"Kemuri tatsu;
Tami no kamado wa
Nigiwai ni kere".
He lifted his head from the low neck-rest, and remembered. The voice came through the wall of his room; but it was not a wall—only a slight paper partition. It was evidently time to get up. He flung off the wadded quilt, and sat up—not in bed, but on the stretch of straw matting that formed almost the only furniture of his room. The neck-rest fell down, making a slight noise; the voice in the next room ceased singing; he heard the swish of soft garments; a few moments later a sliding paper panel in the partition was pushed back and a form appeared—the form of a little Japanese carrying a bath and a pitcher of water.
"Morning, sir," said the little fellow with a smile and a bow. "Bath in morning, sir?"
"Thank you," said Bob, springing to his feet. "By the way, I don't think I have heard your name yet?"
"My name, sir, Taru. You sleep well, sir?"
"Oh yes, though I found the head-rest a little strange. Was it you singing just now, Taru?"
"No, sir; no sing at all. The little lady, hon'ble mistress, sir; O Toyo San."
"Indeed!"
Bob forbore to ask questions. He had only arrived the night before at Kobo San's country house near Nikko, tired and chilled after the uphill railway journey from Tokio, and quite ready to retire to his sleeping-chamber after a cup of warm saké. It was three days since his first meeting with the Japanese gentleman who had called upon him at the hotel. During those three days Kobo San had proved himself a most delightful companion. He had taken the young Englishman here, there, and everywhere about Tokio: to an entertainment at the Maple Club, where Bob had seen the prettiest geishas in Japan dance to the barbarous music of the samisen and the koto; to a wrestling match between two huge athletes; to a theatrical performance which, though tragic in intention, gave him considerable amusement, so strangely were the actors' faces painted, so ludicrous (to the European eye) were their gestures and grimaces. Bob was intensely interested in all that he saw, and sincerely grateful to his indefatigable guide; but his delight was increased tenfold when he received an invitation to spend a few days at Kobo San's country house; it was a unique opportunity of seeing for himself something of the domestic life of Japan.
Two things had struck him specially during those three days. The one was that Kobo San was a man of great note and influence; wherever he went he was treated with exceeding respect and deference. The second was that, though he himself knew almost nothing about Kobo, Kobo appeared to know a good deal about him. No confidences had been given, none asked; but Bob had the strange consciousness that his new friend was perfectly acquainted with the errand upon which he had come from the island empire of the West to the island empire of the East. When inviting him to Nikko, Kobo had said "My house is within easy reach of the telegraph", as though to reassure him that if the summons he was expecting should come suddenly, while he was there, nothing need hinder his prompt obedience to the call. Bob had never learnt how his host had discovered the whereabouts of the stranger who had rescued his man from the one-eared Manchu. The explanation was simple. The Japanese, finding his vengeful hunt for Chang-Wo fruitless, had next day made enquiries at all the European hotels, and learning that a young Englishman staying at one of them somewhat answered to the description he gave, had sat down on his heels at the gate for hours, and waited there until the man he was in search of passed by.