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

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

From where he stood, ill at ease and restless, he could see the two faces. So alike that, separately, it was impossible to tell which was which or that there were two.[Pg 231] Witness his own adventures in that hotel room. The detective had declared that two women had mounted that fire-escape because he had seen nothing but footprints. But the two together, as Mathison now saw them! The one with the white soul of her shining in her face; the other—a sphinx. Hilda—he would never think of her as Norma again—a white page with a beautiful poem written thereon; the other, a page with a cryptogram. A miracle; he could call it nothing else; a physical allegory, the good fairy and the bad. The forest pool that slaked your thirst; the lying mirage of the desert. And yet the mirage was no less glorious to the eye than the honest pool. He knew he would never again mistake the one for the other.

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

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

"Yes, Berta; the same old Hilda, always[Pg 232] bearing the brunt of your misdeeds, always sacrificing herself to shield you ... to save the mother a hurt. For what I did never hurt her; she loved you, tolerated me. And the bitter irony of it all lies in the fact that she would have stood away from you but for my sacrifices, which misled her. Yes, I am Hilda."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Pg 233]

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

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

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

[Pg 234]

"Who was it we buried?" repeated Hilda.

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

"Thief!" cried Hilda, flaming. "You cold-blooded thief! You took the last jewel that mother had and pawned it—the jewel she had been clinging to desperately—the last link to the life she had known. The tragedy was nothing to you. You pawned it to buy a new............