"Quite well," returned Ashton-Kirk, with equal politeness.
Okiu laid a heavy book upon a bench, patting it gently as he did so, as though it were a living thing.
"The old books," smiled he, and his voice was soft and purring, "are always hard to handle. The ancient makers did not know their trade as well as these of modern days. But," and the gracefully flexible hands gestured a pardon, "they had something to put into them. The old poets told of wonderful things in most wonderful ways."
"Every age has its own excellences," said the secret agent, "and perhaps mechanical efficiency is the high mark of our own."
"I fear that it is," said Okiu, in a gentle, regretful tone. "Even in my own country, once so peaceful and content with the old things, this fierce desire to perform wonders has taken root. Everywhere you see the sign of the times—in the people, in the schools, in the governments, and," here Ashton-Kirk saw the heavy lids quiver over the intent eyes, "in the army and navy."
"Ah, yes," said the secret agent; "the army and navy. We have heard of them."
"And Russia," said Okiu, softly, "has also heard of them." Fuller, a flush staining his cheeks, was about to reply to this; but a look from his employer restrained him. And after a moment's pause, Okiu went on in another tone: "Last night I offered my services if they were needed; to-day I repeat the offer, sir."
"You are very good," said Ashton-Kirk. "But the police have the matter in hand; and they resent interference, as I have found."
"I have read the morning papers with great attention," said the Japanese. "The matter as a whole is a most singular one. But, no doubt, the arrest of this young man, Warwick, will shed a light upon a great deal that is now shadowy."