blindly at the verandah rail. But the sensation passed quickly and
he pulled himself together, to find Yoshio beside him thrusting
his helmet into his hands.

"Better Master going back to bungalow. I make all arrangements,
understanding Japanese ways," he said calmly.

His words, matter-of-fact, almost brutal, brought Craven abruptly
to actualities. There was necessity for immediate action. This was
the East, where the grim finalities must unavoidably be hastened.
But he resented the man's suggestion. To go back to the bungalow
seemed a shirking of the responsibility that was his, the last
insult he could offer her. But Yoshio argued vehemently, blunt to
a degree, and Craven winced once or twice at the irrefutable
reasons he put forward. It was true that he could do no real good
by staying. It was true that he was of no use in the present
emergency, that his absence would make things easier. But that it
was the truth made it no less hard to hear. He gave in at last and
agreed to all Yoshio's proposals--a curious compound of devotion
to his master, shrewd commonsense and knowledge of the laws of the
country. He went quickly down the winding path to the gate. The
garden hurt him. The careless splashing of the tiny waterfall
jarred poignantly--laughing water caring nothing that the hand
that had planted much of the beauty of its banks was stilled for
ever. It had always seemed a living being tumbling joyously down
the hillside, it seemed alive now--callous, self-absorbed.

Craven had no clear impression of the run back into Yokohama and
he looked up with surprise when the men stopped. He stood outside
the gate for a moment looking over the harbour. He stared at the