CHAPTER XXVII. CONFESSION.
Cleo Ballard did not answer Takashima's letter. All night long it rose up before her accusingly, and the next morning she dressed in feverish haste, and rushed off to her friend, Mrs. Davis.
"Jenny," she said, wildly, "I want to go away—I must go—I am stifling here. I must leave Tokyo—I—I——" she broke down and covered her face with her hands.
"Why, Cleo—what is it?" Her friend's kindly arms were around her.
"I can't tell you, Jenny. I can't tell you—you would hate me, and then, except Tom—Oh, Jenny, I can't afford now to lose any one's friendship."
"Nothing you can tell me, Cleo, would make me hate you. Is it some flirtation you have carried too far? Come, now, it used to relieve you to tell me all about these things in America. Who is it? Alliston? Cranston? or the Englishman?—or—or——"
"No—none of them—it—it—Oh, Jenny, I can't tell you."
"You must, Cleo—it will do you good, I know, and perhaps I can help you."
"It is—Takashima."