The tension over, the encounter past, her mind was like her feet, heavy and without spring. A thought, entering her head, wandered about emptily, then went away. Her brain was like a vast cathedral, with one or two lonely tourists exploring. This droll imagery caused her to burst out laughing. Mathison merely tightened his grip.
She was soul-weary and body-weary. She would have liked to lie down in the soft inviting snow and never move again. The drab future that lay beyond! What might have been could not possibly be now. So long as Berta lived Hilda must walk in[Pg 240] her shadow. It did not matter whether Berta roved free or was locked up in prison. And no doubt this man at her side, clean-cut and honorable above his kind, was already planning how to break the slender thread of their acquaintance. Why not? Seeing her, would he not always be seeing Berta, who in his eyes was a criminal of a dangerous type? From afar she heard his voice.
"There\'s a drug-store on the next corner. We\'ll order a taxi from there. Your feet will be wet.... I need not tell you I\'m sorry."
"That my feet are wet or that the woman you know as The Yellow Typhoon is my twin sister? Why bother? I ought to hate her. Still, to me flesh and blood is flesh and blood. She is dangerous and should be punished; and yet instinct rebels at the thought. Free, she will be havoc. I know her of old. Her furies when she was little were frightful because they were always calculated. For days I\'ve been dreading the encounter, dreading yet courting it. It was inevitable. Flesh and blood! What was God\'s idea? My poor mother! She has been through so much; and now this[Pg 241] must strike her. She was a circus-rider in the Copenhagen hippodrome, beautiful and admired. My father won and married her because it pleased his vanity. He tired of her within a month. Then he beat her. He was half Prussian. Tortured and discarded her. Is there anything in prenatal influence? They say not. Yet look at Berta! My father\'s soul. I don\'t understand! brokenly.
"I am terribly sorry. An impasse; and I don\'t know which way to turn. She is a dangerous enemy, and this is war. For your sake I want to let her go, back to the East. For my country\'s sake I cannot. She must pay the grim reckoning. I have some influence. There will be no publicity. I can readily promise you that. You\'re a brick; and I\'d cut my hand off to save you this hurt. But I repeat, this is war. Fortunately the affair is military, out of the reach of civil court, beyond the reporters. Winnowed of all chaff, the grain is that I\'m powerless. In certain directions I have tremendous power, but only as an agent. I cannot judge, condemn, or liberate. I am desperately sorry. She is the wife or companion of the man I believe[Pg 242] killed my friend. She is the woman who gratuitously spoiled my friend\'s life. The counts against her are heavy."
"I understand. You cannot break your oath of allegiance for me; and my oath of allegiance will not permit you. But it tears and rends. Still, she once passed out of my life absolutely. Perhaps my concern is for my mother. I am numb with the tragedy of it. Flesh and blood, but she denied it. I tried to save her. Suppose we let Berta\'s fate rest on the knees of the gods?"
"If it is proven she had nothing to do with Hallowell\'s death, there is a chance of merely interning her for the duration of the war."
"Hallowell! That afternoon he spoke to me in the Botanical Gardens. He thought I was Berta. I tried to save him, but I reached the villa too late. I saw it, in silhouette on the curtains! I called, rang the bell, shook the gate. Then the lights went out.... I tried to save him!"
"I know. He was the finest friend a man ever had. And somewhere up there among the stars his spirit is at peace. John Mathison has come through!"
[Pg 243]
"Alone, all alone, without aid from any one. With an immeasurable power behind you, you fought it out alone. It was splendid—American! That envelope! The tameness of your surrender hurt. I did not understand until after we were in that house and I saw you smile. That receipt was only a trap, a bait; and the man you believe killed Hallowell walked blindly into it. No one but you could touch that envelope, once it was in a hotel safe. Am I right?"
"The man is a prisoner in my room at this moment. When we enter this drug-store, it is a signal for the raiding of that house, fore and aft. A fly couldn\'t escape. We idiotic Yankees! I have him. It took patience. But there was a guardian angel watching over John Mathison. Had you not warned me they would have learned the dance I was leading them, and vanished. They had me for sleep. I thought I was awake, but actually I was sleep-walking."
"Then I wasn\'t useless, after all?"
"No." He smiled at the sky, at the stars he couldn\'t see but knew were there. Day after to-morrow!
