Mathison's heart gave a great bound; then his brain cleared and his thoughts became cold and precise. He knew who she was. Beautiful beyond anything his fertile imagination had conceived of her: warm and fragrant as a Persian rose. Small wonder that poor old Bob Hallowell had gone to smash over her. But what did The Yellow Typhoon want of John Mathison?
"You are John Mathison?" she asked, her voice scarcely audible. "Richard Whittington?"
"Yes." His eyes still marveling over the beauty of her. It was unbelievable. A wave of poignant regret went over him. The tender loveliness of a Bouguereau housing the soul of a Salome!
"Then take heed. You are in grave danger. You carry something certain men want desperately. Don't go into the hall; don't leave your room under any circumstances to-night. The hall is watched. I dared not come to your door. They must never know that I have aided you. I had to climb the fire-escape. I dared not trust the telephone. Hide whatever you have and hide it well."
It is possible that Mathison presented a unique picture to the woman. The blue robe fluttered, bulged, and collapsed in the wind. It fell to his feet, shimmering. But for the color of it—had it been yellow—Mathison might have posed as a priest of Buddha. His handsome, bronzed face, the cold impassivity of his eyes and mouth, might have passed inspection on the platform of the Shwe Dagon pagoda in Rangoon—if one overlooked the healthy thatch of hair on his head.
She broke the tableau by taking from the pocket of her gray coat a gray veil which she wound about her head, turban-wise, dropping the edge just above her lips.
"One word more. I am a creature of impulse. I may regret this whim shortly. I may even return. I don't know. But if I do, watch out!... Beware of me!"
She backed to the window, stepped through to the fire-escape and vanished into the night.