Impey shrugged his shoulders, a knowing smile on his face that angered Phil greatly. “If Japan means to buy these ships--then look out; for if she does--it means war.” Further talk on this dangerous topic was cut short by the discovery that the American party had driven away. The midshipmen were much chagrined to find that no carriage had been left behind for them. The Kingsleys had left a note for Mr. Impey saying that they had gone on with the ambassador and the American officers to the embassy. “Come with me in the machine. I can set you down anywhere you say,” Impey suggested as he cranked up his waiting machine. “From this note I fear I am not included in your ambassador’s invitation,” he added. Phil hesitated; he was still angry at himself for allowing Impey to discuss with him the relations between America and Japan. He felt that it were better to have nothing to do with this man, who was apparently leading a dual life in Tokyo--one minute advising a Japanese nobleman that America was insincere, and the next, assuring the Americans that Japan was unfriendly. Sydney appeared to have no feeling in the matter, for he was already in the rear seat. Phil followed, the consoling thought in his mind that Impey might bear careful watching too and that this was the best way to do it. Impey threw in the clutch, and the machine glided along the macadam roadway. “To the American Embassy, I suppose?” he questioned over his shoulder as they turned into a narrower street. The speed did not slacken, but the horn was being sounded in warning to the startled holiday crowds that filled the street ahead of them. Phil managed to answer in the affirmative, but his voice was lost in the wail of the syren. The crowd ahead had quickly cleared the road, while Impey, seeing the way clear, was soon tearing at full speed down the street. The official buildings of the empire flashed past on either hand. Opposite the navy building a great crowd had collected to do honor to one of Japan’s naval heroes. “Hadn’t you better slow up?” Sydney asked apprehensively, as he realized the density of the crowd, but the driver of the machine gave no heed to the anxious voice behind him. The masterful way in which he guided the great car in and out among carriages, rikishas and pedestrians won the admiration of the midshipmen in spite of their dread of an accident. “He certainly can handle her,” Phil exclaimed, “but it raises my hair to see the close shaves he makes.” Just ahead a figure in uniform was running at the side of the roadway. It was plain that he was an official messenger, and carrying government despatches. Phil gave a warning shout. It seemed to the lad that the machine was bearing down directly upon him--too dangerously close for comfort. “Why doesn’t he sheer off?” Phil gasped. “That man must be deaf.”