The confinement was really heartbreaking. Never had he been shut up like this. And the craving for sleep was becoming a menace. It wouldn't have been so bad had he dared move about freely, eat his meals in the diner, and smoke his cigar or pipe among men.
On the opposite seat were the magazines which had been given him in Omaha. He reached for one of them. He had long since read all the stories and advertisements. Whenever monotony reached that point where it threatened to become insupportable he dove for these magazines. He could keep himself awake with them.
Odd, but he was always returning to that posed photograph. It haunted him: a wonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt in tone. It was a restaurant scene. The woman's arms and shoulders were lovely, but her face was a leaden silhouette, tantalizing, until you chanced to look into the wall mirror at the far side of her. Even this reflection was dim; but you caught the beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of the nose and chin; a rare face, not only beautiful, but intellectual. For a long time Mathison stared at it; and then he discovered something he had missed in previous scrutinies. In the lower right-hand corner, in very small type, he read, "Posed by Norma Farrington." Some new actress. As for that, many new ones had come and gone since he had visited New York. He tore out the picture. He couldn't have told why. Norma Farrington. He smiled.
An idea had come to him, a charming idea such as often tickles the imagination of young men when they see the portrait of a beautiful woman. The more he mulled over the idea the more fascinating it became. Certainly she would not have him arrested for wanting to meet her. He folded the picture and put it away. Supposing he really started out upon such an adventure in earnest, not in imagination? Danger? Scarcely, with the little time he had at his disposal. Soon he would be in the waters that were full of slinking death. And it was this fact that let down the bars to the spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport before the death grapple. Why not? Why not? Why not? pulsed his father's blood. No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild blood he might have in his veins, but it was also the blood of unbroken promises.
What had started this rather sinister idea in his mind, or rather reawakened it? The photograph of the actress? No. The gray lady. The charm of her companionship, the hint of the things he had missed. Queer things, human beings!
No, he would not bother Norma Farrington. He would build one of his exciting romances around her and let it go at that. But he would hunt up Mrs. Chester before his leave was over, have tea with her, present her with Malachi, and tell her the story in detail.
Another human inconsistency. Hallowell had become strangely remote. As though the thing had happened months instead of days ago. And yet every move he made was in the service of Bob—to bring his great dream to fulfilment and confusion to his enemies.
He heard some one knocking on the door. He rose quickly and stood listening. Two taps, a pause, followed by two more taps. Mathison released the lock, and with his foot ready and his shoulders hunched he drew back the door about an inch. He saw the shining black face of the porter.
"What is it?"
"Bad news, suh."