Mathison was a one-idea man. What I mean is, when he undertook a task he went[Pg 244] at it directly, whole-heartedly; there were never any side issues.
Presently he spoke again. "There is one favor I must ask of you, to tighten the noose around this man\'s neck. Will you testify before the authorities that you found the blue-print in his kit-bag? Otherwise I cannot prove that it was in his possession. The theft of the receipt constitutes a military crime; but the blue-print convicts him of murder, either as principal or accessory. I can promise you there will be no publicity. Will you help me?"
"I have sworn to."
"Do you know that blond man\'s name?"
"No."
"Neither do I. Curious thing. In that little red book there are three descriptions; these vary only in the occupations of the men described. All three are bulky, blond, and ruddy. Until now I dared not be inquisitive."
"And will you do me a favor?"
"Ask it."
"Let me see it through."
"You mean, go back with me to the hotel?"
"Yes."
[Pg 245]
"Very well. And you can take Malachi home with you."
They entered the drug-store, stamping the snow from their feet.
To be with him just a little while longer.... Because she loved him, she, Hilda Nordstrom, the proud! Not because she wanted to, but because it was written. The one man in the world, and he did not care. Friendly and interested, mystified until now; and to-morrow he would go his way. The daughter of a circus-rider, the sister of The Yellow Typhoon. The Farrington was no more; to him she would always be Hilda Nordstrom. Her fame would not touch him, for he was without vanity. What had her heart been calling out through it all, since the miracle of the violets? "Love me! Love me!" She had thrown it forth as a hypnotist throws the will. "Love me! Love me!" And all the while he was busy with this affair of the manila envelope, the blue-print and vengeance. All he had sought her for was to prove that there were two women, so that he might minimize the confusion, make no future misstep. Was there another woman? Had he not hinted at the supper-table that there was? And[Pg 246] yet, on board the Nippon Maru, hadn\'t he told her there was no one? She just could not make him out. There, on the Pacific, his every act had been boyish, tender, whimsical. Here, he was smiling, bronze, inscrutable, primordial. Blood and iron. The one man; and he was only friendly, he didn\'t care. When she paused to analyze the situation, however, the question arose: Why should he care? As Hilda Nordstrom—The Farrington—he had known her less than three hours. It was so hard to remember that on board the ship he had been John Mathison to her, but she had been to him a baffling, begoggled old lady, hugging shadowy corners and keeping her back to the moon.
What had happened to the world? Only a little while gone—a few months—she had been happy, gay with the gay, enjoying life, success, the rewards of long and weary endeavor. And up over the fair horizon had risen The Typhoon. Berta, always Berta!
"Pardon! I did not hear," she said.
"I said I was going to do a bit of telephoning. I\'ll round up a taxi. The boy is making you a cup of hot chocolate. Better drink it."
[Pg 247]
"Oh."
Mathison was gone for a quarter of an hour. He came back to her smiling. The taxi was at the curb.
"Better let me take you straight home," he suggested.
"You promised."
"But to-morrow...."
"To-morrow," she smiled, "always takes care of itself."
"Come. After all, it will be a matter of only a few moments. All I\'ve got to do is to run up to the room and give the Secret Service men their orders. And I\'ll bring down Malachi. You are sure you want him?"
"Of course I am!" His little green parrakeet!
Later, when they entered Peacock Alley—totally deserted at this hour—he flung his greatcoat into a chair, pinning the green ribbon to the breast of his jacket.
"Suppose you sit here on this divan? I sha\'n\'t be gone more than ten minutes. I ordered the taxi to wait."
"Go along, sailorman. And don\'t forget Malachi."
He wondered if she realized how easily[Pg 248] that name fell from her lips.... Well, day after to-morrow! He marched briskly up to the desk.
"Take a good look at me," he said to the clerk; "then go to the safe and get the manila envelope with my photographs on it."
"Yes, sir. I was waiting for you," replied the clerk, with subdued excitement. "The man who presented the receipt is in charge in your rooms." He returned shortly with the envelope.
Mathison crumpled it into a pocket. "Of course you understand that all these mysterious actions have to do with the government and that there must be absolute secrecy on the part of the management."
"I have my orders to that effect, sir."
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
