an almost haggard look; and his dancing blue eyes seemed
to be never still. He wore a suit of navy serge fitting close to his
figure, black tie, and grey spats. In fact, he was as immaculate as a
young diplomat should always be.

Outside his broad veranda was a gravel path, and beyond that a
Japanese garden, the hobby of one of his predecessors, a miniature
domain of hillocks and shrubs, with the inevitable pebbly water
course, in which a bronze crane was perpetually fishing. Over the
red-brick wall which encircles the Embassy compound the reddish buds
of a cherry avenue were bursting in white stars.

The compound of the Embassy is a fragment of British soil. The British
flag floats over it; and the Japanese authorities have no power
within its walls. Its large population of Japanese servants, about one
hundred and fifty in all, are free from the burden of Japanese taxes;
and, since the police may not enter, gambling, forbidden throughout
the Empire, flourishes there; and the rambling servants' quarters
behind the Ambassador's house are the Monte Carlo of the Tokyo _betto_
(coachman) and _kurumaya_ (rickshaw runner). However, since the
alarming discovery that a professional burglar had, Diogenes-like,
been occupying an old tub in a corner of the wide grounds, a policeman
has been allowed to patrol the garden; but he has to drop that
omnipotent swagger which marks his presence outside the walls.

Except for Reggie Forsyth's exotic shrubbery, there is nothing
Japanese within the solid red walls. The Embassy itself is the house
of a prosperous city gentleman and might be transplanted to Bromley or
Wimbledon. The smaller houses of the secretaries and the interpreters
also wear a smug, suburban appearance, with their red brick and their
black-and-white gabling. Only the broad verandas betray the intrusion
of a warmer sun than ours.

The lawns were laid out as a miniature golf-links, the thick masses
of Japanese shrubs forming deadly bunkers, and Reggie was trying some
mashie shots when one of the rare Tokyo taxi-cabs, carrying Geoffrey
Barrington inside it, came slowly round a corner of the drive, as
though it were feeling its way for its destination among such a
cluster of houses.

Geoffrey was alone.

"Hello, old chap!" cried Reggie, running up and shaking his friend's
big paw in his small nervous grip, "I'm so awfully glad to see you;
but where's Mrs. Barrington?"

Geoffrey had not brought his wife. He explained