How had they gotten the fumes into the compartment? Forward there was no danger, as he was occupying No. 1. He went over every square inch of the base of the rear partition. In the corner under the berth—a difficult spot to get to—he found an oily thimbleful of steel filings. He drenched a towel and dammed the aperture. Compressed air had forced the fumes into the compartment. Evidently they were going to keep him awake nights!
So his friends were next door! Something to find that out. But what was the idea? They could not force that door without dynamite. Had they speculated upon his running out into the corridor? Or was this the beginning of a series of night attacks to break him down physically and mentally?... To keep him awake until he threw caution to the winds! There were big storms forward; there would be delays. Very well; he would sleep afternoons and stand watch through the night. A man's job.
The next offensive came while they were crossing the Rockies. It had caliber. It convinced Mathison that he was dealing with a man of brains, a man who was not untrained in psycho-analysis. They ran afoul a tremendous storm in the mountains and became stalled for several hours because of a fallen snow-shed. It was near eleven o'clock when the porter came along and announced what had happened.
Though Mathison was sleeping as much as he could through the day, he undressed at night, propped himself up under the reading globe and studied navigation peculiar these days to British waters. Round about midnight he heard a pistol-shot, another, then a fusillade from opposite directions. He jumped out of his berth and got into some of his clothes—and sat down suddenly, grinning. Had he been dressed they would have got him! What would be surer to call forth a fighting-man than the sound of shots in the night? They were going to keep him thinking fast. They wanted him out in the open.
Before the train reached Omaha—a day and a half late—Mathison began to feel the strain. Sleep in the afternoon is never energy-producing; a number of minutes pass into oblivion, that is all; body and brain stand still; they do not recuperate. Mathison, upon coming out of these naps, felt as if he had been playing cards for hours. He had to apply cold water to shake off the lethargy. He was full of confidence, however.
There wasn't any doubt at all that they were after his nerves. The door-knob rattled mysteriously during the small hours of the night. Whenever the train stopped there was clicking on the window-pane. But he never opened the door nor raised the window-curtain. The vantage was still on his side of the net. While he knew what they were attempting to do, they hadn't the least idea where their endeavors were getting them.
At Omaha passengers for Chicago would be transferred to another train. Mathison was last to leave. He put the green ribbon in his buttonhole, picked up the kit-bag which contained the manila envelope, and sauntered forth. The freshness of the winter air and the joy of swinging his arms and legs freely!
The porter preceded him with the bag and Malachi. He did not hurry. He was among a dozen or so moving in the same direction. As he reached the platform of the new car two men broke away from the group and hurried off toward the gates. Negligible and unnoticed, unless you knew what it signified. On the lounge in his compartment—which was still No. 1—he discovered some novels and a bundle of the latest magazines. A present from the Secret Service. He would look through them all with particular care. There might be a message.
A point in passing. If Mathison was confusing his enemies he was also confusing the various chiefs of the Secret Service along the route. Here, the latter reasoned, was a man who temporarily possessed colossal power. Orders had come from Washington to obey him absolutely. He could commandeer a car for himself, a diner, put operatives in the cars fore and aft, order the arrests of suspects, knock railway schedules galley-west; and to date he had issued but two orders—to engage No. 1 compartment on all trains and to have three taxicabs at the station in Chicago. And these orders had come from mid-Pacific by wireless. On the other hand, they appreciated the fact that if Mathison could make it on his own, so much the better. Still, they were puzzled.
There were three novels. As Mathison idly riffled the pages of one he saw a word underscored. He followed this clue, and at length came upon the message: "You understand your powers? Car straight to Washington if you order it." Mathison chuckled. If the Secret Service was baffled, what was going on in the minds of the men following him? He had determined from the start to send no wires. The green ribbon must suffice. Telegrams passing to and fro might create confusion, alarm the quarry.