"Mathison?" came in a whisper.
"Yes. The blond man with the ruddy cheeks. The woman behind him in the sables. Follow and report to your chief." Mathison went on.
Quarter of an hour later he entered the Waldorf. This time he seemed indifferent to the kit-bags. The boy deposited them along with the cage in front of the desk. Mathison signed the register, opened one of the kit-bags, and took out the manila envelope, which, before leaving the Philippines, he had been warned solemnly to guard with his life.
"Please deposit this in your safe and give me a receipt." Mathison spoke calmly, but his heart pounded with suppressed excitement. Carelessly, in view of any who cared to see, he stuffed the receipt into the little pocket at the top of his trousers. Then he went up to his room. He set Malachi on a stand by the radiator. He emptied the kit-bags and distributed the contents into drawers and closets.
Afraid. The Yellow Typhoon was afraid! Or was it Hallowell!—a touch of remorse?
He sat down and opened the little red book for some addresses Morgan had given him. And something fluttered to his knee. It was a blue-green feather, brilliant as an emerald. Malachi's; he was always finding Malachi's feathers. But the sight of this one recalled a promise he had made himself—to call up Mrs. Chester's apartment. If he had to sail before she returned, he would leave Malachi with the apartment people. So he stuffed the feather absently into his match-pocket. Later he sent many messages over the telephone.
He felt in his pockets for his fountain-pen and, not finding it, remembered that he hadn't taken it from the vest of his civilian suit. Naturally, he went through all the pockets, and among other things came upon a folded slip of glazed paper. He opened it.
Several minutes passed. Mathison was like stone. Norma Farrington. He saw now why the photograph had originally intrigued him. It resembled Morgan's description of the woman known as The Yellow Typhoon!... Absurd! It was not within reason. Some twist, some legerdemain the photograph had given it. The shadows; these had something to do with it. Norma Farrington, The Yellow Typhoon? The absurdity was patent. The notorious woman of Honan Road could not possibly be a celebrity on Broadway. Too many miles between.
He sprang to the telephone. "Give me the theater-ticket agency.... Hello! Is Norma Farrington playing in town?... She is?... What theater?... Thanks!" Mathison got out the little red book with trembling fingers. He rang up a number. "This is Mathison, the green ribbon. What's the report on the woman in the sables?... All right. I'll hold the wire." Five minutes passed. "Hello!... Entered a house in Fiftieth Street? Fine!" Mathison consulted the time; it was seven-fifty.
He became a whirlwind. He flew down-stairs and plunged toward the revolving doors.