"He done show me de ca'd signed by Flynn."
"Describe him."
"Big, hair pale yelluh, nice-lookin' 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?"
"Playin' 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 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."