the Japanese town into fairyland.

The night was warm and still, and there was barely a ripple on the
water. The Bay was full of craft--liners, tramps, and yachts
swinging slowly with the tide, and hurrying to and fro sampans and
electric launches jostled indiscriminately.

On board the yacht three men were lying in long chairs on the
deck. Jermyn Atherton, the millionaire owner, a tall thin American
whose keen, clever face looked singularly youthful under a thick
crop of iron-grey hair, sat forward in his chair to light a fresh
cigar, and then turned to the man on his right. "I guess I've had
every official in Japan hunting for you these last two days,
Barry. If I hadn't had your wire from Tokio this morning I should
have gone to our Consul and churned up the whole Japanese Secret
Service and made an international affair of it," he laughed.
"Where in all creation were you? I should hardly have thought it
possible to get out of touch in this little old island. The
authorities, too, knew all about you, and reckoned they could lay
their hands on you in twelve hours. I rattled them up some," he
added, with evident satisfaction.

The Englishman smiled.

"You seem to have done," he said dryly. "When I got into Tokio
this morning I was fallen on by a hysterical inspector of police
who implored me with tears to communicate immediately with an
infuriated American who was raising Cain in Yokohama over my
disappearance. As a matter of fact I was in a little village
twenty miles inland from Tokio--quite off the beaten track.