. Mathison bundled his luggage into the 
 middle cab, rested Malachi's cage on his 
 knees, shouted an order, and the three 
 cabs started off rapidly. 
 
 The snow was coming down in thick 
 sheets. A blizzard was in the offing. 
 
10 6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Just outside the regular cab-stand stood 
 a private car, a heavy, powerful limousine. 
 As the three taxis rolled away into the 
 storm a man dashed up to the limousine, 
 jumped in and called to the chauffeur : 
 
 " The middle car ; follow that. Smash it 
 or tip it over. In a storm like this accidents 
 will happen." 
 
 The limousine shot forward. The going 
 was heavy. The man in the limousine saw 
 the three taxis string out a little as they 
 went on. What he did not see was the 
 fourth taxi which followed him. 
 
 Almost in a kind of military manoeuvre 
 the three taxis forward veered together 
 suddenly and shot down a side-street. It 
 took the limousine two minutes to pick 
 them up again. There were plenty of arc- 
 lights, and by the aid of these the pursuer 
 saw that he had gained a little. They 
 were strung out again, about fifteen feet 
 apart. They held this formation for several 
 blocks. 
 
 To the occupant of the limousine this 
 was baffling as well as maddening. He 
 saw that until they separated it would be 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 107 
 
 impossible to ram the middle taxi. He 
 decided to draw up broadside. 
 
 The woman in the fourth taxi laughed. 
 
 " Sarah, that young man knows how to 
 take care of himself. If I should happen 
 to fire a pistol, you promise not to scream ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 The young woman laughed again. " Oh, 
 this is glorious ! I feel all my youth com- 
 ing back. I'm alive ! alive ! alive ! The 
 fates have appointed me his godmother, 
 Sarah.""^ My duty is to watch over him 
 until ... he grows up ! " 
 
 The maid smiled in the dark. 
 
 Presently the man in the limousine cried 
 out joyfully. The forward cab swooped 
 north, the rear one south, while the middle 
 car continued east toward the railway station. 
 
 ' ' Now ! Beat into it ! Anything to stop it ! " 
 
 A block farther on the private car and 
 the taxi collided. The latter reeled toward 
 the curb and stopped. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter VII 
 
 AS the man in the limousine jumped out 
 ** his chauffeur pointed, his hand menac- 
 ingly at the chauffeur on the taxicab seat. 
 That individual raised his arms without 
 resistance. He could not see the gun, but 
 he knew it was there. 
 
 The man with the straw-coloured hair 
 swung open the door of the taxicab fero- 
 ciously — ^to find the cab empty. He whirled 
 back into the limousine, which was already 
 moving. The right mud-guard was badly 
 crumpled. 
 
 " Station — all the power you've got ! " 
 Tricked. He understood what had hap- 
 pened. When the taxis had manoeuvred 
 into the side-street the original middle car 
 had gone either to the front or to the rear. 
 There was nothing for it but to play his last 
 
 lo8 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 109 
 
 card, — ^mistaken identity. To get Mathison 
 away from his luggage for an hour or two. 
 
 The occupant of the fourth taxi, also com- 
 prehending what hadtaken place, picked up the 
 speaking-tube and ordered full speed ahead. 
 
 " Sarah, this young man will bear watch- 
 ing. He had ideas. I doubt if I shall be 
 necessary to him at all." 
 
 " If madame should be hurt ..." 
 
 " No bridges until we come to them. 
 Keep your veil down. He might be watch- 
 ing from his car- window when we arrive. 
 He must never see you." 
 
 Mathison was extremely pleased with the 
 result of his exploit. To have thought out 
 all these moves in mid-Pacific, and to find 
 them moving without a hitch ! He closed 
 the door of his compartment and drew the 
 window-curtains. He pulled down the 
 covering of Malachi's cage. 
 
 " Malachi, you're likely to think cross- 
 eyed all the rest of your days. But to- 
 morrow night at this time you'll have peace 
 and quiet." 
 
 Then from the corner of his eye, he saw 
 
 8 
 
no The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 a bit of paper come jerkily under the door. 
 He pounced upon it. 
 
 All compartments 2 on train bought out in advance ; 
 unknown persons. Want anything done about it? 
 Answer Window. 
 
 After a minute's wait Mathison raised 
 the curtain a little and gave a negative 
 sign with his hand. Then he dropped upon 
 the lounge. So that's how it had hap- 
 pened ! Luck and accident in San Fran- 
 cisco because travel East had been light, 
 but a matter of foresight and calculation in 
 Omaha and Chicago. Confident that he 
 would always occupy No. i, that he would 
 travel a given route as rapidly as transpor- 
 tation facilities permitted, they had bought 
 out No. 2 compartments on both trains. 
 
 There would be real action from now on. 
 They would begin to realize that they hadn't 
 any time to lose. Very well; they would 
 find him ready. He smiled. The Secret 
 Service agents were beginning to fidget, the 
 best possible proof that his plans were 
 moving forward like clockwork. To-morrow 
 night the climax ! Only a few more strands 
 and the web would be complete. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon iii 
 
 " We idiotic Yankees ! " 
 
 He went to bed early. He was confident 
 that there would be no more gas. He was 
 dead for the need of a few hours of recupera- 
 tive sleep. The jolting ride across town 
 had helped to dissipate most of the bodily 
 numbness ; but now his brain was crying 
 out for oblivion. He fell asleep almost 
 instantly. 
 
 And yet a cessation of movement brought 
 him out of this profound slumber. It was 
 as if his subconsciousness had stood on 
 guard. He peered out from the side of 
 the curtain. They were in a railway yard 
 some where. Stalled. Freights were all 
 about and yard engines puffing and whist- 
 ling. He looked at his watch. Two. He 
 had slept four hours. He resisted the in- 
 tense craving to bury his head in the pillow 
 again. No doubt he had been refreshed 
 actually, but he was still drunk for the want of 
 sleep. He slipped out of his berth, drenched 
 a towel and slapped it over his face. Then 
 he turned on the lights and dressed. When 
 the right time came he would sleep forty 
 hours. 
 
112 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 The train went on at four. At dawn it 
 came to a standstill again and did not stir 
 until nine. They were on a side-track, and 
 along the main line freight was roaring and 
 thundering. What was happening to the 
 world ? A limited, one of the fastest known, 
 side-tracked for freight ! From six until 
 nine the freight rolled by. 
 
 A newspaper ! It was almost unbelievable. 
 He felt rather stunned. He hadn't held a 
 newspaper in his hands since leaving 
 Honolulu ! He did not actually know 
 whether the Germans were in Paris or the 
 Allies in Berlin, So held by the chase across 
 the continent, giving his every thought to the 
 affair, he had forgotten that the world was 
 going on outside this particular orbit and 
 great events were toward. 
 
 Twice again that day there were long 
 delays at sidings, east of towns barely 
 mentioned on the map. All the freight in 
 America seemed to be moving east. On 
 schedule time the train should be passing 
 through central New York ; and here they 
 were, miles and miles west of Buffalo, the 
 next real stop. The reporter brought him a 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 113 
 
 sporting page from one Chicago newspaper 
 and the editorial page from another. He 
 was vaguely able to learn that nothing new 
 had happened Over There, and that there 
 was a coal famine and a great congestion at 
 ports for lack of ships. 
 
 He began to fuss and fume and fret. He 
 endeavoured a thousand times to find a fresh 
 angle for his weary shoulders. It couldn't 
 be done. Pullmans were built for dividends, 
 not comfort. 
 
 He wore a grey travelling-suit and a cap 
 to match. The suit, though new, was in an 
 astonishingly disreputable state. The solu- 
 tion is apparent ; it does not signify 
 carelessness. The fact is that you cannot 
 loll and twist and curl up and at the same 
 time keep the warp and woof of Scotch 
 worsteds shipshape. 
 
 He yawned, stretched his arms until the 
 sockets cracked, turned wrathfuUy and 
 struck the top of the seat — ^that rolling 
 lopover which is still one of the mysteries 
 of modern times. Perhaps, in making the 
 original car there had been a few yards of 
 plush and excelsior left over. Splendid ! 
 
114 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Just enough for a pillow on the top of the 
 seat-back, where no human head might 
 reach it reposefuUy. 
 
 Mathison jumped to his feet and went 
 through a bit of setting-up exercise. It was 
 wasted effort. When a man is bored to the 
 point where his soul aches along with his 
 body, what he needs is a mental jolt, not a 
 quickening of his respiratory organs. Nothing 
 except that which attacks the eye surprisingly 
 will serve to pull a man out of the bog of such 
 lethargy. 
 
 Within the compartment, a pressed-steel 
 imitation red mahogany, green plush, and 
 a bluish haze which was the essence of 
 many incinerated cigars and consumed 
 pipes ; outside, snow, thick and dusty and 
 impenetrable. A great rimless, earthless, 
 skyless world. But for the clatter of wheel 
 upon rail, the train might have been speeding 
 through the clouds ; the illusion was almost 
 perfect. Darkness was falling. Winter ! 
 After all these years of tropical climes ! 
 
 The confinement was really heartbreaking. 
 Never had he been shut up like this. And 
 the craving for sleep was becoming a menace. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 115 
 
 It wouldn't have been so bad had he dared 
 move about freely, eat his meals in the diner, 
 and smoke his cigar or pipe among men. 
 
 On the opposite seat were the magazines 
 which had been given him in Omaha. He 
 reached for one of them. He had long since 
 read all the stories and advertisements. 
 Whenever monotony reached that point 
 where it threatened to become insupportable 
 he dived for these magazines. He could keep 
 himself awake with them. 
 
 Odd, but he was always returning to that 
 posed photograph. It haunted him : a 
 wonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt 
 in tone. It was a restaurant scene. The 
 woman's arms and shoulders were lovely, 
 but her face was a leaden silhouette, tantaliz- 
 ing, until you chanced to look into the wall 
 mirror at the far side of her. Even this 
 reflection was dim ; but you caught the 
 beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of 
 the nose and chin ; a rare face, not only 
 beautiful, but intellectual. For a long time 
 Mathison stared at it ; and then he discovered 
 something he had missed in previous scrutinies. 
 In the lower right-hand corner, in very small 
 
ii6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 type, he read, " Posed by Norma Farrington." 
 Some new actress. As for that, many new 
 ones had come and gone since he had visited 
 New York. He tore out the picture. He 
 couldn't have told why. Norma Farrington. 
 He smiled. 
 
 An idea had come to him, a charming 
 idea such as often tickles the imagination 
 of young men when they see the portrait of 
 a beautiful woman. The more he mulled 
 over the idea the more fascinating it became. 
 Certainly she would not have him arrested 
 for wanting to meet her. He folded the 
 picture and put it away. Supposing he 
 really started out upon such an adventure 
 in earnest, not in imagination ? Danger ? 
 Scarcely, with the little time he had at his 
 disposal. Soon he would be in the waters 
 that were full of slinking death. And it 
 was this fact that let down the bars to the 
 spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport 
 before the death grapple. Why not ? Why 
 not? Why not? pulsed his father's blood. 
 No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild 
 blood he might have in his veins, but it was 
 also the blood of unbroken promises. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 117 
 
 What had started this rather sinister idea 
 in his mind, or rather reawakened it ? The 
 photograph of the actress ? No. The grey 
 lady. The charm of her companionship, the 
 hint of the things he had missed. Queer 
 things, human beings ! 
 
 No, he would not bother Norma Farrington. 
 He would build one of his exciting romances 
 around her and let it go at that. But he 
 would himt up Mrs. Chester before his leave 
 was over, have tea with her, present her with 
 Malachi, and tell her the story in detail. 
 
 Another human inconsistency. Hallowell 
 had become strangely remote. As though 
 the thing had happened months instead of 
 days ago. And yet every move he made was 
 in the service of Bob — to bring his great 
 dream to fulfilment and confusion to his 
 enemies. 
 
 He heard some one knocking on the door. 
 He rose quickly and stood listening. Two 
 taps, a pause, followed by two more taps. 
 Mathison released the lock, and with his 
 foot ready and his shoulders hunched he 
 drew back the door about an inch. He 
 saw the shining black face of the porter. 
 
ii8 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " Bad news, suh." 
 
 " Come along inside." The porter slipped 
 through the opening, and he winced as he 
 heard the door close and the lock snap. 
 " What's the trouble ? " 
 
 " Dey's a big freight wreck beyon' de nex' 
 town, an' we'se t' be stalled ontil mo'nin', 
 suh." 
 
 " What ! " explosively. 
 
 " Yes, suh. Freight ovah de passenjah 
 rails. An' den dey's dat new rule — coal an 
 freight fust. We can't get by dat wreck 
 onless dey side-tracks de freight ; an' de 
 freight goes whoozin' by while we twiddle 
 thumbs. It's dat Gahfield awdah ; an' dey 
 ain't no use buckin' ag'in' it, wah-times. 
 Dey takes the diner off, too. No fish. So 
 yo' will haff t' eat in de station aw go t' one 
 o' de hotels in town." 
 
 " How big a town is this ? " 
 
 " Middlin' ; but dey's got a fine hotel 
 called de Watkins, jus' a little ways f'm 
 de station. Bath in all de rooms, suh." 
 
 " Bath in all the rooms," repeated Mathison 
 meditatively. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon iig 
 
 "I can bring yo' sumpin' in," suggested 
 the porter, but without much enthusiasm. 
 " Dey won't be no trimmin's like yo'd get 
 at de hotel." 
 
 " How long will we be stalled ? ' 
 " Dey calc'lates ontil nine in de mo'nin,' 
 suh." 
 
 " What are the other passengers going to 
 do?" 
 
 " Dey's all climbin' out fo' dinnuh." 
 Mathison pulled at his lip. His decision 
 came in a flash, one of that calibre which 
 only true adventurers dare make. The blind 
 Madonna of the Pagan, Chance ! With a 
 wave of the hand, to consign the burden to 
 her ! Perhaps it was the green plush, the 
 red paint on the four steel walls ; anyhow, 
 he decided to spend the night at the hotel. 
 He would immediately deposit the manila 
 envelope and the little red book — Hallowell's 
 — ^in the hotel safe and advise New York by 
 wire his positive whereabouts. If anything 
 happened to him, they would know where to 
 find his personal effects. There would be no 
 Secret Service operatives at his beck and call 
 here : he would be on his own. 
 
120 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 This decision reacted upon him mentally 
 and physically like champagne. All his 
 craving for sleep, all his depression, went by 
 the board magically. He began to thrill 
 and bubble with gaiety. And there would 
 be Malachi. In the quiet of the hotel room 
 he might be inveigled into talking. 
 
 " All right, George ; I'll climb out, too. I 
 can't stand this green plush any longer ! I'll 
 spend the night at your Watkins. Now listen. 
 When the train stops wait half an hour before 
 you come for my kit-bags. Engage a taxi. 
 If you can get me into that taxi without being 
 observed, there'll be a five-spot for you. 
 You didn't tell the waiter this morning about 
 knocking. When I finally got the meal it 
 was cold." 
 " I done fo'got. I sure is busy dis trip," 
 " Will you be aboard all night ? " 
 " Yes, suh. I ain't allowed to leave in a 
 case like dis. Dey won't nobody see yo' 
 in all dis rampagin' snow. All right ; thutty 
 minutes aftuh de train stops." 
 
 The porter backed out. Almost instantly 
 he heard the lock snap into the socket. He 
 scratched his woolly poll ruminatingly. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 121 
 
 " Well, suttinly dis niggah nevah struck 
 a bunch like dis befo'. Two women hidin' 
 behin' veils w'en I makes up de beds — like 
 dey jes' got ovah smallpox. An' dis chap 
 makin' me signal on de do', an' totin' a 
 parrot ! Well, politeness is mah middle name. 
 I'se goin' t' do jes' es dey tells me. W'en 
 I gits t' New York I'll buy dat Ford Lizzie." 
 
 In the fourth compartment sat three men, 
 playing cutthroat auction. One of them had 
 just bid " two without " when the porter 
 knocked. 
 
 " Come in ! " shouted the blond man. 
 " Ah, George, what's the news ? " 
 
 The porter became a very mysterious 
 individual. He shut the door softly and 
 leaned towards the blond man's ear. 
 
 " He's goin' int' town, suh." 
 
 " Going to take his things with him ? " 
 
 "Yes, suh. I'm t' call fo' him thutty 
 minutes aftuh de train stops. Dey's sumpin' 
 I fo'got t' tell yo', suh. It's de way I has t' 
 knock on his do' befo' I can git in. I hits 
 two times, den I waits a moment, den I hits 
 two times mo'." 
 
 One of the men started to say something 
 
122 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 angrily, but the blond man silenced him 
 with a gesture. 
 
 " You should have told me that before, 
 George , ' ' reproachfully . 
 
 " I know, suh ; but I done fo'got." 
 
 " Remember my instructions. A mis-step 
 on your part and you land in jail." 
 
 " Yes, suh." For George knew these men 
 to be Secret Service men. He had seen the 
 magic shields. " Dey sure fools yo* some- 
 times, don't dey ? He don't look it." 
 
