Mathison shuddered. It was horrible to hear the bird scream these familiar words. All at once he was struck by an oddity. Malachi had never wailed his name like that before; whenever he uttered it he did so briskly and cockily. The sight of a blue-print, however, caused Mathison's thought to switch instantly into another channel.
No. 9! Now he understood why Bob had fought. Swiftly Mathison sifted the prints—old ones Hallowell had probably been mulling over. No. 9 was not among them. Still, to make sure, he opened the wall safe behind the piano. This was empty except for a small red book such as men use to carry addresses in. He restored the prints to their hiding-place, but he retained the book. No. 9, with all Hallowell's new annotations and computations, in the hands of the enemy! What if they had no key-print? What mattered it if they could not apply the principle, so long as they understood that this menace existed, of what it comprised?
"Damn them all into the blackest depth of hell—the low, murderous sneaks!"
Once more the militant sailor, he stepped to the telephone which was attached to the wall and took down the receiver. He stared blankly into the black cup of the transmitter and slowly replaced the receiver on the hook. Wires cut, outside somewhere, and all official Manila to be notified at once of the double catastrophe! He would be obliged at once to run down to the governor's bungalow.
A sickening weakness swept over him again. He reached blindly around for a chair, righted it and sat down, with his head in his hands. He would have to get a good grip on himself before starting out. After a while he raised his head and kept his gaze upon the walls of the room, with strange detachment noted many of the curiosities which sailors pick up in Oriental ports, not for their intrinsic value, but for their associations. A good deal of it was junk, from a collector's point of view; but Mathison knew that there was not money enough in the world to buy a single blade, pistol, bird wing, butterfly, claw. He would keep them always.
It was dreadful to sit there, blinking and choking and trying not to look. It was almost as if the body cried out: "Look at me! Look at me!" A terribly compelling attraction! Damn them! They had ransacked the room while Bob lay there sobbing out his life.
Air! The room was stifling him. He staggered out to the east veranda. Here he fell to pacing and gradually his strength returned.
"Malachi!" cried the parrakeet, but briskly now. The sound of one of his masters moving about reassured him; for these odd little ringnecks recognize their friends even as dogs recognize theirs.
But the living master no longer heeded. Up and down the veranda Mathison strode, his step now springy and noiseless. He was in full command of his faculties. From time to time he made gestures; they were catlike. To tear, bruise, rend! A cold berserker rage had taken possession of him, one of those upheavals of hate which, instead of blinding, clarify, the fires of which burn steadily until the end is attained. Only strong natures are capable of sustaining it. Mathison saw the future with astonishing clearness. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!
"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?" called Malachi.