She struggled against him, her eyes sweeping the circle about her with a passionate entreaty. Suddenly she saw the Ambassador. She lifted her face, swollen with crying, to him:
"You—nod know me—Haru?" she faltered, "né? Say so!"
"Haru!" he exclaimed. Then, turning to the Admiral, "I know the child," he said. "She was companion to one of our house-guests till a week ago, when she disappeared from her home."
His host made an exclamation of pity. "It is no-byo, no doubt," he said, using the word for the strange Japanese brain-fever which is akin to madness. "She must be cared for at once." He leaned and spoke soothingly to her.
A spasm seized Haru. She tore herself from the aide's grasp and, falling prone, beat her small fists on the floor. "They will none of them listen! They will none of them listen!" she screamed, in Japanese. "They call it the fever, and they will not hear! And to-morrow it will be too late!" A peal of hysteric laughter shook her, mixed with strangling sobs. "Are all the gods with Bersonin-San?"
At that name the Admiral's face changed swiftly. "Leave her with me," he said, "and wait in the anteroom."
"But, Excellency—"
The other lifted his hand, and the aide withdrew with the secretary. His two callers had risen, but he stayed them. "We have gone far along the road of confidence to-night," he said in a low tone. "If you are willing, we will go to the end."
He bent and drew the girl to a sitting posture.
"Tell us," he said gently, "what brought you here."