 " That's why I'm taking all these 
 precautions. I can't arrest him until we 
 cross the New York state line The less they 
 look like it the more dangerous they are. 
 Always remember that, George. He hasn't 
 ordered anything to drink, has he ? " 
 
 " No, suh ; nuthin' but watah an' coffee." 
 
 " He hasn't sent or received any tele- 
 grams ? " 
 
 " No, suh." 
 
 " What made him decide to risk leaving 
 the car ? " 
 
 George thought for a moment. " I reckons 
 it was de green plush. He said he couldn't 
 stand it any longer." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 123 
 
 The blond man laughed. " Plush ! Well, 
 I'd risk it myself if I were in his boots. 
 That's all, George." 
 
 The porter bobbed and went away. The 
 moment the door closed the blond man 
 got up. 
 
 " Out in the open at last ! All things 
 come to him who waits. Sleep. That's 
 what he is after. Since the fumes I'll wager 
 he has kept an eye open every night ; and 
 it's beginning to tell on him. Everything 
 is turning out beautifully : the wreck, the 
 storm, his restlessness." 
 
 " If that black fool had only told us about 
 that knocking 1 " 
 
 " Never mind the spilled milk. We all 
 know what to do ; let us see that we do it. 
 I'll notify the local police at once. This 
 may be the end of the chase. This porter 
 is telling us the truth. I believe now that 
 the other porter told the truth. Mathison 
 isn't relying upon any body to help him out. 
 He hasn't sent any telegrams or received 
 any. At least, not from his own car. It 
 may be . . . No ; he never leaves the com- 
 partment. Yet there's those three taxis. 
 
124 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 How could these turn up if he hadn't tele- 
 graphed ? Never mind. Here is where we 
 shall trip him up. I'll go and tell Berta." 
 
 Shortly after he rapped on the door of 
 the second compartment. The door was 
 opened cautiously. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the woman with the mole. 
 
 The blond man stepped inside, " Good 
 news ! He's going into this town for the 
 night. There's a wreck ahead, and we'll be 
 stalled all night. He's going to risk it in 
 the open at last. Sleep. He's going to 
 pieces for the want of it. Out in the open ! " 
 
 " It is time. I am dead. I'll never get 
 the cramp out of my poor body. Nearly 
 three thousand miles cooped up like this ! 
 You were free. I had to stay packed away 
 in this suffocating box." She stooped and 
 peered out of the window. The suburb 
 lights were flashing by. "A horrible night ! " 
 
 " On the contrary, I should call it beautiful. 
 We are and have been perfectly prepared 
 against a move like this. He carries two 
 things I must have." 
 
 " I shall be glad when it's over." 
 
 " To-night. It will depend upon you. Be 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 125 
 
 careful. He is very strong and clever. I 
 thought the chase would be over in Chicago 
 last night. He tricked me neatly. But 
 green plush I " The blond man laughed 
 quietly. 
 
 " What are you laughing at ? " 
 
 "He's going into this town, he's going to 
 trust to his luck, because he can't stand the 
 sight of green plush any longer. It's acting 
 upon him psychologically, like red upon the 
 fighting toro. On the other hand, he will 
 not act impulsively again." 
 
 " He hasn't gone yet." 
 
 " A fig for that ! He'll go with the police, 
 then. His way or mine ; he'll go into town 
 to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly. Look 
 the part." 
 
 Mathison put on a fresh collar and 
 brushed himself carefully. He packed his 
 kit-bags and patted them affectionately, 
 as a hunter might have patted his faithful 
 hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerfulness, 
 pretty women ; a room big enough to turn 
 round in, a bed big enough to turn 
 over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot 
 water; a theatre, perhaps, drama, opera, 
 
 9 
 
126 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 burlesque, whatever the town had to offer. 
 He would play the game to the hilt. His 
 danger would be maximum, whether he 
 stayed in the hotel or walked abroad. So 
 he might as well get all the fun out of it 
 possible. 
 
 He lifted the cotton-fiannel bag. " Malachi, 
 we'll both have a bath to-night. Only, 
 we're probably doing a fool thing. There 
 won't be any one to watch over us ; we'll 
 have to go it on our own. But I'm done. 
 I've got to get outside. You poor little 
 beggar ! Are you ever going to talk again ? 
 Malachi ! " 
 
 A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently, 
 but immediately the lids dropped. 
 
 Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room 
 where everything was silent and motionless, 
 he might fmd his tongue. For days he had 
 known nothing but the strange swing of the 
 sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet room in 
 which he could wander about and claw up 
 the curtains. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter VIII 
 
 A T precisely six-thirty the porter returned. 
 ■*^ He announced his arrival in the peculiar 
 manner previously described. 
 
 " De taxi is waitin' fo' yo', suh," he 
 whispered. 
 
 " Good for you, George. Some snow- 
 storm ! " 
 
 " It sure is. Yo' can't see yo' hand befo' 
 yo' face. I tol' de cabby t' take yo' straight 
 t' de Watkins. On'y a sho't ways. De 
 Watkins is fash'nable an' has a cobbyray — 
 leastwise dey did befo' we got int' dis wah. 
 Anyhow, dey'll give yo' all de comfo'ts o' 
 home, an' I reckon dey's whut's achin' yo'." 
 
 " The nail on the head, George. But I 
 mustn't miss this train. Remember that." 
 
 " I'll telephone, suh, ef dey makes up any 
 time." 
 
 127 
 
128 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Passenger and porter hurried from the car 
 to the station platform, crossed two tracks, 
 passed through the waiting-room, thence to 
 the street, which you could not see across for 
 the curtain of driving snow. There was a line 
 of taxis at the curb. It appeared that every- 
 body bad deserted the train. 
 
 Mathison knew that he had committed a 
 blunder. There was even now a chance to 
 run back ; but stubbornly he faced the 
 direction towards which he had set his foot. 
 A blunder which, before the night was over, 
 might become a catastrophe. Well, one 
 thing was certain : they should never lay 
 hands upon that manila envelope. He would 
 deposit it in the hotel safe. Once that was 
 done, they could come at him from all 
 directions, if they cared to. He knew exactly 
 every move he was going to make. 
 
 " Boss, I wish I was whah dese bags come 
 f'm. Pineapples an' melons ; oh, boy ! Say, 
 I ain't nachelly inquis'tive, but what's in 
 dat cage ? " 
 
 " A ghost, George, by the name of 
 Palceornis torquatus." 
 
 " I pass ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 129 
 
 Mathison laughed. " It's a parakeet, a 
 hop-o'-my-thumb of a bird." 
 
 " Talk ? " 
 
 " Almost as much as you do, George." 
 
 The porter grinned and helped stow the 
 luggage inside the cab. Mathison climbed 
 in and slammed the door. The porter 
 watched the taxicab until the grey, swirling 
 pall swallowed it up. He pocketed the bill. 
 
 " Dey ain't no reason why, but I sure 
 hates t' take dat young man's money," he 
 mused, remorsefully. " De undah dawg ; 
 I s'pose dat's it. Wen dey don't look like 
 it dey is. What's he done, I wonduh ? A 
 parrot ! Fust time I ev' seen a white man 
 tote a parrot. An' he don't look like a 
 henpeck, neither." 
 
 He turned and jogged back to the train. 
 
 The taxicabs began to straggle along. The 
 streets were full of ruts and drifts, and the 
 vehicles looked like giant beetles scurrying. 
 
 Gloomy town, thought Mathison, as he 
 peered first from one window then from the 
 other. Not a cheery, winking electric sign 
 anywhere. Then he recalled the reason, as 
 explained by the porter. A coal famine had 
 
130 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 forced a temporary abandonment of this 
 wonder of American cities. 
 
 It was stinging cold, somewhere aromid 
 zero. He threw the lap-robe over the cage, 
 Malachi wasn't used to the cold. The shop- 
 windows gleamed like beaten gold, so thick 
 were they with frost. The cab lurched, 
 staggered, and skidded. 
 
 " Lord ! but the smell of clean snow ! " He 
 dipped his chin into his collar. He had been 
 away from this kind of weather so long that 
 it bit in. 
 
 Cabs in front and cabs behind. Were 
 they following him ? Likely enough. They 
 would be fools if they didn't. A hot bath 
 and a bed for himself and a room to rove 
 about in for Malachi. The thing was written, 
 anyhow ; and deep down in his soul he knew 
 that he was going to pull through. Fire, 
 water, and poison gas. 
 
 In about ten minutes the cab came to a 
 halt. The door was opened and a bellboy 
 grinned hopefully and hospitably. Mathison 
 stepped down from the cab, gave a dollar to 
 the driver, and reached for Malachi and one 
 of the kit-bags, leaving the other for the boy. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 131 
 
 He sprang up the hotel steps, keenly 
 exhilarated. He felt alive for the first time 
 in days. He swept on to the desk, planted 
 the kit-bags strategically and ordered a room 
 with a bath. But as the clerk offered the 
 pen Mathison frowned. He hadn't planned 
 against the contingency of signing his name 
 to hotel registers. His slight hesitancy was 
 not noticed by the clerk. Mathison was not 
 without a fund of dry humour, and a flash 
 of it swept over him at this moment. 
 
 He wrote " Richard Whittington, London." 
 He chuckled inwardly. The name had 
 popped into his head with one of those 
 freakish rallies of memory ; but presently he 
 was going to regret it. 
 
 " Room with bath ; number three hundred 
 and twenty. Here, boy ! How long do you 
 expect to be with us, sir ? " asked the clerk 
 perfunctorily. 
 
 " Until morning. Train stalled on account 
 of wreck. You have a good safe ? " 
 
 " Strong as a bank's," 
 
 " Very good. I'll be down shortly with 
 some valuables." 
 
 " Bird ? " 
 
132 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 "A parakeet." 
 
 " That'll be all right. We bar dogs and 
 cats." 
 
 The door of the elevator had scarcely 
 closed behind Mathison when a man walked 
 leisurely over to the desk and inspected the 
 freshly written signature. He seemed startled 
 for a monent ; then he laughed. 
 
 " A room, sir ? " 
 
 "No. I was looking to see if a friend of 
 mine had arrived. He hasn't." 
 
 The stranger walked away ; he strolled 
 into the bar, looked into the restaurant, 
 mounted the first flight of stairs and wandered 
 into the parlour, which was empty and chilly. 
 Next he hailed an elevator and asked to be 
 let out on the third floor. Here he walked 
 to the end of the corridor and returned, 
 took the next car down, and went directly 
 into the street. At the north side of the 
 hotel was an alley. The man stared specula- 
 tively into this jumped into a waiting 
 taxicab and made off. 
 
 Half an hour later a woman entered the 
 hotel parlour, selected a chair by the corridor 
 wall, and sat down. You might have gone 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 133 
 
 into the parlour and departed without 
 noticing her. 
 
 Meanwhile Mathison set the cage by the 
 radiator, went into the bathroom, came back 
 and felt the bed, and smiled at the bellboy. 
 
 " This will do nicely. How big a town is 
 this ? " 
 
 " About seventy thousand, sir." 
 
 " What's the name of it ? " 
 
 The boy grinned. Here was one,of those 
 " fresh guys " who were always springing 
 wheezes like this because they thought the 
 " hops " expected it. 
 
 " Petrograd." 
 
 Mathison caught the point immediately. 
 " Boy, on my word, I haven't the least idea 
 what the name of this town is. I'm off the 
 stalled flyer, and I forgot to ask the porter. 
 I wanted a bed instead of a bunk. Now 
 shoot." 
 
 The boy named the town. 
 
 " What have you got in the line of 
 theatres ? " 
 
 " This is Tuesday," answered the boy. 
 
 " I know that. Is there a comie opera or 
 a good burlesque ? " 
 
134 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Are you guying me ? Wher'd juh come 
 from ? " 
 
 "The other side of the world." 
 
 " I guess that's right. Why, this is show- 
 less Tuesday, all east of the Mississippi. Even 
 little Mary Pickford ain't working to-day. 
 New York, Boston — it's all the same. Nothing 
 doing. The new law ; all the theatres, 
 movies, billiard-parlours, and bowling-alleys 
 dark." 
 
 " Well, I'll be hanged ! " 
 
 "It's the war sir," said the boy, soberly. 
 "I'm in the next draft. I don't want to 
 kill anybody ; but if I've got to do it I'm 
 going to learn how." 
 
 Mathison held out his hand. " That's the 
 kind of talk. It's bad, bloody work, but it's 
 got to be done. Here's a telegram I want 
 sent. Don't bother bringing back the change. 
 But don't fail to have this wire sent." 
 
 " I won't fail, sir." 
 
 " Now, I want you to give this order to 
 the waiter." 
 
 After a word or two the boy interrupted 
 Mathison. " No meat. Fish, lobster, oysters, 
 chicken." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 135 
 
 " All right ; make it chicken, then. And 
 tell him to bring a banana and some almonds. 
 And mind this particularly. Tell the waiter 
 to knock once loudly. Make no mistake 
 about that." 
 
 " Yes, sir " ; but the boy's eyes began to 
 widen perceptibly. Here was a queer bird. 
 
 After the boy had departed Mathison 
 double-locked the door. Then he liberated 
 Malachi. The bird came out and stood 
 before the door of his cage indecisively. 
 Then he reached down and whetted his beak 
 on the carpet, 
 
 " Chup \" he muttered, 
 
 " You little son-of'a-gun ! " cried Mathison, 
 delighted. It was the first time Malachi 
 had spoken since leaving Manila. Mathison 
 stooped and extended his index finger. By 
 aid of claw and beak, the bird mounted the 
 living perch and slowly worked his way up 
 the arm. " The little son-of-a-gun, he's alive 
 again. Malachi, are you cold ? " 
 
 Malachi grumbled in his own tongue ; 
 Mathison approached a curtain, and the bird 
 at once transferred himself to that, clawing 
 his way up to the pole, where he began to 
 
136 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 preen himself. His master watched him for 
 a few minutes contentedly. Then he looked 
 out of the window. He saw the dim outlines 
 of a fire-escape. He could also see a cross- 
 section of the street beyond the alley : clouds 
 of snow, spouts, whirlwinds. 
 
 He turned from the window swiftly and 
 tiptoed to the door. Some one had turned the 
 knob cautiously. Mathison waited patiently, 
 but the knob did not turn again. Door- 
 knobs — ^they had a mysterious way of turning 
 in the night. 
 
 There would be no going out this night ; 
 so he might as well make himself comfortable. 
 He turned to the kit-bags. He opened them 
 both, took a pair of slippers from the top of 
 one and a dressing-gown and toilet articles 
 from the top of the other. The general 
 contents of both bags were as neatly and as 
 compactly arranged as a drummer's case ; 
 but always on top there would be pick-ups. 
 By the time he had bathed, changed, put 
 on the slippers and gown— a heavenly blue 
 silk-brocade such as aristocratic Chinese 
 wear — ^the waiter arrived with the dinner. 
 He announced his arival by a single knock. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 137 
 
 The door was opened in a singular fashion. 
 Mathison kept totally behind it. An 
 Oriental trick ; it gave one the opportunity 
 to strike first, if it were necessary to strike ; 
 moreover, it prevented any one in the 
 hall or corridor observing the occupant of 
 the room. The moment the waiter stepped 
 inside the door was closed and double- 
 locked again. 
 
 " I shall require no service, waiter. Here's 
 a bill ; keep the change for your tip." 
 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 The lock and the latch were released 
 simultaneously. So adroitly was this 
 accomplished that the waiter never suspected 
 that he had been locked in or that he was 
 immediately going to be locked out. 
 
 Mathison crossed over to the table, peeled 
 a banana, lopped off a bit, and jabbed the 
 fork into it. This he took to the parakeet. 
 Malachi sidled along the pole solemnly and 
 reached down a coral-red claw. 
 
 On going back to the table Mathison felt 
 top-hole in spirit. The telegram was off. 
 If anything happened they would know 
 where to find him. After he had finished his 
 
138 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 dinner he would find a hiding-place for that 
 manila envelope. 
 
 Suddenly he became seized by an ironic 
 whimsy, an impulse which in normal times 
 he would have analyzed as idiotic. Never- 
 theless, he proceeded to materialize it. He 
 searched in his coat-pocket for the picture 
 of the actress, sliced off the non-essentials, 
 and propped it against the water carafe. 
 With his hand on his heart he bowed. 
 
 " Paper lady, I am at once gratified and 
 deeply chagrined to offer you a repast so 
 poor. I had planned a club steak ; I've 
 been planning it for six long years, and 
 patriotism compels me to eat chicken — 
 which I abominate ! You are disappointed ? 
 I'm sorry. You won't look at me ? Very 
 well. That's not your fault ; it's the fault of 
 the fool photographer, the way he posed 
 you. Crazy ? Well, perhaps. But, I wish 
 I did know somebody like you. I'm the 
 lonesomest duffer in all this God-forsaken 
 world ! " 
 
 So, while he munched his chicken, and 
 Malachi his banana, the clerk at the desk 
 was having his worries. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 139 
 
 " A queer bunch got off that stalled train," 
 he said to the manager. 
 
