world, but to the group around him as he lay on the floor, his
head upon my lap, he was a stranger far from home and very ill. Justice
could wait while mercy served. Pity urged willing messengers to bring
restoratives, to summon doctors who pronounced the sick man in the
clutches of fever. Hospitals in Hijiyama are built for the emergencies
of war, and solicitude for Page's comfort was uppermost when, after a
short consultation among the officials, permission was granted to remove
him to my house with an officer in charge.

A policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps
to The House of the Misty Star, and one followed to keep at a distance
the sympathetic, but curious crowd. Four men carried a stretcher beside
which I walked holding the limp hand of Page, who was still claimed by a
merciful unconsciousness.

The news spread rapidly. As we reached the upper road I saw Zura at the
entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving
on the old lodge gates. Her face matched the snow beneath her feet.

"Is he dead?" she demanded, as we came closer.

"No. But he's desperately ill--and under arrest," I hurriedly added.

"Oh, but he's alive; nothing else matters. Come on; my room is ready."

Before I could protest, she had given orders to the men, and Zura's
bedroom was soon converted from a girlish habitation into a dwelling
place where life and death waged contest.

Later the two physicians asked for an audience with me and delivered
their opinion: "Hanaford San's illness is the result of a severe mental
shock, received before recovery from previous illness; cause unknown;
outcome doubtful."

From the sick-room orders had been issued for absolute quiet. Every
member of the house crept about, keenly aware of the grim foe that
lurked in every corner. When night came down the darkness seemed to
enter the house and wrap itself about us as well.

[Illustration: "Oh, God! A thief! It's over!"]

As Red Cross nurse on battlefields in the aftermath, I had helped put
together the remnants of splendid men and promising youth; in sorrowing
homes I had seen hope die with the going-out of such as these. But for
me, no past moment of life held gloom so impenetrable as that first
night when Page Hanaford lay in my house, helpless. The dreaded thing
had come. The boy who had walked into our hearts to stay was a fugitive
with only a small chance to live that he might prove he was not a
cr