At 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 snowstorm!"

"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."

Passenger and porter hurried from the car to the station platform, crossed two[Pg 120] 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 everybody had 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 toward 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 Pal?ornis torquatus."

"I pass!"

Mathison laughed. "It\'s a parrakeet, a hop-o\'-my-thumb of a bird."

[Pg 121]

"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 gray, 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. W\'en 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 forced a temporary abandonment of this wonder of American cities.

It was stinging cold, somewhere around[Pg 122] 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. 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-bag strategically and ordered a room with a bath. But as the[Pg 123] 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 humor, 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?"

"A parrakeet."

"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[Pg 124] freshly written signature. He seemed startled for a moment; 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 parlor, 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 speculatively into this, jumped into a waiting taxicab and made off.

Half an hour later a woman entered the hotel parlor, selected a chair by the corridor wall, and sat down. You might have gone into the parlor and departed without noticing her.

Meanwhile Mathison set the cage by the radiator, went into the bathroom, came back and felt of the bed, and smiled at the bellboy.

"This will do nicely. How big a town is this?"

"About seventy thousand, sir."

[Pg 125]

"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 theaters?"

"This is Tuesday," answered the boy.

"I know that. Is there a comic opera or a good burlesque?"

"Are you guying me? Where\'d juh come from?"

"The other side of the world."

"I guess that\'s right. Why, this is showless 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 theaters, movies, billiard-parlors, and bowling-alleys dark."

[Pg 126]

"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."

"All right; make it chicken, then. And tell him to bring a banana and some almonds. And mind this particularly. Tell ............