 " What's the trouble ? " 
 
 " First a tanned chap with -two bags and 
 a parrot signs his name and beats it for the 
 elevator as if he were afraid the room would 
 vanish before he got to it. Another man 
 comes up and looks the book over. He 
 laughs. Then he walks off. Right away 
 comes a veiled woman who does the same 
 thing. Only she signs. A coat that would 
 pay next year's taxes, but no hat. She 
 wants room two hundred and twenty. I 
 ask where her luggage is, and she says she 
 left it on the train. But she hands me a 
 twenty. I let her have the key. Then up 
 comes Sanford, of The Courier. When he 
 pipes those two names he yells." 
 
 " What's the matter with them ? " asked 
 the manager. He was not particularly 
 interested. 
 
 " Why, look at this. Richard Whittington, 
 London. Sanford says there was only one 
 man ever had that name, and he was Lord 
 Mayor of London five hundred years ago." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! " 
 
140 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Wait a minute. Here's the name the 
 woman wrote. Manon Roland. Sanford 
 says her head was cut off in the French 
 Revolution in 1793. One alone, all right ; 
 but two ! " 
 
 " So long as they pay the bill and behave 
 themselves there's nothing for us to do. 
 Perhaps they are celebrities and don't want 
 to be bothered by reporters." 
 
 " A new brand, then. I never saw this 
 kind before. Anyhow, I thought I'd put 
 you wise." 
 
 From afar Mathison heard the shrill, 
 prolonged blast of a railway whistle. Then 
 a rush of cold air struck him. The paper 
 lady rose suddenly and began a series of 
 violent spiral whirls towards the door. 
 Mathison sprang to his feet, turning his 
 automatic ready. He remembered now that 
 he had forgotten to examine the window lock. 
 
 Through this window came a woman. She 
 stumbled and fell to her knees, but she got 
 up instantly. She wore no hat. Her hair, 
 like Roman gold, sparkled with melting snow- 
 flakes. Under this hair was a face which had 
 the exquisite pallor of Carrara marble. Her 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 141 
 
 eyes were as purple as Manila Bay after the 
 sunset gun. From her shoulders hung a 
 sable coat worth a king's ransom. 
 
 Mathison's heart gave a great bound ; then 
 his brain cleared and his thoughts became 
 cold and precise. He knew who she was. 
 Beautiful beyond anything his fertile imagina- 
 tion had conceived of her : warm and fragrant 
 as a Persian rose. Small wonder that poor 
 old Bob Hallowell had gone to smash over 
 her. But what did The Yellow Typhoon 
 want of John Mathison ? 
 
 " You are John Mathison ? " she asked, 
 her voice scarcely audible. " Richard 
 Whittington ? " 
 
 " Yes." His eyes still marvelling over 
 the beauty of her. It was unbelievable. A 
 wave of poignant regret went over him. The 
 tender loveliness of a Bourguereau housing 
 the soul of a Salome ! 
 
 "Then take heed. You are in grave 
 danger. You carry something certain men 
 want desperately. Don't go into the hall ; 
 don't leave your room under any circumstance 
 to-night. The hall is watched. I dared not 
 come to your door. They must never know 
 
142 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 that I have aided you. I had to climb the 
 fire-escape. I dared not trust the telephone. 
 Hide whatever you have and hide it well." 
 
 It is possible that Mathison presented a 
 unique picture to the woman. The blue 
 robe fluttered, bulged, and collapsed in the 
 wind. It fell to his feet, shimmering. But 
 for the colour of it — had it been yellow — 
 Mathison might have posed as a priest of 
 Buddha. His handsome, bronzed face, the 
 cold impassivity of his eyes and mouth, 
 might have passed inspection on the platform 
 of the Shwe Dagon pagoda in Rangoon — if 
 one overlooked the healthy thatch of hair on 
 his head. 
 
 She broke the tableau by taking from the 
 pocket of her grey coat a grey veil which 
 she wound about her head, turban-wise, 
 dropping the edge just above her lips. 
 
 " One word more. I am a creature of 
 impulse. I may regret this whim shortly. 
 I may even return. I don't know. But if 
 I do, watch out ! . . . Beware of me ! " 
 
 She backed to the window, stepped through 
 to the fire-escape and vanished into the 
 night. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter IX 
 
 I7OR a space Mathison did not stir. There 
 was something hypnotic in this singular 
 visitation, but it was physical rather than 
 mental. He stared at the blank square of 
 the window as Medusa's victims must have 
 stared at her — stonily. Morgan had described 
 the woman minutely, and out of these 
 substances and delineations Mathison had 
 created a blonde Judith, something at once 
 beautiful and terrifying. And yet he 
 recognized the woman almost immediately. 
 
 The mind often acts inconsequently in 
 crises. At the back of his brain something 
 was clamouring for recognition. He was 
 conscious of the call, but there seemed to be 
 a blank wall in between. It was conceivable 
 that the sheer loveliness of the woman dazed 
 him. On his guard, yes, alert and watchful, 
 143 
 
144 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 but otherwise nonplussed. His confusion was 
 doubtless due to the fact that he could not 
 put the two salients together. It was utterly 
 illogical that any woman so tenderly beautiful 
 should be called The Yellow Typhoon. 
 
 He recalled Morgan's description. " A 
 passionless, merciless leopardess. She would 
 have curled Saint Anthony's beard and taken 
 Michael's flaming sword away from him. A 
 destroyer. Don't get the impression that she 
 is what we call on the loose. That's the most 
 singular part of it. Her reputation isn't 
 along that line. Breaks men for the pure 
 devilry of it ; honourable men, men too 
 proud to fight back. Understand ? Always 
 the poor devil who has something or every- 
 thing to lose. A bigamist, because that 
 seemed to be the most exciting game she 
 could apply her arts to. And always just 
 beyond the reach of the law. I don't 
 suppose there's a court in the world that 
 could convict her of bigamy. So, keep your 
 eyes open and your guard up. Remember, 
 I wanted to ransack the ship." 
 
 And what kind of a game was she about 
 to spring ? She had warned him. But she 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 145 
 
 had added that she might return ; and in 
 that event, let him beware. He thought 
 keenly for a moment, and presently he saw 
 a way out of the labjn-inth. Very clever ! 
 His enemies were in the adjoining rooms, 
 watching him from some peephole or other. 
 A trick to make him take the manila envelope 
 out of his kit-bag and hide it anew — where 
 they could find it when they wanted it. He 
 had made his first mistake. He should have 
 deposited the envelope in the safe before 
 coming up. The hesitance over inscribing 
 his name — any name — on the register had 
 befogged him temporarily. His whole care- 
 fully built campaign depended upon getting 
 that manila envelope to New York. 
 
 What followed was a revelation in clear 
 thinking, acted upon swiftly. 
 
 He pulled down the window, locked it, and 
 drew the shade. He got into his clothes 
 again, dropped the automatic into the right 
 pocket of his coat, all the while taking 
 inventory of his surroundings in panoramic 
 glances. Not a step wasted, not a thought 
 that needed readjusting. Under the telephone 
 was a waste-basket. In this there was a 
 
146 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 discarded newspaper. He crossed the room 
 and turned off the lights. What he did now 
 was done in the dark. From one of the 
 kit-bags he procured the manila envelope 
 and the little red book, which he strapped 
 together with a rubber band. He tiptoed 
 over to the waste-basket and slipped his 
 precious packet into the folds of the news- 
 paper, which he returned to the basket. He 
 turned on the lights and took down the 
 telephone. 
 
 "Hello!" he called, softly. "This is 
 room three hundred and twenty. Will you 
 kindly ascertain for me if rooms three eighteen 
 and three twenty-two are occupied by 
 passengers from the stalled flier from 
 Chicago ? . . . Yes, I'll hold the wire." Two 
 minutes passed. " They are not ? Thank you. 
 No; nothing of importance. Didn't know 
 but they might be friends from the train." 
 So there was nothing to fear from the adjoin- 
 ing rooms. That was a weight off his mind. 
 
 But it was also a new angle to the puzzle. 
 Had the woman really tried to do him a 
 service ? Was it inspired by some vague 
 regret for Hallo well ? Out of one labyrinth, 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 147 
 
 but into another. He ran to the windows 
 and threw up the shades. The fire-escape 
 was empty. He went back to the telephone. 
 It was barely possible that she had come up 
 from the room below. That would be 220. 
 
 " Is the lady still in room two twenty ? . . . 
 Oh, never mind the name. Is she still 
 there ? . . . She isn't ? Gave up the key a 
 moment ago ? . . . No, there isn't any trouble. 
 She came from the stalled train . . . She said 
 she would not return ? Thanks." 
 
 A blind alley. He couldn't solve the riddle 
 at all. And because he couldn't solve it he 
 sensed danger, a danger which ran around 
 him in a circle. 
 
 He glanced up at the bird on the curtain- 
 pole. Malachi had finished his dinner and 
 was polishing his beak. 
 
 " Malachi, they've got me guessing ! " 
 
 " Chup ! " said the little green bird, 
 spreading out his clipped wing. It was warm 
 and cosy up there near the ceiling. He 
 loved window-curtain poles. " Mat, you 
 lubber, Where's my tobacco ? " 
 
 That phrase ! It seemed to Mathison that 
 a hand had reached out and caught him by 
 
148 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 the throat. Bob ! The dear, absent-minded 
 Hallowell ! How often had he teased him by 
 putting his tobacco-canister on the other end 
 of the table ! Bob, blind if you stirred 
 anything on his end of the table from its 
 accustomed place, would start hunting about 
 the room, swearing good-naturedly. 
 
 Mathison began to pace the room. The 
 infernal beauty of her ! Negative for good 
 and positive for evil ; somehow it hurt him. 
 He felt outraged that God should give all 
 these- lovely attributes to a daughter of 
 Beelzebub. 
 
 Down-stairs, the clerk went into the 
 manager's office. 
 
 " I tell you something queer is going on in 
 this hotel." 
 
 " What now ? " 
 
 " The Lord Mayor of London makes 
 waiters signal on his door before he'll let 
 them in. Then he begins asking questions 
 about the people on either side of him. To 
 cap the climax, he asked about the woman 
 who had her head cut off in 1793." 
 
 " What ? Oh yes, I see ; those names on 
 the register. Well ? " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 149 
 
 " Something fishy. The woman just 
 surrendered her key and waltzed out." 
 
 " Gone ? " 
 
 " With last year's cabbages." 
 
 " Maybe it's an elopement," suggested the 
 manager, hopefully.^ Elopements were first- 
 rate advertisements. 
 
 " Nix on the elopements. The real article 
 gets married before they come to a hotel like 
 the Watkins. She went up to the room I 
 gave her and came down again. No 
 complaints. Just surrendered the key and 
 faded." 
 
 " Didn't ask any questions about the man ?" 
 
 " Nope. There's where the mystery comes 
 in. Mind, we'll have a robbery or a murder 
 on our hands before morning." 
 
 " Piffle ! If the woman is gone for good 
 we can't risk meddling with this Lord Mayor 
 chap. I'm not courting suits for damages 
 these days ; not me. You've been going to 
 the movies too much. Anyhow, she paid 
 five for the room. It's none of our business 
 if she doesn't sleep in it." 
 
 " All right. Only, don't jump on me if 
 anything happens." 
 
150 The Yellow Typhpon 
 
 " Tell your troubles to the house detective. 
 That's what he's here for." 
 
 The clerk acted on this advice at once. 
 " Michaels," he said, " you take this key and 
 look around room two twenty. See if the 
 woman took or left anything. There's a 
 queer game going on here to-night." 
 
 The house detective returned shortly. He 
 doubted if any one had been in room 220 
 at all. 
 
 " Better stick around, anyhow." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 At the police-station the night captain 
 rocked in his swivel-chair and chewed his 
 cigar. There had recurred to his mind an 
 old phrase, which applied to the crook as well 
 as to the honest man, " He travels fastest 
 who travels alone." Well, so long as it was 
 fish to his net, he had no right to complain. 
 On his desk lay a stack of those sinister 
 handbills which the police send hither and 
 thither across the continent under the caption 
 " Wanted." From time to time he referred 
 to a letter which he had just received by 
 messenger. A fall-down on the divvy, and 
 the pal blows the game. But a thousand 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 151 
 
 dollars, a real bank-roll, was worth trying 
 for these hard times. All he had to do was 
 to call up the Watkins. If there was any- 
 thing to the information, the hotel clerk 
 would be able to tell. He drew the telephone 
 toward him. 
 
 "This the Watkins? . . . Police-station 
 talking. Man by the name of Richard 
 Whittington registered ? ... He is ? Good ! 
 Listen to me. Describe him." The captain 
 smoothed out a handbill and kept his eye on 
 it obliquely. " All right. Tall, very dark, 
 good-looking, blue eyes, smooth, no beard. 
 Yes, that sounds like him . . . ' Black ' 
 Ellison, wanted in San Francisco for diamond 
 robbery and assault. . . . There was a woman ? 
 Gone ? That's tough. She may have taken 
 the swag. Well, it can't be helped. Get the 
 man down-stairs to the private office. I'll 
 send Murphy over in fifteen minutes. Better 
 call in a patrolman. This man Ellison is a 
 strong-arm, for all his good looks." 
 
 Up in room 320 Mathison found it 
 impossible to keep that lovely face out of his 
 thoughts. Something was wrong with the 
 world. If ever he had looked into a 
 
152 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 countenance upon which was written 
 honesty ..." The voice ! " he cried, stopping 
 suddenly. " The voice ! That's the thing 
 that's been hammering in the back of my 
 head. I've heard that voice before. Where ? 
 How ? " He rumpled his hair. " Where 
 have I heard her voice ? " 
 
 He had heard her laugh that night when 
 she had come on deck in the Chinese costume. 
 But the speaking voice ! Where had he 
 heard that ? 
 
 Malachi, sensing his master's agitation 
 sidled back and forth along the curtain-pole, 
 grumbling as his feet came into contact with 
 the cold brass rings. 
 
 By and by Mathison saw the paper lady 
 on the floor ; saw it with eyes busy with 
 introspection. He stooped ; the act was 
 purely mechanical. He went on with his 
 pacing. He folded and refolded the slip of 
 paper many times and at length stowed it 
 away in a pocket, without having glanced at 
 it once, without recalling his desire to meet 
 her, if she happened to be in New York when 
 he arrived there. 
 
 He heard a sound. It came from the 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 153 
 
 window. He wheeled quickly, his hand going 
 into his pocket as he turned. He had almost 
 forgotten ! 
 
 Tap-tap-tap ! 
 
 Dimly he saw a woman's face against the 
 pane. She had come back ! The monumental 
 nerve of her ! On the way to the window he 
 formed his plan of action. He would give 
 her all the rope she wanted ; he would act as 
 if he had never seen her before, play her as a 
 fisherman plays a trout. She had warned him, 
 and he would not ignore her warning. He ran 
 to the window, unlocked it, and threw it up. 
 
 The woman stumbled into the room, the 
 expression on her face one of great terror. 
 Hair like spun molasses, sparkling with 
 melting snowfiakes, skin like Carrara marble, 
 with an odd little mole at the corner of her 
 mouth, and eyes as purple as Manila Bay at 
 sunset. From her shoulders hung a sable 
 coat worth a king's ransom. Mathison 
 raised her to her feet. " What is it ? What's 
 the trouble ? " he asked, pulling forward a 
 chair. Terrified. Had they discovered what 
 she had done and had she flown to him for 
 protection ? " Beware of me ! " she had said. 
 
154 ' The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 She sank into the chair and covered her 
 face with her ungloved hands, rocking her 
 body and moaning slightly. 
 
 " What's the trouble ? " It took some 
 effort to keep the ironical out of his voice. 
 What a queer little mole ! he thought. He 
 hadn't noticed it before. 
 
 She let her hands fall. " I'm in the most 
 horribly embarrassing situation," she panted. 
 She clasped her hands on her knees and the 
 fingers began to snarl and twist, as they will 
 when a body is under great mental stress. ' ' You 
 won't mind if I stay here a few minutes? " 
 
 " Not in the least, provided you give me 
 an idea what's happened to drive you into 
 this room." Mathison put both hands into 
 the side-pockets of his coat. 
 
 " Couldn't it be possible to stay without 
 explaining ? " she pleaded. 
 
 Not a sign that she had been in this room 
 less than half an hour gone. What was her 
 game ? Mathison, from the ironical spirit, 
 passed into one of bewilderment. Her voice 
 wasn't quite the same, either ; it was higher, 
 thinner. He was giving her rope, but so far 
 she wasn't making any especial effort to 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 155 
 
 gather it in. Very well ; he would continue 
 to play up to her lead and see where it led. 
 But stretch his imagination to its fullest, he 
 could not figure out what her game was. 
 
 He answered her query. " Supposing you 
 were found here ? I don't object, mind you ; 
 only, I'd like to know how to act should 
 occasion arise." 
 
