Mathison accepted the blow quietly. He had the air of a spent athlete, but that was all. He was a good loser. To have rushed about, sending out alarms, advising the Secret Service, all would have been a waste of time. The damage was complete, irremediable. Beaten—that was the word; he knew it.
Havoc! The bedding was strewn across the floor, mattress and bolster; the pillows had been shaken from their cases. All the drawers in the bureau and commode had been pulled out and their paper linings tossed about. The two kit-bags had been slashed completely across and their entire contents scattered. Even the pockets of the coats and trousers had been turned inside out. Nothing had escaped.
Beaten! Until to-night he had had a perfect defense. He tried to reach back to analyze the cause which had emboldened him to leave the security of the car, but it wasn't reachable. The want of sleep? The craving for exercise? Mere bewilderment? He couldn't solve it; just one of those moves which continue to render human beings fallible. Why hadn't he left the envelope in the safe? What idiocy had inveigled him to carry it to his room? A lone hand. He had tried the superhuman. One trained mind against three or four trained minds, and the odds had been too great. He had left the realm of absolute mathematics for the impositive, chance, with this tragic result.
With infinite care he had contrived a web; so had they. They had broken through his, and now he found himself in theirs. Flight. They would be gone like the winds. They had done something more than beaten him at the game; they had shattered his self-confidence. Doubt; all his future moves would be under the shadow of doubt. Should he do this, or should he do that, or should he ask advice? The commander of a destroyer should have supreme confidence in himself; and at present it did not look as if John Mathison would go abroad with that. He might re-establish this quality, but only by passing successfully through some vital conflict.
Hallowell! Old Bob Hallowell! It was as if he had broken faith with his friend.
"Mat!... Malachi!"
Thunderstruck, Mathison jumped to his feet, while Murphy, the detective, looked wildly about for the third man. Mathison seized him by the arm.
"For God's sake, hush! Be still! It's that little green bird."
"Mat!... Malachi!" It was the same wailing accent of that dreadful night in Manila. It was Hallowell himself speaking!
Malachi, tremendously agitated, was climbing up to his swing and down to his perch. The incredible had happened. Suggestion. Once before the bird had witnessed a confusion in the making, something like this.