long scrolls of ancient Japanese origin. Here a silver stork stood in a
pool of limpid blue; there a cherry orchard blossomed out with all the
extravagant beauty of spring, and in the corner a pagoda, with sloping,
red-tile roof and wide doors, proclaimed the fact that the Japanese were
a people of art, even down to house building. Silk tapestries of varying
tints hung about the room, while in the shadows a small heathen god
smiled a perpetual smile.

But it was none of these things that the girl saw at that moment. This
room, fitted up as it had been by rich Japanese students, most certainly
had brought back fond memories of her own country. But at this instant,
her eyes turned often to a screen behind which was a stand, and on that
stand was a desk telephone.

Hanada had promised to consult Johnny Thompson regarding the strange
proposition of the unknown Japanese. He had promised to call her at
once; by eight-thirty at the latest. The stranger was to return for his
answer at nine. It now lacked but ten minutes of that hour, and no call
had come from Hanada. She could not, of course, know that the men on
whom she depended for counsel were prisoners of the police. So she paced
the floor and waited.

Five minutes to nine and yet no call. Wrinkles came to her forehead, her
step grew more impatient.

"If he does not call, what shall I do?" she asked herself.

Then there came the sharp ring of the telephone. She sprang to the
instrument, but the call was for another member of the club.