 " I ... I don't know how to begin ! It will 
 sound so silly and futile ! " she faltered. Her 
 gaze roved rather wildly about. " My 
 husband ... he has the most violent temper 
 and is most insanely jealous. Somehow he 
 learned I was here — in the restaurant. I saw 
 him as he entered the main entrance. I 
 tried to slip out at the side . . . but I was not 
 quick enough. By this time he will have had 
 the whole hotel by the ears. Oh, it is 
 degrading — shameful ! " The woman turned 
 her head against her shoulder and closed her 
 eyes. Mathison noted the plain gold band 
 among the gems on her fingers. " I haven't 
 done anything wrong. I like amusement ; 
 I like clothes. ... I can't stand it much 
 longer ! ... He keeps me shut up all the time. 
 What's the good of clothes if you can't wear 
 
156 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 them ? I can't go anywhere, I can't do 
 anything ! I wish I were dead ! " 
 
 Maddening ! He wanted to take hold of 
 her and shake her. But he said, soothingly 
 " You don't wish that. You ought not to 
 have" run away." 
 
 " I know, but I couldn't stand a scene 
 among all those people. I see now I've only 
 made it worse by running ! . . . I got into the 
 parlour somehow. Then I saw the fire-escape. 
 I stepped out and closed the window, but I 
 found I didn't dare drop twelve feet or more 
 to the sidewalk." 
 
 Mathison nodded. There was nothing else 
 to do. 
 
 " And I made the fire-escape just in time. 
 He came storming into the parlour followed 
 by a clerk and a bellboy. The shame of it ! 
 None of them thought to look out. I'd have 
 been frozen but for this coat. Then it came 
 to me — I was so desperate ! — that I might 
 find a window open if I climbed up . . .And 
 I saw you. I sha'n't bother you more than 
 ten minutes . . . Just enough time to get my 
 nerves steadied. If he doesn't find me soon 
 he'll go home. I can stand a scene there." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 157 
 
 " Where's the other man ? A fine chap, to 
 leave you in the lurch like this ! " cried 
 Mathison, indigantly. 
 
 Her eyes opened ; they expressed dismay. 
 " Oh, but I wasn't with any one ! " 
 
 " Alone ? Good Lord ! why did you run 
 away ? " 
 
 " He would have made a scene just the 
 same. He would always swear that there 
 was another man somewhere. I suppose 
 he'll kill me some day. I ought not to have 
 run ; but I simply could not stand a scene 
 in the restaurant ! " She hunted about for 
 a handkerchief, found one, and rubbed her 
 cold little nose with it. " It sounds so silly, 
 doesn't it ? I don't know what to do ! " 
 
 " Stay as long as you like. Shall I send 
 for a cup of coffee ? You must be frozen." 
 
 " No, no ! You mustn't take the least 
 trouble. I'm sorry. I just opened the 
 window and stepped inside. I really had 
 only one idea — to escape." 
 
 " Suppose you describe your husband. 
 I'll call up the office and see if he has gone." 
 
 " Good Heavens, no ! " her terror return- 
 ing. " I am really lost if it shoflld become 
 
158 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 known that I had taken a risk such as this. 
 Besides, it might get you into trouble. 
 Please no ! Just a few minutes — ten — ^fifteen. 
 He'll go when he can't find me. I'll return 
 to the parlour by the way I came." 
 
 Why didn't she take out a revolver, cover 
 him in the conventional style, and open the 
 door for her friends in the hall ? Or had she 
 noticed that his right hand was still in the 
 pocket of his coat ? As a test he withdrew 
 the hand. She did not appear to observe 
 the movement. The word " baffled " had 
 always appealed to him as blood-and-thunder 
 stuff ; but now he began to understand that 
 it was a serious and substantial condition of 
 the mind. 
 
 " You're welcome, any way you desire it. 
 I'll tell you what. I'll write a letter I had 
 in mind. It will serve to relieve you of your 
 embarrassment. It certainly will relieve 
 mine." 
 
 He opened one of the kit-bags and dug out 
 his letter-portfolio. He cleared a space on 
 the table and sat down, facing the young 
 woman, though apparently giving her no 
 more attention. He started the letter. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 159 
 
 paused, tore up what he had written, and 
 tossed the bits to the floor. The next 
 attempt seemed to be successful, for he wrote 
 several pages, finally sealing it in an envelope. 
 Had the woman been able to read the 
 contents of this letter she would have been 
 profoundly astonished. It was a minute 
 description of her, from the tortoise-shell 
 comb in her hair to the white sandals on her 
 feet. 
 
 He re-read the document ; and as he 
 came to the end of it he missed something, an 
 essential which impressed him previously. 
 Covertly he ran his glance over her again. 
 Something was gone, but he could not tell 
 what it was. 
 
 For all that she did not appear to be doing 
 so, he knew that not a single move he made 
 escaped her. Often he gazed at the kit-bags, 
 but never did he let his glance stray anywhere 
 near the waste-basket. 
 
 He wondered. Supposing the two visita- 
 tions, the second ignoring the first as though 
 it had never happened — supposing they had 
 been launched for the express purpose of 
 baffling and bewildering him/ eventually 
 
i6o The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 causing him to lower his guard ? Here at 
 last was a solution that had a grain of sense. 
 
 Mathison rose and filled his pipe. 
 
 " You won't mind if I smoke and jog 
 about a bit ? I'm restless. I've had a long 
 attack of insomnia." 
 
 " Please- pay no attention to me." 
 
 After a glance at his watch he fell to pacing 
 once more. But he paced in a peculiar manner 
 — up and down the corridor wall. That is 
 to say, he had the window and The Yellow 
 Typhoon always under covert observation. 
 
 As for the woman, she now relaxed. Her 
 lovely hands lay limply on her knees and 
 her eyes were closed — or seemed to be. But 
 each time the elevator door slammed she 
 started nervously. Good acting, Mathison 
 admitted. The jealous husband ! He fought 
 the desire to walk over to her, to smother 
 her with the storm of words burning his 
 tongue. There must be an overt act on 
 her part first. The infernal beauty of her ! 
 
 " Mat, you lubber ! " 
 
 Even Mathison received a shock. He had 
 forgotten Malachi. The woman sprang to 
 her feet and whirled about, expecting to see 
 
The Yellow Typhoon i6i 
 
 some one behind her chair. She saw nothing. 
 Bewildered, her gaze came back to Mathison, 
 who pointed to the curtain-pole. 
 
 " A little parrot ! " She sank back into 
 the chair weakly, " I thought some one was 
 behind me ! " 
 
 " I had forgotten him." 
 
 " Chup ! Chota Malachi ! " 
 
 " What does he say ? " 
 
 " That's Hindustani. He's telling me to 
 be still and that he is a little bird." 
 
 " A Hindu parrot ! " The woman gazed 
 at the bird, frankly interested. " What 
 a funny little bird ! You have travelled 
 far ? " 
 
 " Half-way around the world. My train 
 was stalled to-night ; so Malachi and I 
 concluded to spend the night in peace and 
 quiet. I rather wanted to hear him talk. 
 Boats and trains bother him, and he hasn't 
 spoken for days." 
 
 " A parrot ! " 
 
 " A parakeet," he corrected. 
 
 " I never knew that men carried them 
 about. I thought it was always fussy old 
 maids." 
 
i62 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " I'm a deep-sea sailor ; and we sailors are 
 always lugging around pets for mascots. I 
 have lived in the Orient for six years." He 
 spoke with engaging frankness. Why not ? 
 Was there anything concerning John Mathison 
 that she did not know ? 
 
 " What do you call him ? " 
 
 " Malachi." 
 
 " What does that mean ? ' 
 
 " You have me there. It was the name of 
 an elephant in one of Kipling's yarns." 
 
 " I see. . . . What's that ? " she broke off. 
 
 Mathison stood perfectly still, chin up, 
 eyes alert. The elevator door had slammed 
 with unusual violence. This sound was 
 followed by another — ^hurrying feet. Then 
 came a blow of a fist on the panel of the door. 
 
 " What's wanted ? " demanded Mathison, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Open the door ! " 
 
 " Who is it and what is wanted ? " 
 
 " Open, or we'll break in ! " 
 
 The woman flew to the window. While 
 she was lifting it Mathison spoke to her. 
 
 " You are leaving ? " broadly ironical. 
 
 " My husband ! ... He will kill me ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 163 
 
 " Which husband ? Hallowell, Graham, 
 Morris ? ." 
 
 She sent him a glance that radiated venom. 
 It was almost as if she had suddenly poisoned 
 the air. 
 
 " The Yellow Typhoon ! And you suppose 
 I would not recognize you, never having seen 
 you.? I don't know what your game was in 
 warning me. No matter. Morgan was right. 
 He said you were a beautiful mirage at the 
 mouth of hell." 
 
 " Open the door ! " came from the hall. 
 
 The woman stepped through the window, 
 sent it rattling to the sill ; and that was the 
 last Mathison saw of her for many hours. 
 He walked to the door. 
 
 " I will open the door only upon one 
 condition — that you inform me who it is and 
 what is wanted of me," he declared, still in 
 level tones. 
 
 " It's the house detective, and you're 
 wanted, me Lord Mayor of London ! " 
 
 Mathison thought rapidly. He attacked the 
 affair from all angles. The house detective ! 
 
 Against the door came the thud of a human 
 body. 
 
164 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Never mind breaking in the door," 
 Mathison called. " I'll open it." 
 
 He did so ; and four men came rushing 
 in — ^the house detective, the manager, the 
 inquisitive clerk, and a policeman. 
 
 " The Lord Mayor of London, huh ? " 
 bellowed the house detective. He carried 
 a revolver." Put up your hands ! " Mathison 
 obeyed promptly. Michaels ran his hand 
 over Mathison 's pockets and gave a cry of 
 delight as he brought forth the heavy Colt 
 automatic. " A gat ! I thought I'd find 
 one." 
 
 " Now then," said Mathison, still able to 
 hold his rage in check, "be so good as to 
 explain what the devil all this means ? " 
 
 " We'll explain that in the office." 
 
 " We'll explain it here and now, or you'll 
 have to carry me. And in that event I can 
 promise you some excitement." 
 
 " All right, me lud. Word comes from the 
 police headquarters to hold you and hold you 
 good. You're ' Black ' Ellison, and there's 
 a thousand iron boys waiting to be paid over 
 on your delivery. We'll carry you, if you 
 say so." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 165 
 
 So that was it ! Mathison saw the whole 
 thing in a flash. Clever, clever beyond 
 anything he had imagined. To get him out 
 of the room in a perfectly logical way, and 
 then search it. He saw clearly that his own 
 mysterious actions would be held against 
 him. Caught ! He couldn't help admiring 
 the method. The woman to keep him 
 interested and puzzled until they were ready 
 to fire the train. 
 
 " Is there any reason why we can't remain 
 here ? You've got to prove that I'm the 
 man you want." 
 
 " Orders are to take you down to the 
 private office," said the policeman. 
 
 " No objection to my taking my things 
 along ? " 
 
 " Your things, bo, will stay right where 
 they aire until Murphy looks them over." 
 
 " How am I to know that no one will enter 
 this room while I'm downstairs ? " 
 
 " I can promise you that," said the 
 manager. 
 
 " Don't open the window. There's a little 
 bird up there on the curtain-pole ; and he 
 might fly out or try to." 
 
i66 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 The visitors stared at' Malachi interestedly. 
 
 " He sha'n't be touched," declared the 
 manager, a fit of trembling seizing him. If 
 this turned out wrong and the victim came 
 back with a suit of damages ! " It's no fault 
 of the hotel, sir. The order comes from the 
 police." 
 
 A few words, the exhibition of a paper or 
 two, and Mathison knew that the tide would 
 have turned immediately in his favour. But 
 this step he stubbornly refused to take. The 
 spirit of the gambler vAxo scorns to hedge. 
 Upon leaving the security of the train he had 
 laid his offerings at the feet of Chance. He 
 would follow through. At any rate, he 
 determined not to disclose his identity until 
 he had to. 
 
 " Very well ; I'll go with you. But I'll 
 put the bird back in his cage if you don't 
 mind." 
 
 After a bit of coaxing Malachi came down 
 from his perch and Mathison bundled him 
 into the cage, which he set beside the radiator. 
 He then stepped into the corridor. But he 
 waited to see if the manager locked the door. 
 The manager did more than that. He gave 
 
The Yellow Typhoon id"] 
 
 the key to Mathison, who marched over to 
 the elevator and pressed the button. 
 
 " A cool one," whispered the excited clerk. 
 " Didn't I tell jou there was something off- 
 colour ? " 
 
 The manager made a gesture. He wasn't 
 at all happy. People would have smiled 
 over an elopement ; but the arrest of a 
 dangerous criminal always reacted against 
 the hotel. " You need not worry about 
 your belongings, sir," he said to Mathison. 
 
 " I'm not worrying. I'm going to leave 
 that for you to do." 
 
 " Bluff won't get you anywhere," growled 
 the house detective. 
 
 " It seems to have landed you a soft job," 
 countered Mathison, smiling as he entered 
 the elevator. 
 
 The clerk grinned. He and the house 
 detective were not exactly friendly. 
 
 Once in the manager's private office, 
 Mathison coolly appropriated the managerial 
 chair. He kept his eye on the desk clock 
 and appeared oblivious to the low murmurings 
 behind his back. Five minutes — ^ten — 
 fifteen ; he could feel the sweat rising at the 
 
i68 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 roots of his hair. Trapped ! They had come 
 at him from an original angle, and the only 
 counter for it was the disclosure of his hand. 
 No doubt the woman was already at work. 
 If they took him to the police-station for the 
 night ; if the maid cleaned out the room 
 thoroughly in the morning ! 
 
 " Got him, I see ! " cried a cheery voice 
 from the doorway. 
 
 Mathison turned. He saw a small, brisk 
 Irishman, with a humorous mouth and a pair 
 of keenly intelligent eyes. He gave a sigh 
 of relief. Here was some one who looked as 
 if he had the gift of reason. Pray God that 
 he had ! 
 
 " Stand up ! " 
 
 Mathison obeyed. 
 
 " Humph ! Got anything to say ? " 
 
 " No ; except if you'll come to the room 
 with me I'll give you the stuff. I know 
 when I'm beaten." 
 
 " Who's this woman, Manon Roland ? " 
 
 " Roland ? Don't know anybody by that 
 name." 
 
 " The woman you were asking questions 
 about over the 'phone." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 169 
 
 " So her name was Roland ! " 
 
 " All right ; we'll come back to her again. 
 You used to travel alone. Why did you 
 hook up ? Pals always blow." 
 
 " No man is perfect. Come to my room 
 and I'll turn the stuff over to you." Mathison 
 wondered what it was he had stolen. " You'll 
 never find it without my help. You and I 
 alone. Is it a bargain ? " 
 
 "I'll look you over first." 
 
 " Here's his gat, Murphy," said the house 
 detective. 
 
 Murphy thrust the automatic in his pocket 
 without comment. He ran his keen glance 
 over the prisoner. " Hold out your hands, 
 fingers spread ; I want to look at them. 
 That's the way. Now turn your face towards 
 the light. Uh-huh. You admit you are 
 ' Black ' Ellison ? " 
 
 " Yes. " Anything to get back into the room ! 
 
 " All right. I'll go up with you for the 
 swag. But walk carefully. I'm excitable 
 by nature." 
 
 " Better take me along," urged the house 
 detective. He was anxious to be in the 
 newspapers on the morrow. 
 
170 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " You folks stay right where you are, 
 I'm running this. Step along, Mr. Ellison." 
 
 Murphy pushed Mathison toward the door. 
 The two crossed the lobby to the elevator 
 and were shot up to the third floor. 
 
 "I'll be right at your elbow, so play it 
 straight. There's something about your 
 hurry that interests me, bo." 
 
 Mathison rushed to the door, unlocked it 
 and pushed it in violently. He sent a 
 lightning glance about the room and leaned 
 dizzily against the door-jamb. 
 
 " For the love 0' Mike," they never told 
 me you'd put up a scrap like this ! " 
 
 " I didn't put up any scrap," said Mathison, 
 dully. 
 
 " What's hit this room, then — an earth- 
 quake ? " 
 
 " A typhoon." 
 
 Malachi was all right, but the waste-basket 
 was empty. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter X 
 
 jVyiATHISON accepted the blow quietly. 
 ^'■'' He had the air of a spent athlete, but 
 that was all. He was a good loser. To have 
 rushed about, sending out alarms, advising 
 the Secret Service, all would have been a 
 waste of time. The damage was complete, 
 irremediable. Beaten — that was the word ; 
 he knew it. 
 
 Havoc ! The bedding was strewn across 
 the floor, mattress and bolster ; the pillows 
 had been shaken from their cases. All the 
 drawers in the bureau and commode had 
 been pulled out and their paper linings 
 tossed about. The two kit-bags had been 
 slashed completely across and their entire 
 contents scattered. Even the pockets of the 
 coats and trousers had been turned inside 
 out. Nothing had escaped. 
 
 17X 
 
172 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Beaten ! Until to-night he had had a 
 perfect defence. He tried to reach back to 
 analyze the cause which had emboldened 
 him to leave the security of the car, but it 
 wasn't reachable. The want of sleep ? The 
 craving for exercise ? Mere bewilderment ? 
 He couldn't solve it ; just one of those moves 
 which continue to render human beings 
 fallible. Why hadn't he left the envelope in 
 the safe ? What idiocy had inveigled him 
 to carry it to his room ? A lone hand. He 
 had tried the superhuman. One trained 
 mind against three or four trained minds, 
 and the odds had been too great. He had 
 left the realm of absolute mathematics for the 
 impositive, chance, with this tragic result. 
 
