As the three men listened to the swift, broken story, there was no sound save the rustle of the wind outside, the clack of a night-watchman, and the ticking of the clock on the marble mantel. The crouching form, the sodden garments, the passionate intensity of the slim, clutched hands, the fire in the dark eyes—all lent effect to a narrative instinct with terrible truth. The Ambassador's knowledge of the colloquial was limited, but he knew enough to grasp the story's main features. It capped the edifice of suspicion and furnished a direful solution to what had been mysterious. Once the Admiral's eyes met his, and each knew that the other believed. Terrible as its meaning was—pointing to what black depths of abysmal wickedness—it was true!

The Admiral listened with a countenance that might have been carved of metal, but the faces of the others were gray-white. Later was to come to both the pathos and meaning of the sacrifice this frail girl had laid on the knees of her country's gods, but for the hour, all else was swallowed up in the horrifying knowledge, struck through with the sharp fact that one of the partners in this devilish enterprise, however expatriate, was of their own nation. To Daunt this was intensified by his own acquaintance with Phil. Memories swept him of that worthless, ribald career—the evil intimacy with Bersonin—the gradual dominance of the bottle, which in the end had betrayed him!

With a singular separateness of vision, he seemed, in lightning-like flashes, to see that betrayal: the blind infatuation, the slow enticements, the reckless, intoxicated triumph, the final surrender. He seemed to see Haru, her secret won, running panting through the wind. He saw Phil waking at last from his drunken slumber—to what shame and penalty? He shuddered.

When the secretary entered at the crisp sound of the Admiral's bell, he started at the pallid countenances in the room. The Japanese girl stood trembling, half-supported by the Admiral's arm. The latter spoke—in a voice that held no sign of feeling. It was to present the young man to the girl in the most formal and elaborate courtesy.

"The Ojo-San deigns to be for but an hour the guest of my mean abode," he said. "Instruct my karei that in that unworthy interval he may offer her august refreshment and afterward prepare her proper escort and conveyance. Meantime, send my aide to me."

The secretary's gleam of astonishment veiled itself under oriental lashes, and a tinge of color warmed the whiteness of Haru's cheek. He bowed to her profoundly. As he deferentially opened the door, she turned back, swayed, and sank suddenly prone in a deep, sweeping obeisance.

An instant the Admiral stood looking after her. "The petal of a plum-blossom," he said, "under the hoof of the swine!"

His manner changed abruptly as the aide entered. He spoke in quick, curt Japanese, in a tone sharp and exact as steel shears snipping through zinc:

"Something has transpired of great moment. There is no time to deal with it by the ordinary channels. It is of the first importance—the first importance!—that I reach Yokohama within the hour. You will call up Shimbashi and order a special train with right of way. This admits of no delay! Send for my carriage at once. You will accompany me. We leave in ten minutes." The aide went out quickly while he seated himself at his desk and began to write rapidly.

"Two battle-ships!" he said suddenly, wheeling in his seat. "With the human lives on them! Perhaps even war between two or more nations! Gods of my ancestors! All this to hang on the loyalty of a mere girl!"

The Ambassador, pacing the floor, snapped the lid of his watch. "It must still be close to two hours of sunrise," he said in an agitated voice. "Surely there is time!"

The Admiral was consulting an almanac when the aide reËntered. "Here is a telegram," he said. "Put it on the wire at once. It must arrive before us."

"Excellency," said the aide, "the train is not possible. The service to Yokohama ceased at six o'clock. The rains—there is a washout."

His chief pondered swiftly. "It must be left to others, then. Call up the emergency long-distance for Yokohama and give me a clear wire at once to the Governor's residence. I must make the telegraphic instructions fuller." He bent over the desk.

Trepidation was on the aide's face when he returned this time.

"Excellency the accident to the line was the failure of the bridge over the Rokuga-gawa. It carried both the telegraph and telephone conduits. No wire will be working before noon to-morrow."

The Admiral half-rose. He stretched out his hand, then drew it back.

"The wireless!" exclaimed the Ambassador.

The aide's troubled voice replied. Whatever the necessity he knew that it was a crucial one.

"The mast was displaced by to-day's earthquake," he said. "The system is temporarily useless."

There was a moment of blank silence. The Admiral sat staring straight before him. The only sign of agitation was his labored breathing.

"Can a horse get through?"

The other shook his head. "Not under three hours. It would have to be by dÉtour—and there are no relays."

"A motor car?"

"Impossible!" exclaimed the Ambassador. "By the long road and in better weather my Mercedes can not do it under eighty minutes."

The Admiral lifted himself from his chair. His eyes were bloodshot and on his forehead tiny veins had sprung out in branching clusters of purple.

"In the name of Shaka! Yokohama harbor but a handful of miles away, and cut off utterly? It must be reached, I tell you! It must be reached!" His voice was low-pitched, but terrible in its intensity. "Drive to the Naval College and ask for twenty cadets—its swiftest runners—to be sent after you to Shimbashi. A locomotive can take them as far as the river. If there are no sampan, they can swim. Make demand in my authority. Not a minute is to be lost!" He put what he had been writing into the aide's hand. "Read this in the carriage. It will serve as instruction."

The aide thrust the paper into his breast and vanished. The Admiral looked about him through stiffened, half-closed eyelids. Then, under the stress, it seemed, of a mighty shudder—the very soul of that overwhelming certainty of the peril awaiting the red dawn on that bungalow roof above the Yokohama anchorage—the racial impassivity, the restraint and repression of emotion that long generations of ingrain habit have made second nature to the Japanese, suddenly crumbled. He struck his hand hard against the desk.

"Has not Japan toiled and borne enough, that this shame must come to her?" His deep voice shook. "Your Excellency—Mr. Daunt—in all this land where heroism is hackneyed and sacrifice a fetish, there is no prince or coolie who, to turn aside this peril, would not give his body to the torture. Yet must we sit here helpless as Darumas! If man but had wings!"

Daunt stiffened. He felt his heart beat to his temples. He started to his feet with an exclamation.

"But man has wings!" he cried.

What of the long hours of toil and experiment, the gray mornings on Aoyama parade-ground when his Glider had carried him circling above the tree-tops? Could he do it? With no other word he darted to the hall. They heard his flying feet on the gravel and a quick command to a betto. The wind tossed back the word into the strained quiet.

"Aoyama!" exclaimed the Ambassador, as the hoof-beats, lashed to an anguish of speed, died into silence. "His Glider!"

A sudden hope flashed into the Admiral's face.

"The gods of Nippon aid him!" he said.