In the ditch near the car lay Arima. One of his legs was bent under him horribly. Orme hurried over to him.
The Japanese was conscious. His beady eyes glittered wetly in the starlight, but he said no word, gave no groan, made no show of pain. Whatever he may have suffered, he endured with the stoicism that is traditional in his race.
“Much hurt?” asked Orme, bending over him.
“My leg broke.” Arima spoke unemotionally.
Orme considered. “I’ll send you help,” he said, at last. “Lie quiet for a little while, and you will be looked after.”
He rose, smoothed out his clothing, and pulled himself together. It was not part of his program to let whomever he might meet know that he himself had been concerned in the wreck.
In a moment he returned to Arima. “I’ll have to have those papers,” he said.
Silently the Japanese reached within his coat and drew out the papers. He held them up for Orme to take.
“You have me beat,” he said. “Spirit told me I must fail.”
A picture of the scene in Madame Alia’s rooms came to Orme; the darkness broken only by a pinpoint of gaslight; the floating, ghostly forms; the circle of awed believers, with the two Japanese, intent as children.