 With infinite care he had contrived a web ; 
 so had they. They had broken through his, 
 and now he found himself in theirs. Flight. 
 They would be gone like the winds. They 
 had done something more than beaten him 
 at the game ; they had shattered his self- 
 confidence. Doubt ; all his future moves 
 would be under the shadow of doubt. 
 Should he do this, or should he do that, or 
 should he ask advice ? The commander of 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 173 
 
 a destroyer should have supreme confidence 
 in himself ; and at present it did not look as 
 if John Mathison would go abroad with that. 
 He might re-establish this quality, but only 
 by passing successfully through some vital 
 conflict. 
 
 Hallowell! Old Bob Hallowell ! It was 
 as if he had broken faith with his friend. 
 
 " Mat ! . . . Malachi ! " 
 
 Thunderstruck, Mathison jumped to his 
 feet, while Murphy, the detective, looked 
 wildly about for the third man. Mathison 
 seized him by the arm. 
 
 "For God's sake, hush! Be still! It's 
 that little green bird." 
 
 " Mat ! . . . Malachi ! " It was the same 
 wailing accent of that dreadful night in 
 Manila. It was Hallowell himself speaking ! 
 
 Malachi, tremendously agitated, was 
 climbing up to his swing and down to his 
 perch. The incredible had happened. 
 Suggestion. Once before the bird had wit- 
 nessed a confusion in the making, something 
 like this. 
 
 " Mat ! . . . Malachi ! " he wailed. 
 
 Then came a jumble of phrases in polyglot, 
 
174 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 sailors' oaths, scraps of Hindustani, and 
 Spanish. But after a few minutes he began 
 to mutter . in parakeetese. That peculiar 
 cell in Malachi's head had closed up again. 
 Mathison urged and coaxed in vain. Malachi 
 rolled his yellow eyes and continued to 
 mutter. The irony of it lay in the fact that 
 his fear had subsided. Wasn't this his 
 master ? 
 
 " Well, I^-be — damn ! " exploded Murphy. 
 " A talking parrot ! Say " — ^wrathfuUy — 
 " why did you give me that bunk about being 
 Ellison ? " 
 
 " Quickest way I could get back to this 
 room. All this was accomplished while they 
 were holding me downstairs." 
 
 " A frame-up ! I knew the moment you 
 held out your hands that you weren't 
 ElUson. The forefinger of his right hand is 
 missing. Look at those grips ! Bo, what 
 did you have ? " 
 
 " They got it." 
 
 " All right. Come on. I'll send out a 
 general alarm. We'll run a comb over the 
 town. Off your train, too, I'll gamble. Get 
 a move on ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 175 
 
 " Thanks, Mr. Murphy ; but it wouldn't do 
 a bit of good. The damage is done. And 
 ten to one they've already boarded a 
 freight." 
 
 " Going to let 'em put it over without a 
 kick ? " 
 
 The thing they took was valuable only so 
 long as it remained in my possession. The 
 Chinese have a saying — ^you can't pour water 
 into a shattered jar." 
 
 " Are you trying to get my goat ? " 
 
 " No. I'm stating bald facts." 
 
 " You're a queer kind of a guy. What 
 was it, a diamond toothpick ? " Murphy 
 began to wander around the room. " A 
 frame-up, and a bully one. The only way 
 they could get you out of this room for a 
 while until your identity was established. 
 Why didn't you set up a holler ? " 
 
 Mathison shook his head and sat down. 
 " Am I your prisoner ? " 
 
 " Prisoner my eye ! Only, I'm naturally 
 a curious cuss. Crook stuff ? " 
 
 " Not in the sense you mean." 
 
 " Would it do any good to arrest them ? " 
 
 " You couldn't arrest them." 
 
176 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " The hell I couldn't ! What, are they, 
 pro-Germans from that dear Chicago ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, I'll nose about." 
 
 " It won't do you any good." 
 
 " You don't know this Roland woman ? " 
 
 " Never saw her before in my life." 
 
 " Then you saw her ? " quickly. 
 
 " Go ahead and see what you can find," 
 said Mathison, curtly. 
 
 The infernal beauty of her ! It would 
 haunt him as long as he lived. The strength 
 of those beautiful hands ! This havoc all 
 inside of an hour ! Mathison lighted his 
 pipe. 
 
 Murphy did not touch anything. He 
 seemed to be thinking rather than observing. 
 By and by he went to the window, opened it, 
 and stepped outside. He was absent perhaps 
 ten minutes. He came back, stamped the 
 snow from his shoes, and put away the 
 pocket-lamp. 
 
 " Find anything ? " 
 
 " You're not much on the gab-fest, are 
 you ? " said Murphy, amiably. " Two 
 women ! One of 'em wore arctics and the 
 
The Yellow Typhoon lyy 
 
 other sandals ; and the one with the sandals 
 wrecked the place ! Bo, was it love-letters — 
 divorce stuff ? Good-lookers ? " 
 
 " There was only one woman," wearily. 
 
 " Two. My job is noticing things. When 
 I say that two women went up and down that 
 fire-escape I know what I'm talking about." 
 
 Mathison shrugged. It wasn't worth 
 while arguing. 
 
 " The woman with the arctics came first, 
 then the woman with the sandals. While 
 the latter was in the room tidying up things 
 the other was hiding behind the fire-escape 
 stairs. Easy on a night like this with the snow 
 high on the steps. All in the tracks as plain as 
 the nose on your face. Arctics came from the 
 room below ; sandals got out of the parlour." 
 
 Mathison listened politely. " Very interest- 
 ing ; all in the tracks." He had determined 
 not to dissent. The man had a right to his 
 theories ; but it happened that John Mathison 
 knew all the facts. 
 
 "Bo, this is queer business," said the 
 detective. " What you've lost don't seem 
 to curl your hair any. Love-letters ! The 
 fool woman is always writing them and then 
 
178 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 bawling to heaven to get them back. . . . For 
 the love o' Mike, what's this ? Is this coat 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You're an officer in the United States 
 navy ? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " Well, well ! Now there's some reason to 
 all these fireworks. War stuff ! " 
 
 " You might call it that." 
 
 " Need any help ? " 
 
 " You might tell them in the office to send 
 up two pairs of shoe-strings and a leather- 
 punch. I'll have to patch up those bags." 
 
 Murphy pushed back his hat. " Well, 
 I'll be tinker-damned ! " Then he laughed. 
 " I'd like to play poker with you. Two 
 pairs of shoe-strings ! That'll kill 'em cold 
 in the office. They'll think I've forgotten 
 my handcuffs. War stuff ! No use asking 
 you what it was the woman took." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, it's your funeral." 
 
 " Exactly. And when you order the 
 shoe-strings you might send out for an oak 
 wreath with a purple ribbon." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 179 
 
 " Glad you struck the town. There wasn't 
 even a movie to-night. Bo, I'll give you all 
 the help I can without asking questions. I 
 know a fighting-man when I see him. A 
 fighting-sailor with a talking parrot ! Well, 
 I'll shoot that order for the shoe-strings. And 
 when the bird began to talk I thought there 
 was some one else in the room ! " 
 
 "There was," said Mathison, in an odd voice. 
 
 " Huh ? Spirits ? You don't look like a 
 man who would waste any time with the 
 ouija-board. Well, here's for the shoe-strings 
 and the punch." 
 
 When the clerk received the order he made 
 the sender repeat it. 
 
 " Shoe-strings ! " he yelled. 
 
 " What now ? " demanded the house 
 detective, surlily. 1 
 
 " Murphy wants two pairs of shoe-strings 
 and a leather-punch ! I tell you, the whole 
 house has gone bug. You run up. Murphy's 
 been hypnotized or he has had a punch 
 of dope. Here, boy ; run down to the 
 Macedonian shoeblack and get two pairs of 
 shoe-strings and a punch. Hustle!" 
 
 " Shoe-strings ! " Michaels the house 
 
i8o The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 detective ran for the elevator. But when he 
 reached room 320 he was told emphatically 
 — ^through the door — ^to take his bonehead 
 downstairs again. "Cahoots!" he mur- 
 mured. And all the rest of his life he was 
 going to hold to the belief that Ellison and 
 Murphy had divided up the loot. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Mathison and Detective 
 Murphy came down into the lobby. Murphy 
 carried the parrot-cage. There was a grin 
 on his face as he left the elevator, but it 
 vanished as he neared the desk. 
 
 " My bill," said Mathison. He had decided 
 to return to the train. 
 
 " What ? " The poor clerk stared at 
 Murphy for the key to this riddle. 
 
 " The bill, the bill ! Give the gentleman 
 his bill, you dub ! " 
 
 In turning, the clerk knocked over the 
 desk-telephone. As he stooped to recover 
 it he bumped his head against the corner 
 of the cashier's cage. When he finally pre- 
 sented the bill he was a total wreck. 
 
 " Was it . . . ? " he faltered. 
 
 " No, it wasn't," snapped Murphy. 
 " We've all been fiimfiammed," 
 
The Yellow Typhoon i8i 
 
 " But those names ! " 
 
 " Can't you recognize Jack Barrymore 
 when you see him ? He's travelling incog." 
 
 " But he said he was the other fellow ! " 
 
 " Well, Jack likes his joke." 
 
 " I wanted to get back to my room," 
 interposed Mathison, taking pity on the clerk's 
 bewilderment. " There's been a misunder- 
 standing all round. Keep the change and 
 buy yourself some cigars with it." 
 
 As Mathison and the detective disappeared 
 through the revolving doors the clerk turned 
 to the cashier. " Keep your eye on things 
 for a while. I'm going out and root up a 
 drink. I might understand something of this 
 if I was full of hootch." 
 
 When Mathison and the detective entered 
 the car George the porter was moving about 
 sleepily. "What's de mattah wid dat hotel ? " 
 he demanded, reproachfully. 
 
 " Too much excelsior, George, and not 
 enough feathers." 
 
 " Well, I had de bed made up, case yo' 
 did come back. . . . Lan' sakes, what's 
 happened t' dem satchels ? " 
 
 " The chef ran amuck with the cleaver," 
 
i82 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 explained Murphy, owlishly. He turned to 
 Mathison. " Here's that cannon of yours. 
 Take care of yourself. Gee ! if you were a 
 crook and I was chasing you, what a lot of 
 fun we'd have ! " 
 
 " Thanks for the compliment. Truthfully, 
 I had expected to spend the night in jail." 
 
 The porter's ears twitched. 
 
 The two men shook hands, and Mathison 
 vanished behind the door of his compartment. 
 George eyed the door speculatively. Jail. 
 He tiptoed to No. 2 and knocked. 
 
 " What is it ? " came through the crack. 
 
 " He's come back ! " George whispered. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XI 
 
 jV^ATHISON undressed slowly. He was 
 ^"■■' still hypnotized to a certain extent by 
 the several amazing events of the night. 
 From the shadowy corners of the compart- 
 ment the woman's face persisted in appearing, 
 now in all its warm loveliness, now in terror, 
 and again like chiselled marble. It would 
 be a long time before he would be able to 
 stamp out completely the impression. It did 
 not seem possible that any woman could be 
 so lovely outside and so ugly within. The 
 venom in her glance, just before she stepped 
 out of the window ! 
 
 The thought of Hallowell hurt more than 
 anything else. Unavenged ! Bob would lie 
 in his island grave unavenged. But before 
 God, he, John Mathison, would take a double 
 tithe from the Hun. No mercy. Never 
 
 183 
 
184 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 would he hear the word, Kamerad. Soon 
 the number on his free-board would spell 
 Terror. 
 
 He uncovered Malachi and knelt beside 
 the cage. " Mat ! . . . Malachi ! " he said. 
 " Mat ! . . . Malachi ! " But the only sign 
 from the bird was a ruffling of the neck and 
 topknot feathers, a quick dilation of his 
 yellow eyes. Two or three minutes earlier 
 in getting into that room, while the bird's 
 fright was at full ! No way to make him 
 understand ; he was only a parakeet, an 
 echo. " Mat ! . . . Malachi ! " It was Bob 
 calling ; the little bird was only an echo. 
 
 Suddenly Mathison stood up, his face eager. 
 A real idea ! And it never would have 
 entered his head but for the startling revela- 
 tion of what suggestion might accomplish. 
 If the woman's tempestuous actions had 
 awakened the bird's recollection, what 
 might a reconstruction of the crime do ? 
 Men apparently in desperate conflict, tables 
 and chairs threshed about, tumult, cries I 
 How would these react upon Malachi's 
 memory ? 
 
 Of course no jury would convict a man of a 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 185 
 
 crime upon evidence furnished by a talking 
 parakeet ; but if, by reconstructing the 
 tragedy, Malachi could be made to repeat the 
 name Hallowell had called out, it would 
 serve to give the authorities a handhold. 
 Trust them to dig up the truth eventually. 
 For Mathison was obsessed with the idea that 
 Hallowell had spoken a name for Malachi to 
 repeat. 
 
 Sleep — ^the lack of sleep. They never would 
 have got to him but for the craving to sleep. 
 He had gone into the town feeling as keen 
 mentally as ever, and his keenness had been 
 only superficial. He had sought the open 
 without any definite campaign. Want of 
 sleep. His flesh and bones had been cr5dng 
 out for sleep, and his brain stifling the call. 
 Patience. They had had a little more than 
 John Mathison. 
 
 To-night, however, he would satisfy the 
 craving. There would be no more sleep- 
 fumes or pistol-shots or turning door-knobs. 
 
 By one o'clock the car Mercutio was as 
 silent as the tomb of Romeo's friend. 
 
 Tap, tap ; pause ; tap, tap. 
 
 Mathison was asleep, but as yet he had 
 
i86 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 not conquered that subconscious alertness of 
 the mind. The sound, light as it was, awoke 
 him. The porter's signal. Mathison buried 
 his head deeper into the pillow. 
 
 Tap, tap ; pause ; tap, tap. 
 
 " What's wanted ? " he called, irritably. 
 
 There was no answer. The tapping was 
 not repeated. 
 
 He was too drunk with sleep to get the 
 real significance. He turned over and fell 
 asleep again instantly. He came out of this 
 leaden slumber at seven. The train was 
 moving, having made up two hours in the 
 makeshift schedule. The storm outside had 
 lost but little of its vigour. He bathed and 
 dressed and rang for the porter. 
 
 " Have the waiter bring me grape-fruit, 
 oatmeal, and coffee." 
 
 " Yes, suh." 
 
 " What time will we make New York, if 
 this keeps up ? " 
 
 " About six-thutty." 
 
 " Did you rap about one o'clock ? " 
 
 " No, suh." 
 
 " You didn't ? " 
 
 " No, suh. What's de matter wid dat hotel ? 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 187 
 
 Dey all comes rampagin' back befo' yo' 
 did." 
 
 " Passengers in number two ? " 
 
 " Yes, suh." 
 
 "All the passengers returned ? " 
 
 " On de Mercutio ; yes, suh." The whites 
 of George's eyes began to show. 
 
 As for that, so did Mathison's. On board, 
 when, logically, they should be miles and 
 miles away by this hour, by any means of 
 locomotion they could obtain ! Here was a 
 thundering mystery. 
 
 " George, is there a lady next door ? " 
 
 " Yes, suh." 
 
 " Beautiful, with blonde hair ? " 
 
 " Hain't seen de lady's face, suh." 
 
 " Sable coat ? " 
 
 George nodded. He pushed back his cap. 
 " Boss, I oughtn't t' tell yo' ; but de man in 
 two is a Secret Service man, an' he's goin' t' 
 rjump yo' de minute we gits int' New York 
 State. 'Tain't none o' my business whut yo' 
 done, but I'd kind o' like to give yo' a chance 
 t' beat it. Ef yo' say so, I can open de 
 trap befo' wte gits int' Buffalo an' slip y«' 
 out." 
 
i88 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " George, you're a top-hole ! But how did 
 you learn that this man is a Secret Service 
 agent ? " 
 
 " He done show me de ca'd signed by 
 Flynn." 
 
 " Describe him." 
 
 " Big, hair pale yelluh, nice-looking an' 
 friendly." 
 
 Mathison wondered if he wasn't asleep. 
 With the manila envelope and the red book 
 in their possession, they were still on the 
 train ! What had happened ? 
 
 " The man has been asking you questions 
 about me ? " 
 
 ' Yes, suh. Count o' dat ca'd I had t' 
 ansuh." 
 
 " How does he spend his time ? " 
 
 " Plajdn' auction wid two friends. Dey's 
 Secret Service, too," George added, gloomily. 
 
 Four of them. And the three men had 
 taken turns, all the way across the continent, 
 in keeping him awake ; bribed this porter, 
 too, to keep tabs and report. Until his 
 encounter with The Yellow Typhoon, Mathison 
 had had no real idea of the number or the 
 descriptions of his pursuers. But still on 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 189 
 
 board ! That was confounding. It wasn't 
 logical. . . . He stiffened. To kill him, now 
 that he could identify the woman ? To swing 
 him off into the dark before he could get his 
 forces together. There was logic in that. He 
 smiled at the porter. 
 
