Tetsujo drew a tenugui from his sleeve, mopped his damp brow, pulled his kimono collar into smoother folds, and settled, by degrees, into an appearance of tranquillity. Now and again a small convulsive shudder still passed over him, a movement involuntary and uncontrollable, such as is seen in a runaway horse brought suddenly to a stand.
"Now let me question," began Haganè's deep tones again. "Answer nothing, my friend, but what I ask. Are you certain that this man, whom our little Yuki thinks she loves, is, indeed, a foreigner?"
"I am not honorably certain, your Highness, even of so much. But I think he is a foreigner. No Japanese, not even a street scavenger of Yedo, as I told her—"
Haganè raised a hand for silence. "You should, first of all, have ascertained his race, his name, and his profession. He may be a hired Russian spy for all we know."
Tetsujo almost bounded from his place. "A Russian spy! God of Battles,—I thought not of that!"
"And did you bethink you to inquire whether the—person—had already followed her to this country?"
Tetsujo's eyes rolled fearfully. He found no ready words. "My Lord—my Lord—" he gasped.
"You now perceive, Tetsujo, there are better things for a man to do with his wits than ignite them, and, with the burning bits, play a foolish jugglery. Our first concern is to find out whether or not that man is here."
Tetsujo bowed over to hide his chagrin. "Your wisdom is that of Dō-ku and Benkei Sama in one," he murmured.
Haganè stuffed and lighted a small pipe. "When you met your daughter on the hatoba at Yokohama were there young males of the party?"