said letter and that he had forwarded the news to the Mother
Superior of the Convent School in Paris.

Craven went back into the sitting-room to write cables.




CHAPTER III


Owing to a breakdown on the line the boat-train from Marseilles
crawled into the Gare du Lyon a couple of hours late. Craven had
not slept. He had given his berth in the waggon-lit to an invalid
fellow passenger and had sat up all night in an overcrowded,
overheated carriage, choked with the stifling atmosphere, his long
legs cramped for lack of space.

It was early March, and the difference between the temperature of
the train and the raw air of the station struck him unpleasantly
as he climbed down on to the platform.

Leaving Yoshio, equally at home in Paris as in Yokohama, to
collect luggage, he signalled to a waiting taxi. He had the
hood opened and, pushing back his hat, let the keen wind blow
about his face. The cab jerked over the rough streets, at this
early hour crowded with people--working Paris going to its daily
toil--and he watched them hurrying by with the indifference of
familiarity. Gradually he ceased even to look at the varied types,
the jostling traffic, the bizarre posters and the busy newspaper