 " George, I've an idea there must be a case 
 of mistaken identity in all this . They mistook 
 me at the hotel last night. There was a row, 
 and I came back." 
 
 George shifted his cap to his right ear and 
 stared briefly at the slashed kit-bags. 
 
 " If I'd have been the man they thought I 
 was I wouldn't be here." 
 
 George straightened his cap. There was 
 something in this explanation that pleased 
 him. 
 
 " Has the Secret Service man asked my 
 name ? " 
 1^" No, suh." 
 
 " Just as I thought. He's sure I'm the 
 man ; just as they were sure at the hotel. 
 Well, I sha'n't worry. Everything will be 
 explained when I reach the Waldorf. You 
 might drop him the hint I'm going there. It 
 will save a lot of trouble. But of course it 
 13 
 
igo The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 wouldn't be wise for him to know I told you 
 
 to tell him." 
 
 " I undahstan', suh." 
 
 " Then I'll have my breakfast." 
 
 On the wall-hook in compartment 6 hung 
 a beautiful rose-kimono. There are thousands 
 upon thousands of these lovely robes. They 
 look exactly alike until you examine them, 
 and then you note that they differ as roses 
 themselves differ. 
 
 In compartment 2 there was also a rose- 
 kimono. It was wrapped about the graceful 
 body of The Yellow Typhoon. She wound 
 a veil about her head, dropping it to the tip 
 of her nose. Then she picked up her dress, 
 her toilet-bag, and started off for the ladies' 
 dressing - room. There wasn't room to 
 dress in the compartment, as the berths 
 had not been made up. She had slept 
 through the major part of the day. She 
 floated past compartment 6, the door of 
 which was slightly ajar. It had been slightly 
 ajar ever since the departure from Chicago. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later George, the porter, 
 heard the buzzer. Passenger in 6 was calling. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 191 
 
 He hurried off. It was George's trysting- 
 hour. Tips. 
 
 " The luggage to the trap, please. We 
 wish to leave instantly the train stops at One 
 Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street." 
 
 " Yes'm." 
 
 " I note that you wear a Liberty Bond 
 button." 
 
 " Yes'm. Got two." 
 
 " Then you are a good American ? " 
 
 " I sho' is, ma'am." 
 
 " Very well, then. Here is a box. After 
 the train leaves One Hundred and Twenty- 
 fifth Street, you will give this box to the 
 gentleman in compartment one. I am 
 trusting you because I have to. It is 
 military. If you fail to deliver it you 
 betray your country, and in that case woe 
 to you ! He will ask you who gave it to 
 you. You will tell him the lady in com- 
 partment two." 
 
 " Yes'm ! " George's tongue had grown 
 suddenly and mysteriously thick and dry. 
 
 " And here is something for your trouble." 
 
 It was a gold note for fifty dollars. 
 George's brain became nearly as dry as his 
 
192 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 tongue. Even as he folded the bill and 
 tucked it into a pocket the train began to 
 slow down. He swooped up the luggage and 
 staggered out into the corridor, where he was 
 obliged to hug the partition to permit the 
 lady coming out of the dressing-room to pass. 
 The train stopped. He helped the two women 
 to alight, dumped the luggage, and jumped 
 aboard, dropping the trap and running back 
 to the vacant compartment for the mysterious 
 box. Military I His brain was as full of 
 kinks as his wool. But there was one clear 
 idea in his head — ^nothing could prevent him 
 delivering this box to the man in compart- 
 ment I. 
 
 " Fo' de Ian' sakes ! " he murmured. " Ef 
 dat lady 'ain't went an' fo'got de kimono ! " 
 
 With the mysterious box under one arm 
 and the rose-kimono under the other, he 
 sallied forth. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the platform of the One 
 Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station, 
 there was enacted a scene of tenderness and 
 animation. The woman who had forgotten 
 her kimono rushed into the arms of another 
 woman, statuesque, white-haired. Her face, 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 193 
 
 alight with joy, was beautiful ; but there was 
 a subtle hint that in repose it would be 
 tragic. 
 
 "My Hilda! My Hilda ! " She spoke in 
 an alien tongue. 
 
 " Darling mother ! " in the same tongue. 
 
 A dapper little man with a Semitic cast of 
 countenance began to dance about the two. 
 
 " Here, here. Stop that lingo ! It sounds 
 too much like German, and we'll be held up. 
 Mother Nordstrom, you must remember ! " 
 
 " Nonsense, Sammy ! " cried the daughter. 
 " You're always such a fussy old dear ! 
 Glad to see me ? " 
 
 " I should say yes ! But come along. 
 We've no time to waste." 
 
 The quartet — ^which included the Breton 
 maid — ^were soon in the comfortable limousine 
 below. 
 
 " My ! " said the dapper little man. 
 " You're big medicine to these eyes ! Always 
 Johnny on the spot. You're the only woman 
 of the kind." 
 
 " It was a narrow squeak this time. Wrecks, 
 delays, snow, and all that." 
 
 " How do you feel ? " anxiously. 
 
194 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " Splendid ! " 
 
 " Letter-perfect ? " 
 
 " Never doubt it ! . . . New York ! . . . 
 Home ! The glorious noise of it ! The 
 magnificent hurry I . . . Where are we going 
 to eat ? " 
 
 " Theatre. Everything's ready in the 
 office. You'll have half an hour to doze in. 
 No new people to confuse you ; old cast 
 complete. House sold out week in advance. 
 The whole town is on its toes to see you. I 
 am a brute to force you on to-night, without 
 any rest ; but you were due three days ago. 
 And say ! when I got that cable I swore. 
 Never heard of such a thing. And it turned 
 out to be the most original stunt of the winter. 
 The town swept clean of your photographs 
 and lithos, the papers agreeing not to run 
 Sunday cuts ; not even a tintype in the lobby. 
 And the whole town is crazy to know why. 
 Some little advertising stunt, believe me ! 
 Nothing in town but your name on three- 
 sheets and small bills. Hereafter you boss 
 your own publicity campaigns." 
 
 A dry little smile stirred the lips of the 
 actress. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 195 
 
 " Sarah," said the mother to the Breton 
 maid, " have you taken^good care of my 
 Hilda ? " 
 
 " She's been a trump, mother ! " inter- 
 rupted the daughter. 
 
 " But she looks as if she had been ill." 
 
 " No, madame . . . the journey . . ." Two 
 faces, thought the maid, so alike that only 
 the good God Himself might distinguish one 
 from the other ! 
 
 Her mistress leaned back and closed her 
 eyes. The train would be in the tunnel now 
 and the box in Mathison's hands. What 
 would be his wonder ? She could only 
 imagine. But she knew that to him she was 
 The Yellow Typhoon, the Snow-leopard, the 
 gambling woman of the Honan Road. 
 
 In a little while all these momentous 
 events would become a vague memory to 
 him. He would shortly be busy with the 
 problems of active warfare. He would never 
 know that a guardian-angel had been at his 
 elbow for days. How easy it was to visualize 
 him ! — ^sitting on the deck beside her chair, 
 that funny little green bird clinging to his 
 shoulder ! And then that night, when he 
 
196 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 told her of his promise to his mother . . . 
 The tenderness of his voice ! " Am I a 
 mollycoddle ? " He had asked her that in 
 all seriousness. . . . Boy ! 
 
 His puzzlement would be large for a while ; 
 and out of the chaff of speculation he would 
 find the grain of fact : The Yellow Typhoon, 
 to save herself, had betrayed her companions. 
 Thus Berta would escape prison, perhaps 
 death. 
 
 Irony ! The same ancient story — Hilda, 
 sacrificing herself for Berta, now as always ; 
 throwing away what might have been 
 happiness to prevent the ghost from re-enter- 
 ing the life of the white-haired woman at her 
 side. And she was practically turning Berta 
 loose in New York, where she would be likely 
 to draw a stain across a stainless life. Berta, 
 free, there would soon be strange tales afloat, 
 and each and every one of them would be 
 credited to Norma Farrington. No matter, 
 so long as the truth could be kept from the 
 mother. The mockery of the grave in 
 Greenwood ! 
 
 An infinitesimal clue : she had left that 
 because she would not have been human else. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 197 
 
 There would be one chance in a million of his 
 understanding. A little green feather — 
 Malachi's — ^which she had picked off the deck 
 one morning. She had hidden it in the little 
 red book. He would find it, but he would 
 not understand. A miracle, nothing short 
 of that ; and this was not the day of 
 miracles. . . . Good-bye I 
 
 As the train drew out of One Hundred and 
 Twenty-fifth Street station the blond man 
 returned to No. 2, where he found his com- 
 panion completely dressed and waiting. She 
 was heavily veiled. 
 
 " Where's the keys ? " 
 
 " Your keys ? Oh there they are, on the 
 berth." 
 
 " What was it you wanted ? " 
 
 " Wanted ? " The woman raised the 
 veil above her lips. " I haven't wanted 
 anything." 
 
 " But you came and got my keys ! " 
 
 " I . . . what ? I don't know what you 
 are talking about. I went directly to the 
 dressing-room and came straight back." 
 
 " Berta, what nonsense is this ? You came 
 
igS The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 for the keys and I gave them to you. Wittel 
 and Franz saw you." 
 
 " Karl, you certainly did not ! " alarmed. 
 
 The man stared at her for a space. Then 
 swiftly he knelt before his kit-bag, opened 
 it and rammed his hand to the bottom, 
 ploughing about. 
 
 " Gott ! " he whispered, his colour fading, 
 
 " What has happened ? " 
 
 " Gone ! . . . You devil, what game are you 
 up to?" he cried, springing up. " I warned 
 you once never to play with me. Where is it ?" 
 
 " Are you mad or am I ? ... I haven't 
 touched that bag. ... I will kill you if you 
 lay a hand on me ! Some one has tricked 
 you. Call the porter." 
 
 " Furies of hell ! I saw you ! The rose- 
 kimono ; it was you ! " 
 
 " Karl, I tell you it was not I ! We have 
 been tricked. Call the porter." 
 
 The man opened the door furiously and 
 bumped into George, who was sailing airily 
 along the corridor. 
 
 " Come in here ! " 
 
 George did not like the tone, but he 
 obeyed. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 199 
 
 " What's that under your arm ? " 
 demanded the woman. 
 
 " Kimono. Lady in number six done got 
 off an' fo'got it." 
 
 The woman seized it. " Karl, don't you 
 see ? It is so nearly like mine it would 
 fool any one ! . . . Porter, what was this 
 woman like ? " 
 
 " Can't say ma'am. Always wo' a veil. 
 Boss, dat young man nex' do' is goin' t' de 
 Waldorf. I'll be back in a minute fo' de 
 grips an' de kimono." 
 
 George backed out diplomatically. He 
 did not like the flavour of the atmosphere ; 
 too electrical. Besides, he had a box to 
 deliver. He was plumb in the middle of the 
 war. 
 
 " Berta, I don't understand this. I 
 saw you ! Franz and Wittel will back 
 me!" 
 
 With the kimono spread over her 
 knees. The Yellow Typhoon frowned into 
 space. 
 
 " Some spy. Saw me somewnere, per- 
 haps back in that hotel. You were playing 
 cards ; your scrutiny wouldn't be keen. 
 
200 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 A bit o' court-plaster, a veil, and this 
 kimono. . ." 
 
 "The full face, Berta. . . . Yours!" 
 ominously. 
 
 Mathison had donned his uniform, his 
 greatcoat, packed his kit-bags, and drawn 
 the cotton-flannel bag over Malachi's cage. 
 On his breast was pinned the bit of green 
 ribbon. Presently he heard the signal on the 
 door. George came in. 
 
 " A box fo' yo', suh. ... My Ian' ! " he 
 broke off. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " asked Mathison, 
 eying the box curiously. 
 
 " Dem regimentals 1 Is yo' an officer in 
 de navy ? " 
 
 " Yes, George. What's this box ? Where 
 did you get it ? " 
 
 George jerked his thumb toward the 
 partition. 
 
 " The woman next door ? " 
 
 " Yes, suh ! " 
 
 " She gave it to you for me?" astonished 
 beyond measure. 
 
 " Yes, suh," 
 
 Mathison rubbed his chin. It might be 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 201 
 
 some infernal-machine. Still, it had to be 
 opened. With the slightest touch he untied 
 the string. With a slow, steady pull he 
 drew off the cover. Hypnotized, he stared 
 at the contents. A manila envelope, a little 
 red book . . . and a folded blue-print ! 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XII 
 
 TTHERE are some astonishments which 
 cannot be translated verbally. So 
 great was Mathison's that he could neither 
 think nor move. The aftermath of a 
 thunderbolt affects you like that. When a 
 certain phase of the hypnosis passed, and 
 Mathison began to get the hang of life again, 
 he became conscious of the porter. He drew 
 out a bill and presented it. 
 
 " Thanks. Uncle Sam will be very grateful 
 to you. Any idea what was in this box ? " 
 " De lady said it was military, suh." 
 Mathison nodded. " The man next door, 
 George, is not a Secret Service man. I'd like 
 to tell you all about it, but the time is too 
 short. By telling him that I'm going straight 
 to the Waldorf you will be doing your Uncle 
 Sam an extra service." 
 
 202 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 203 
 
 " I told him, Cap'n." 
 
 " Good ! Send a redcap in when the train 
 stops. Good-bye and good luck." 
 
 Mathison closed the door and locked it. 
 The little red book he slipped into an inner 
 pocket, the manila envelope he dropped into 
 one of the kit-bags. What he did with the 
 blue-print will be revealed at the proper 
 moment. Then he sat down, his brain 
 beginning to boil with questions. By and 
 by he came to what he believed to be the 
 solution of this miracle. The Yellow 
 Typhoon was afraid. She had betrayed her 
 companions because she saw immunity in the 
 betrayal. She would never receive it from 
 John Mathison, Bob Hallowell's friend ! She, 
 too, should pay. All the cards in his hand 
 again, and he would play them on the basis 
 that the phrase " blood and iron " was not 
 pertinent to the Teuton only. 
 
 For what had been the primal impetus of 
 this remarkable journey of ten thousand 
 miles, of hiding continually behind steel walls, 
 of refusing to take profit from the vast power 
 at his service ? An eye for an eye, a tooth 
 for a tooth ! That he was a secret agent. 
 
204 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 carrying a tremendous undeveloped sea- 
 offensive — ^which he still had by the hair — 
 was to his mind, obsessed with a single idea, 
 an affair of secondary importance. 
 
 Draw the hand strongly across the surface 
 of the water. What happens ? A wave, 
 that follows irresistibly, fatefuUy, inescapably. 
 This was then, primarily a man-hunt, played 
 backward, probably as peculiar a man-hunt 
 as was ever conceived. The pursuers were 
 in reality the pursued. Being a good 
 psychologist, Mathison had simply put him- 
 self back of his enemies' point of view. In 
 their minds, who would be the logical 
 messenger ? John Mathison, transferred to 
 European waters, the familiar friend of the 
 inventor, the one man living who knew 
 exactly what the invention in its entirety was. 
 This established in their minds there were 
 ninety-nine chances in a hundred that they 
 would follow him. And there was always the 
 possibility that Paolo, the Spanish servant, 
 had conveyed enough scraps of information 
 to decide them. 
 
 Had he been only vaguely certain that they 
 carried the blue-print, Mathison would have 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 205 
 
 used, his power and struck immediately after 
 the sleep-fume attack the first night on shore. 
 But, he had argued, supposing he struck and 
 the print was not found ? They would be 
 liberated ; forewarned, they would vanish. 
 He hadn't credited them with the stupidity 
 of carrying so dangerous a thing as that blue- 
 print. In their place he would have mailed 
 it from San Francisco, with absolute certainty 
 that it would reach the hands intended. 
 There was no censorship over national mail. 
 And now that the print was in his possession, 
 he never could prove that it had actually 
 been in theirs. 
 
 For the real point was to secure evidence, 
 of which to date he had not an iota, not 
 such as would pass muster in any court 
 outside of Germany. To have the blond 
 man and his companions arrested as matters 
 now stood would be a waste of time. So his 
 whole plan was to lure them to a point where 
 the hand of the law could touch and hold. 
 An overt act, culpable legally. And The 
 Yellow Typhoon herself had restored the 
 means. 
 
 There was still one puzzle — ^the woman's 
 14 
 
2o6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 lack of curiosity. She had not opened the 
 envelope. Had she declared to the blond 
 man that she had not found it ? It would 
 not be stating it strong enough to say that 
 she was the most baffling woman he had 
 ever met ; he had never read of one her 
 match. 
 
 At length Mathison and redcap swung 
 along with the crowd making for the 
 gates. Just beyond the gates Mathison 
 signalled to the redcap to pause. He felt 
 a hand on his arm, but he did not turn 
 his head. 
 
 " Mathison ? " came in a whisper. 
 
 " Yes. The blond man with the ruddy 
 cheeks. The woman behind him in the 
 sables. Follow and report to your chief." 
 Mathison went on. 
 
