Not the ghosts of his dream, but a hand of flesh and blood was knocking. It was on the outer shoji and the frail dwelling shook beneath it. The servant, sunk in bovine sleep, heard no sound, but the chauffeur in the automobile that throbbed outside the wistaria gate, rose from his seat, and across a bamboo wattle a dog barked and scrambled venomously.
Phil's eyes opened and he sat up giddily. He went unsteadily to the door and unfastened the shoji, blinking at the great form that strode past him into the inner apartment.
Bersonin's gaze swept the room. "The girl!" he said hoarsely. "Where is she?"
Phil looked about him dazedly—at the tumbled f'ton, the deserted wooden pillow. Haru gone? His senses, clouded by intoxication, took in the fact dully, as a thing of no meaning.
The expert grasped him by his shoulder and shook him till the thin silk of the kimono tore under the enormous white fingers. The violence had its effect. The daze fell away. Phil broke into loud imprecations.
"Did you tell her anything?"
Phil's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. "What is—what makes you think—" he stammered.
Bersonin's face was a greenish hue. His great hands shook.
"To-night," he said, in a whisper, "to-night—an hour ago—I saw her on the street. I wasn't sure at first, but I know now it was she! A naval officer was with her. He took her into the house of the Minister of Marine!"
The other gave a low cry. A chalky pallor overspread his features. "Haru?—no, Bersonin! You're crazy, I say. She—she would never tell!"