"Ha, ha!" laughed Arisuga, with American politeness, this time.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Jones.
And Hoshiko, taking her cue, laughed too, out of the palest face she had ever had. For she was present—though she was not thought to know English enough to understand what was said.
But that night Jones was awakened by something strange at his throat. It was a steel blade—and an ominous Arisuga. In one hand he had a candle. In the other Hoshiko's sharp little sword—close against his skin.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Arisuga.
Jones was in no laughing mood.
"Laugh!" said Arisuga.
Then Jones brought forth a sickly cachinnation which stopped at the first note; for it made the sword to penetrate his skin.
"Lie still—quite still!" admonished the Japanese, with deadly quiet, and Jones did not move a muscle for a moment, which seemed years.
Then the light went out and Jones expected death. But nothing happened. He waited long. The sweat poured out until his bed was wet. He was certain that he felt that blade still at his throat—and the little stream of blood from it. But there was no more. He was not dead. At last he cautiously put his hand out. It encountered nothing. Then he raised it to his throat. Nothing was there. He leaped out of bed on the other side. Nothing further happened. He did not even call for the police.