 Quarter of an hour later he entered the 
 Waldorf. This time he seemed indifferent 
 to the kit-bags. The boy deposited them 
 along with the cage in front of the desk. 
 Mathison signed the register, opened one of 
 the kit-bags, and took out the manila envelope 
 which, before leaving the Phillippines, he had 
 been warned solemnly to guard with his life. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 207 
 
 " Please deposit this in your safe and give 
 me a receipt." Mathison spoke calmly, but 
 his heart pounded with suppressed excite- 
 ment. Carelessly, in view of any who cared 
 to see, he stuffed the receipt into the little 
 pocket at the top of his trousers. Then he 
 went up to his room. He set Malachi on a 
 stand by the radiator. He emptied the kit- 
 bags and distributed the contents intodrawers 
 and closets. 
 
 Afraid. The Yellow Typhoon was afraid ! 
 Or was it Hallowell ! — a touch of remorse ? 
 
 He sat down and opened the little red 
 book for some addresses Morgan had given 
 him. And something fluttered to his knee. 
 It was a blue-green feather, brilliant as an 
 emerald. Malachi's ; he was always finding 
 Malachi's feathers. But the sight of this one 
 recalled a promise he had made himself — to 
 call up Mrs. Chester's apartment. If he had 
 to sail before she returned, he would leave 
 Malachi with the apartment people. So he 
 stuffed the feather absently into his match- 
 pocket. Later he sent many messages over 
 the telephone. 
 
 He felt in his pockets for his fountain-pen 
 
2o8 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 and, not finding it, remembered that he hadn't 
 taken it from the vest of his civilian suit. 
 Naturally, he went through all the pockets, 
 and among other things came upon a folded 
 slip of glazed paper. He opened it. 
 
 Several minutes passed. Mathison was like 
 stone. Norma Farrington. He saw now why 
 the photograph had originally intrigued him. 
 It resembled Morgan's description of the 
 woman known as The Yellow Typhoon ! . . . 
 Absurd ! It was not within reason. Some 
 twist, some legerdemain the photograph had 
 given it. The shadows ; these had something 
 to do with it. Norma Farrington, The Yellow 
 Typhoon ? The absurdity was patent. The 
 notorious woman of Honan Road could not 
 possibly be a celebrity on Broadway. Too 
 many miles between. 
 
 He sprang to the telephone. " Give me 
 the theatre-ticket agency. . . . Hello ! Is 
 Norma Farrington playing in town ? . . . She 
 is? . . . What theatre ? . . . Thanks ! " 
 Mathison got out the little red book with 
 trembling fingers. He rang up a number. 
 " This is Mathison, the green ribbon. What's 
 the report on the woman in the sables ? . . , 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 209 
 
 All right. I'll hold the wire." Five minutes 
 passed. " Hello ! , . . Entered a house in 
 Fiftieth Street ? Fine 1 " Mathison con- 
 sulted the time ; it was seven-fifty. 
 
 He became a whirlwind. He flew down- 
 stairs and plunged toward the revolving 
 doors. 
 
 " Taxi ! " 
 
 The vehicle was forthcoming instantly, 
 due to his visored cap, gold bands, and star. 
 He jumped into the taxi, naming a theatre 
 up-town. He paid a speculator five dollars 
 for the only seat left — Q, centre. As he was 
 late, he had to navigate through channels of 
 reluctant feet. Norma Farrington ! He had 
 only one idea with four sides to it — ^something 
 complete. 
 
 The footlights flashed. When the curtain 
 rolled up there were three people on the 
 stage — ^no one he had ever seen before. They 
 moved about and talked. Occasionally a 
 ripple of laughter ran over the house. But 
 none of these things meant anything to 
 Mathison. He was not conscious of a word 
 that was spoken or the significance of a single 
 movement. 
 
210 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 There were four entrances to this stage 
 living-room, and Mathison grew dizzy trying 
 to watch all four at once. At eight-forty, 
 through the French window — ^you saw a 
 charming garden beyond — came a woman 
 in grey. Her expression was demure — 
 mischievously demure. The audience broke 
 into applause. Tense, Mathison strained his 
 ears. 
 
 Outside the blond man waited with the 
 patience of his breed. His glance never left 
 the entrance to the theatre. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XIII 
 
 AS soon as the curtain fell Mathison 
 ■** stood up and ploughed 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 un- 
 lighted sign ? " 
 
 Mathison laughed. He understood at 
 once that here was a good sport. " Pardon 
 
212 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 some- 
 thing on his mind. " Flowers ! " 
 
 " I have come ten thousand miles to send 
 these flowers," replied Mathison, smiling. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 213 
 
 "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 any- 
 body." 
 
 " 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 
 
214 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 215 
 
 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'sj 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 ; 
 
2i6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 humour. 
 
 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 
 comedienne 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 217 
 
 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 
 theatre 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." 
 
2i8 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 odours 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 219 
 
 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, e very-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." 
 
220 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 Cumaean 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 denouement 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 221 
 
 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 grey 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 some- 
 thing 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." 
 15 
 
222 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 sailor-man 
 would not object to having nis 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 backgromid of 
 colour 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 223 
 
 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 theatre 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 ot 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 
 
224 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 grey limousine manoeuvre 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 theatre 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." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 225 
 
 " 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, mariage, 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 
 
226 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 you have missed something indescribably 
 beautiful. Fire ! Dawns, sunsets, moon- 
 light ; 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 descrip- 
 tion 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 expres- 
 sion. 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 227 
 
 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. FoUage 
 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 denouement she wanted ; 
 
228 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 your- 
 self. I believed I was doing a fine, brave 
 thing." 
 
 " Ah, but it was a fine, brave thing. You 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 229 
 
 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 
 
230 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 231 
 
 " 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 parakeet — ^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 colour 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 thfere 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. 
 
232 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 233 
 
 would jump into with the greatest cheerful- 
 ness, 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 bj- nebulous objects. 
 Again, it might have been due to the fact 
 that they were both fatalists. Suddenly the 
 
234 ^^^ Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chai>ter XIV 
 
 " r\0 what you think best," she murmured 
 
 *^ across Mathison's shoulder. " Pleaee 
 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 
 
 *35 
 
236 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 the obvious reason that the cut of her coat 
 will not permit it."i 
 
 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 237 
 
 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 parlour; you will find it comfort- 
 able. 
 
 Inside the parlour 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. 
 16 
 
238 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " You despicable coward, ! " she cried. 
 " How like the Hun I " 
 
 " Be silent I Your immunity is not 
 irrevocable." 
 
 A receipt of deposit I 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 ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 239 
 
 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 inter- 
 rupted. "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. 
 
240 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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. Resource- 
 ful, 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 241 
 
 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 off-stage ; 
 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 marrjdng 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 dull- 
 ness." 
 
 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 
 
242 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 — z. 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 243 
 
 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 1 
 
244 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 245 
 
 " 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 ? '• 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XV 
 
 IVyiATHISON 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, aud 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 
 
 246 
 
The Yellow Typhoon ^ 247 
 
 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 crypto- 
 gram. A miracle ; he could call it noth- 
 ing 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 
 
248 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 ? " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 249 
 
 " 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, 
 
250 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 251 
 
 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 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 you 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 be- 
 cause you were always whining at my elbow 
 not to do this and not to do that. Fine 
 music I 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 Copen- 
 hagen 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 
 
252 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 mould. I had already been poured. 
 What you wanted of me was something like 
 this fool parakeet — 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 let- 
 ting 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 253 
 
 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 1 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 I " 
 " 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 ser- 
 mon ? Save it." 
 
 «7 
 
254 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 plapng 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 willnot findit,Berta." 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 255 
 
 " 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 chiM 
 that was always touching the stove. Take 
 care of yourself ; and good-bye 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XVI 
 
 CTRAIGHTWAY Mathison put his arm 
 *^ under hers and began ploughing 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 laugh- 
 ing. 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 
 
 256 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 257 
 
 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 honourable 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. 
 
258 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 dis- 
 carded her. Is there anything in prenatal 
 influence ? They say not. Yet look at 
 Berta! My father's soul. I don't under- 
 stand ! " 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 259 
 
 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 com- 
 panion 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 
 
26o The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 spiiit is at peace. John Mathi- 
 son has come through ! " 
 
 " Alone, all alone, without aid from any 
 one. With an immeasurable power behind 
 you, you fought it out alone. It was splen- 
 did — ^American ! That envelope ! The tame- 
 ness 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 Hallo well 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 261 
 
 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 
 favour 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 can- 
 not prove that it was in his possession. 
 The theft of the receipt constitutes a mili- 
 tary 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 ; 
 
262 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 favour ? " 
 
 "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 ! 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 263 
 
 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. 
 
264 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 
 endeavour. 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 tele- 
 phoning. 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 ? " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 265 
 
 " Of course I am ! " His little green 
 parakeet ! 
 
 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 for- 
 get 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," re- 
 plied 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 
 
266 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 government and that there must be 
 
 absolute secrecy on the part of the 
 
 management." 
 " I have my orders to that effect, sir." 
 Mathisoit 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 Ixis 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 267 
 
 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 occa- 
 sionally 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 
 
268 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 bath- 
 room. 
 
 ^" 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 unbe- 
 lievable 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 garrotinghim. 
 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 
 endeavour 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, dumbfounded 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 269 
 
 by the daring and suddeness 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 dis- 
 passionate 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 towards 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. 
 18 
 
270 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 pock- 
 ets tor the manacle key. He found it and 
 freed his wrists. He ran to the bathroom 
 again and returned with a wet towel which 
 he woimd about the half-strangled man's 
 head. Next he calmly pocketed his belong- 
 ings which lay on the bureau-top. 
 
 He was reasonably certain that he could 
 not escape by any of the hotel entrances. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 271 
 
 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. In- 
 stinctive 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 ! 
 
272 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 endeavour 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 sports- 
 manship. 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 273 
 
 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 bind- 
 ing 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 
 
274 The YeUow Typhoon 
 
 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 
 honourable 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 275 
 
 It was now that the other man began to 
 realize that he was no longer interested in kill- 
 ing 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 ! " 
 
276 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Slowly Mathison drew back. The berser- 
 ker lust to kill evaporated, leaving him cold 
 and sick. The revelation that the name of 
 the murderer was Lysgaard was insignifi- 
 cant beside the fact that Hallowell had 
 reached out from Beyond and saved his friend 
 from carrying blood-guilty hands to Hilda 
 Nordstrom, who waited downstairs. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XVII 
 
 TV/IE ANTIME the jar of the battle had 
 ^'■*" not passed vinnoticed. 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 endeavours, he became a natural- 
 ized 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 
 
 277 
 
278 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 279 
 
 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 Hallo well'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 
 downstairs. 
 
 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 
 
28o The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 I stopped at a hotel, letting everybody know 
 that I was carr3dng 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, gentle- 
 men ; and thanks for your assistance." 
 
 Downstairs 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 281 
 
 sat perfectly quiet and watched the remark- 
 able 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 out- 
 raged 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 way- 
 ward. But to her Berta was dead ; and a 
 return under the present tragic circum- 
 stances would without doubt result in a death 
 shock. Ah, if Berta had come back a 
 penitent, the news might have been broken 
 
282 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 283 
 
 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. Mathisonsteppedforth. Malachi'scage 
 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. 
 
284 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 unfor- 
 getable 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 285 
 
 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. 
 19 
 
286 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 molly-coddle 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, 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 287 
 
 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 ? 
 
288 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " 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 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 289 
 
 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 humoured." 
 
 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 
 
290 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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. . . . Con- 
 tract ! . . . 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 abdut 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 ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 291 
 
 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 
 
292 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 " Wobbly 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 ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 293 
 
 " 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. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon Chapter XVIII 
 
 TTHE Mathison estate was in the foot-hills 
 ■*■ of the Adirondacks. There was farm- 
 lands, pulp-mills, forests, and streams. At 
 the northern extremity of the estate there 
 was a small lake. The manor proper stood 
 on the south shore of this lake, four miles 
 from the village and the railway station. It 
 was a lonely habitation in the winter. 
 
 The house was of limestone, beautifully 
 weathered, and was dated 1812. Here 
 Mathison had been born ; here he had spent 
 his early youth. With the father almost 
 constantly at sea, the mother had preferred 
 the quiet of the woods to the noise and 
 bluster of New York. 
 
 Hilda went into ecstasies over chairs and 
 sofas that had become antique in these very 
 rooms. She saw the mother's hand everywhere, 
 
 294 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 295 
 
 the quiet artistry of a hand guided by 
 a noble mind. Hilda romped about the 
 rooms with the eager curiosity of a child ; 
 and it might be truthfully added that 
 Mathison romped with her. They were so 
 completely in love that they saw beauty in 
 everything, in the hard, brilliant sunsets, in 
 the Northern Lights, in the yellow dawns. 
 Every day they skated or snow-shoed ; and 
 there was always a roaring chestnut fire to 
 greet them. 
 
 And yet there were shadows, deep and 
 sombre shadows, that fell across the sunshine 
 of their happiness. They never said anything 
 about these shadows to each other ; but 
 always during the hour that comes before 
 candles the shadows pressed in and down. 
 Hilda could not shut out the thought of 
 Berta. Where was she, what was she doing ? 
 Berta might deny the blood, but Hilda could 
 not. Berta was her twin. During this 
 twilight hour she saw this beautiful counter- 
 part of herself moving furtively, flying by 
 night, hiding by day, alone, alone ; perhaps 
 penniless and hungry. When the thought 
 of the wayward one became too strong 
 
296 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Hilda sought the piano, which she played 
 exquisitely. 
 
 Mathison's shadow lay upon hina per- 
 petually, but more keenly when he and 
 Hilda sat before the fire, waiting for the 
 lights. The man Lysgaard had escaped. 
 Free ! Beaten and to all appearances 
 broken, he had escaped on the way to the 
 Tombs. A forced pause before a fire in a 
 chemical establishment had opened the way 
 for him". The crowd, the noise and confusion, 
 and the insatiable curiosity and over- 
 confidence of his captors had given him his 
 chance. The strength of the rogue, after 
 that beating ! They had left one man in the 
 patrol with him, and Lysgaard had suddenly 
 dashed his manacled hands into the man's 
 face and then choked him into insensibility. 
 He had coolly taken the operative's hat and 
 overcoat. The latter he had wrapped across 
 his shoulders, holding it together from the 
 inside. He had then stepped into the seething 
 crowd and vanished completely. Search for 
 him had been in vain. He had probably 
 known where to find a haven. The real 
 menace in his being at large lay in the fact 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 297 
 
 that undoubtedly he did not know that Beita 
 was a twin. He would have means of finding 
 what had become of John Mathison. He 
 would learn that a woman had accompanied 
 his enemy. A trifling description of that 
 woman would be enough. Being a Prussian 
 there would be only one idea in Lysgaard's 
 head — Berta had run away with the man 
 who had beaten him. Vengeance, before they 
 found him and dropped the noose over his head. 
 
 There was a third shadow and they 
 shared this mutually if silently — Mathison's 
 inevitable departure for English waters. 
 
 " John," she said, one afternoon, " I'm so 
 happy that it hurts." 
 
 He laughed and swung her into his arms, 
 which never ceased to be hungry for her ; 
 and there was always a sharp little stab when 
 he let her go. The hour was fast approaching 
 when he would have to let her go, perhaps 
 for ever. . . . 
 
 " Glorious up here, isn't it ? " 
 
 " But why do you bar the windows and 
 doors so carefully at night ? There can't 
 be any burglars in this wilderness, at least 
 not in the winter." 
 
298 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " You never can tell. Sometimes there 
 are mighty high winds around, these diggings. 
 You heard how the windows rattled last 
 night.' Mathison reached for his cup of 
 tea. So she had noticed ? 
 
 " How your mother must have loved this 
 place ! " 
 
 " What makes you think that ? " 
 
 " Why, it fairly breathes of love ; the 
 beauty of all the furnishings and the way 
 they are arranged. What fun it must have 
 been — and you toddling around after her ! 
 Come ; I want to show you something." She 
 led over to a corner, and there in a heap were 
 rows of battered leaden soldiers, twisted 
 leaden swords, and forts of wood. " War, 
 battle," went on Hilda, soberly ; " even 
 as little children. What has happened to 
 the souls of men, that from generation to 
 generation the male child's toys must 
 be these ? Must women always suffer to see 
 these things about ? I found them in the 
 garret." 
 
 " Instinct, little old lady. From the day 
 one man has had to protect himself and his 
 woman, bloodily. We are still doing it, on 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 299 
 
 a more terrible scale than ever. Odd, I 
 haven't laid eyes on these in twenty years." 
 
 "How often your mother must have 
 watched you there on the floor before the 
 fire, playing at war, and your father facing 
 death at sea. But oh, lover, lover ! " She 
 caught him fiercely to her. "In so short 
 a time ! I haven't said anything, for I did 
 not want to mar your happiness. But it is 
 hurting so ! Dear God, bring him back to 
 me!" 
 
 " Honey, I'll come back. There isn't a 
 shell or a U-boat in the world with my name 
 on it. I know it. I hate to have you return 
 to the stage, and yet it will be the best thing. 
 You'll be busy. Idleness never bucks up a 
 person's courage." 
 
 " Hark ! " She stepped back from him 
 swiftly. " I hear sleigh-bells." She stiffened. 
 Sleigh-bells and yellow envelopes, for she 
 knew that Mathison had left orders at the 
 station to send out telegrams immediately 
 they were received. There was no telephone. 
 
