After a glance at his watch he fell to pacing once more. But he paced in a peculiar manner—up and down the corridor wall. That is to say, he had the window and The Yellow Typhoon always under covert observation.
As for the woman, she now relaxed. Her lovely hands lay limply on her knees and her eyes were closed—or seemed to be. But each time the elevator door slammed she started nervously. Good acting, Mathison admitted. The jealous husband! He fought the desire to walk over to her, to smother her with the storm of words burning his tongue. There must be an overt act on her part first. The infernal beauty of her!
"Mat, you lubber!"
Even Mathison received a shock. He had forgotten Malachi. The woman sprang to her feet and whirled about, expecting to see some one behind her chair. She saw nothing. Bewildered, her gaze came back to Mathison, who pointed to the curtain-pole.
"A little parrot!" She sank back into the chair weakly. "I thought some one was behind me!"
"I had forgotten him."
"Chup! Chota Malachi!"
"What does he say?"
"That's Hindustani. He's telling me to be still and that he is a little bird."