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, 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 visitations, 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 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 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 traveled 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 parrakeet," he corrected.

"I never knew that men carried them about. I thought it was always fussy old maids."

"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!"

"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 supposed 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.

"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."

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 are until Murphy looks them over."

"How am I to know that no one will enter this room while I'm down-stairs?"

"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."

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 favor. But this step he stubbornly refused to take. The spirit of the gambler who 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 key to Mathison, who marched over to the elevator and pressed the button.

"A cool one," whispered the excited clerk. "Didn't I tell you there was something off-color?"

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 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."

"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 toward 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.

"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 o' 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 earthquake?"

"A typhoon."

Malachi was all right, but the waste-basket was empty.