 " The village grocer, maybe," suggested 
 Mathison, himself receiving a shock at the 
 sound of the bells. 
 
300 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 " No ; he always drives out before noon." 
 Hilda ran to the window to peer out, but 
 it was too dark for her to see anything 
 distinctly. 
 
 As for Mathison, he shifted his automatic 
 to the right side-pocket of his jacket. 
 Merely precautionary ; for the man he was 
 expecting would not approach the front 
 door with such boldness. Yet the man was 
 infernally clever in some ways. He was likely 
 to do the unexpected. Of course, there was 
 always a chance that Lysgaard might try 
 to put to sea and put over his hour of ven- 
 geance until later. There was an odd trait 
 in Mathison 's character. He was always 
 suspicious when events ran along too 
 smoothly. His very happiness was almost 
 a warning. He had often thought of having 
 a Secret Service man come up and watch the 
 four trains that passed daily ; but, being a 
 man of red blood, he hated the idea. If 
 Lysgaard succeeded in getting through the 
 cordon, he would try to find John Mathison. 
 Backed as he was by a powerful secret 
 organization, and no doubt having John 
 Mathison 's dossier in his pocket or in his 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 301 
 
 memory, he would not have much difficulty 
 in locating the dove-cote. 
 
 " Why, it's a woman ! " cried Hilda. 
 
 " A woman ? All right. You stay here 
 and I'll go to the door." 
 
 He reached the door just as the bell rang. 
 The visitor entered without a word and 
 raised a thick veil. 
 
 " Well, brother-in-law ! " mockingly. 
 
 " Berta ? " came a startled voice from the 
 doorway leading to the living-room. 
 
 " Yes, dear sister, Berta — ^the ghost who 
 wants to return to her tomb and can't find 
 the way. I smell tea. I'd like a cup." 
 
 Berta passed into the living-room and 
 stopped before the burning logs, stretching 
 out her hands. The sable coat, once so 
 magnificent, was matted and torn, the hat 
 bedraggled, the shoes water-soaked and 
 cracked ; but the fire in Berta's eyes and the 
 beauty of her face were still xmdimmed. 
 What a woman ! thought Mathison, thrilled 
 in spite of his vague terror. 
 
 Hilda, however, saw only the hunted 
 woman, the desperation, the cold, the hunger. 
 A sign, and she would have opened her arms. 
 
302 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 But Berta was still The Yellow Typhoon, 
 harassed but unconquered. She tossed her 
 hat and coat upon a chair and helped herself 
 to a cup of tea. There was evil mischief in 
 her smile. After she had drunk the tea, she 
 selected a cigarette and lighted it. 
 
 "Ah, that is good ! I haven't had a 
 decent cigarette in four days. The driver 
 thought I was you, Hilda. What a God- 
 forsaken hole ! But it was not so hard to 
 find. In your dossier — I read it while we 
 were entering New York — it was recorded 
 that you were born here, that it was the only 
 home you had. Where would two sentimental 
 fools like you two come for their honeymoon ? 
 The North is in the blood of both of you. 
 A ghost, Hilda ; and with a wave of your 
 hand — ^my e vanishment. I want a passport 
 to Denmark. It will not be wise to refuse 
 me. I haven't tried to see the mother. We 
 are dead to each other ; let it be so. But 
 there are other ways by which I can twist 
 your heart, my beautiful Norma." 
 
 " Don't mind about me, John. You cannot 
 hurt me, Berta." 
 
 " I can try. Arrest me and see what will 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 303 
 
 come of it. You two have sent to his death 
 the only man I ever cared for." 
 
 " He was a murderer ! " cried Hilda. 
 
 " No ; it was war. What he did was in the 
 interest of Germany, and that absolves him." 
 
 " You are not a Prussian ; you are a Dane." 
 
 " My sympathies are with Prussia ; and 
 that is enough for me. I am the daughter 
 of a noble. I did not come here to discuss 
 the war. I came to demand help." 
 
 Mathison sighed with relief. The woman 
 did not know that her man was at large. He 
 played a card in the dark. 
 
 " I purpose to give you up to the authorities 
 at once," he said, coldly 
 
 Berta laughed. " Try it. Do you think 
 me such a fool as to come unarmed ? " 
 
 " And how might you be armed ? " 
 
 " Ask my sister." 
 
 " She is right, John. This would kill my 
 mother. But if we secure a passport, what 
 is your bond ? " 
 
 " The word of Berta Nordstrom. I never 
 broke that when once I gave it. Back there 
 in New York you spoke of the tomb. All 
 I want is to return to it. Let me get to 
 
304 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 Denmark, and I shall never bother either of 
 you again." 
 
 Mathison began pacing, his hands behind 
 his back, his chin down. Berta eyed him 
 with cynical amusement, letting the cigarette 
 smoke drift up her nostrils. By and by she 
 tossed the cigarette into the fire. 
 
 " If I make threats, it is because I have 
 to. I am tired. Wait ! " She made a 
 passionate gesture. " This is no sign of 
 weakness. I shall hate you both as long as 
 I live. You have forced me to walk alone. 
 I don't want to go on fighting any more. I 
 want peace and quiet. I shall find it where 
 I was born. Get me a passport and I shall 
 vanish. I have plenty of money. Much of it 
 is in the banks in Copenhagen. I had always 
 planned to return there some day. I can 
 establish proofs of my identity and my right 
 to the inheritance our mother denied us. 
 Until the passport arrives I must abide here, 
 however distasteful it may be to you. Do 
 you believe it will be pleasant for me ? Your 
 food will be wormwood, your water lees, and 
 your bed will burn me. Odd that I should 
 wish to go on, that I should care to live. I 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 305 
 
 sha'n't disturb your cooing. Your maid, 
 who doubtless knows by this time that there 
 are two of us, can bring me food. I was a fool 
 not to have told him that there were two of 
 us ; and he may go to his death believing that 
 I betrayed him. But I have written a letter 
 to Manila explaining. Hate you? With 
 every drop of blood in me ! But get me the 
 passport, and I promise to leave you both 
 in peace." 
 
 " Very well," said Mathison, facing her ; 
 " you shall have it. But for Hilda, I should 
 not stir a hand. You are an alien enemy. 
 You are dangerous and merciless. You have 
 no mercy for your sister, who tried to save 
 you ; and the word ' mother ' means nothing 
 to you. You ruined — or tried to — the dearest 
 friend I had. And the man of your choice 
 murdered him in cold blood. There is a 
 black score against you. But because I love 
 your sister beyond ordinary man's love, I am 
 going to let you go." 
 
 " Because you are afraid of me," tranquilly. 
 
 " Frankly because I am afraid of you." 
 
 " I hate you. If I had the time and 
 opportunity I would do you all the evil I 
 
3o6 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 could. You defeated me. But for all that 
 you are a man ; and I know men. Hilda 
 will you know how to keep him ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 '.' After all, you are not my sister for 
 nothing. Show me to my room. Have your 
 maid bring me up something to eat. I am 
 starved. It was such a place to find. 
 Cooing doves, in a bleak cage like this ! " 
 
 The chamber assigned to her was directly 
 over the living-room. After dinner that night 
 they heard her walking, walking, walking. 
 The Snow-leopard, thought Mathison ; and 
 because she was the twin of the noble woman 
 whose hand was locked in his he would have 
 to cheat his government, commit his first dis- 
 honourable deed ! For he would have to lie and 
 cheat to secure a passport for Berta Nordstrom. 
 
 " John ! " 
 
 " No. I shouldn't go to her, honey. 
 Honestly, I can't help it, but I do not trust 
 her. I'm afraid of her. The blood no longer 
 links you. Forget that part of it. She's 
 forgotten it." 
 
 " Will there be trouble in getting her a 
 passport ? " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 307 
 
 " The trouble is nothing. I've got to lie 
 and cheat." 
 
 " We were so happy ! My sister, my own 
 flesh and blood ! I just can't understand it ! " 
 
 " No more can I. But the fact remains 
 that she is still The Yellow Typhoon. And 
 God send she leaves no wreckage here when 
 she passes. But what a woman ! " 
 
 " That is it. If we could only save her, 
 make her see ! " 
 
 Mathison stared at the ceiling and shook 
 his head. The light thud of shoes continued. 
 He walked over to the stand at the side of the 
 fireplace and eyed Malachi, who was dozing. 
 
 " What a jogging I've given the poor 
 little beggar ! Malachi ? " 
 
 The little green bird opened one eye 
 belligerently, and the feathers at the back of 
 his neck ruffled. 
 
 " John, why should she tramp like that ? " 
 
 "Go to her, honey, if you wish." 
 
 But Hilda's knock on the door was not 
 answered. 
 
 Berta remained in her room all the following 
 day. The maid reported to her mistress that 
 the unwelcome guest spoke no words, not 
 
30 8 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 even a " thank you." She no longer walked 
 the floor, however. 
 
 About eight o'clock that night she came 
 unexpectedly into the living-room. Mathison 
 was putting on a fresh log. Hilda was in the 
 music-room, playing Rachmaninoff's surging 
 " Prelude." 
 
 " I was cold," said Berta, unemotionally. 
 
 Mathison drew up a chair for her, rather 
 clumsily. She sent him a wry little smile 
 as she sat down, spreading her fingers. After 
 a while she raised her head attentively. She 
 was listening to the Music. She held this 
 attitude for several minutes, then propped her 
 elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her 
 palms. Hilda played on, Chopin, Grieg, 
 Rubinstein. Stonily Berta stared into the fire. 
 
 " She plays well ... in the dark, too." 
 
 " She does all things well," said the lover. 
 
 " You are fond of something, then ? " 
 
 " Music ? Yes. I am fond of many things ; 
 but I except human beings. You are trying 
 to solve the riddle ? Don't waste your time. 
 I'm a riddle to myself. But for Hilda I 
 should have beaten you. Do you know, if 
 Hallowell had been weak I should have 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 309 
 
 gone out to your villa. I wonder what 
 would have happened ? " 
 
 " He would have been alive this day," 
 answered Mathison, grimly ; "for we both 
 of us would have vacated the premises. 
 Typhoon . They named you well. And yet ! " 
 
 " Ah, and yet ? " Berta looked up. 
 
 " Why not become a friend instead of an 
 enemy ? You say you want peace and quiet 
 after all this stormy life. Why not melt a 
 little ? I know my wife. She would take 
 you in her arms with half a chance." 
 
 " Thanks. Oh, I am not ironic. I mean 
 it. But it is impossible. I cannot change my 
 nature. There is too much behind me. I 
 chose the road I came by. Regret ? Remorse 
 No. To you I am bad ; to myself, I am only 
 free. . . . Tell her to play that Russian 
 thing again. ... No ; I must go my chosen 
 way. I am like your parakeet. Sometimes 
 I can be forced to do things, but always I am 
 untamable. Get me that passport and I will 
 vanish. I have never known what it is to be 
 sorry. The faculty isn't in me. I am an 
 outcast. I prefer it. But I am not a 
 hypocrite. I did not come here to whine; 
 
310 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 I came to demand. But I'll soften that. 
 Get me out of this country, which I despise, 
 and I'll thank you. I was not implicated in 
 the killing of your friend. Besides, it was war. ' ' 
 
 Mathison shook his head. A pagan ; that 
 was it. He stooped to stir a log and got a 
 glimpse of her eyes. They were dry and 
 hard. A passport, or was she up to some 
 deadly mischief ? However quickly he 
 might obtain a passport, he knew it would 
 not arrive until after he himself had put to 
 sea. Berta free and Hilda alone ? He leaned 
 against the mantle, wondering what the end 
 would be. 
 
 There were French doors on the south 
 side of the living-room. To the north were 
 the original deep-set windows with broad 
 seats and heavy shutters. Mathison locked 
 up only when about to retire for the night. 
 His back was toward the south, so he missed 
 the forewarning of the menace. The brass 
 knob of one of the doors was turning with 
 infinite slowness, a small fraction of an inch 
 at a time. If there was any sound, it was 
 smothered by the magnificent chords of 
 Rachmaninoff's melancholy inspiration. 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 31 r 
 
 Suddenly Berta stood up, covered a yawn, 
 and started toward the staircase. She had 
 reached the middle of the room, when a rush 
 of cold air caused Mathison to turn. He saw 
 Lysgaard, his blue eyes burning with madness, 
 his cheeks hollow and white with fury. There 
 followed two shots, but Mathison 's was a 
 second too late. Berta's hand flew 
 automatically to her breast ; wide-eyed she 
 stared at Lysgaard for a space, then an 
 expression of deep weariness settled upon her 
 face. She swayed, her knees doubled, and 
 she sank in a huddle upon the rug. 
 
 Lysgaard leaned against the wall, gripping; 
 his bloody hand. 
 
 " She had to die ! . . . She betrayed me ! " 
 His voice was like that of a spent runner. 
 " You ! She came to you ! I meant to kilt 
 you, too ! . . . Gott ! " 
 
 For Hilda was standing in the doorway 
 to the music-room, clutching the portieres, 
 hanging literally to them, in fact, struck by 
 that hypnosis with which sudden tragedy 
 always benumbs us. She saw the crumpled 
 figure on the floor ; her husband, tense of 
 body, his weapon ready, his face hard and. 
 
312 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 merciless ; the blond man, sagged against 
 the wall, staring with pathetic bewilderment 
 not at the woman he had shot, but at her. 
 With a supreme effort Hilda threw off the 
 spell, ran to her sister and knelt. Berta, 
 the little one whom she had always tried to 
 shield, for whom she had accepted many 
 a buffet, shouldered the charge of many 
 a misdeed ! 
 
 " Berta, Berta ! " 
 
 One corner of Berta's lips moved upward 
 — a touch of the old irony. " My passport 
 . . . has come ! . . . The mad fool ! ... As 
 much as I could love any one ! . . . Hilda, 
 the ghost . . . returns to the . . . tomb ! " 
 The beautiful head sank grotesquely against 
 Hilda's shoulder. The Yellow Typhoon had 
 slipped down the Far Horizon. 
 
 " Two ! " whispered Lysgaard, thickly. 
 "Two! . . . Gott ! " He staggered across the 
 room. " Two ! . . . And she never told me ! " he 
 babbled in German. He dropped to his knees, 
 thrusting Hilda aside ; put his sound arm under 
 the warm, limp body of the woman he had 
 called his own. " Berta, Berta, little one, I did 
 not know ! Ah, God, why didn't you tell me ? 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 313 
 
 I thought you had betrayed, me, left me for 
 this Yankee swine ! . . . Two ! " 
 
 Mathison sprang to Hilda, raised her in his 
 arms, and pressed her face against his 
 shoulder. A miracle had happened. Berta's 
 presence here had saved Hilda. That was 
 the chief thought in Mathison's mind. 
 Closely he pressed the loved one to him, so 
 that she might not see the second tragedy, 
 should Lysgaard turn upon him. But even 
 as he made the movement he saw a strange 
 action take place. Berta's body slid slowly 
 from Lysgaard's arm. The man's shoulders 
 pinched themselves together convulsively and 
 his head went back with a spasmodic jerk. 
 Then he fell across Berta's body. Mathison 
 thought he had fainted, but later he learned 
 that the bullet that had shattered the hand had 
 ricocheted and ploughed completely through 
 the body. But for his tremendous vitality 
 Lysgaard would never have reached Berta. 
 
 " Mat ! Mat ! " shrieked Malachi, across 
 the tragic silence. 
 
 A month later — on a Friday afternoon — 
 Sam Rubin stopped his limousine before a 
 handsome apartment building and got out 
 
314 The Yellow Typhoon 
 
 briskly. Under his arm was a portfolio. He 
 rushed toward the entrance and popped into 
 the elevator. As he was a privileged 
 character, the maid Sarah admitted him at 
 once and indicated that her mistress was in 
 "the living-room. 
 
 Rubin stepped jauntily along the corridor, 
 but he stopped at the door. By one window 
 he saw the star's mother. She was knitting, but 
 her glance was directed towards her daughter. 
 
 " Sailorman," said Hilda. 
 
 " Sailorman," repeated Malachi, soberly, 
 if huskily. 
 
 " Husband, lover ! " 
 
 But Malachi rocked belligerently and fell 
 -to grumbling. 
 
 " I can't make him say that, mother." 
 
 " He has more serious things on his mind," 
 interrupted Rubin, entering. 
 
 Hilda whirled. " Sam Rubip, what have 
 you got under your arm ? " 
 
 " A bully new play for you ; fit you like a 
 glove." 
 
 "I'm so glad! Work, work, work; 
 something new and fresh that I can throw 
 myself into ! " 
 
The Yellow Typhoon 315 
 
 "Well, I've got it right here. What's the 
 news ? " 
 
 "He's with the convoy." Hilda caught 
 her manager by the sleeve and, drew him 
 over to one of the front windows " The 
 star in the window — mine ! " 
 
 " You're the finest woman in all this 
 world ! " said Rubin, soberly. 
 
 Hilda put her hand under the little silken 
 banner and raised it to her lips. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Made and Printed in Great Britain 
 
 William Lewis (Printers) Ltd., Cardiff.