"Not understand, sir?" said a passing Japanese waiter, with the smiling courtesy of all the hotel attendants. "I don’t, I confess," replied Bob, returning the smile. "What do you call this, for instance?" "That, sir? That _Ninkin Shimbun_—very good paper. My uncle belong that paper one time—prison editor." "Prison editor?" Bob looked puzzled. "In Japan, sir, newspaper two editors one time. Number one editor he write War Minister bad man. Policeman he come say: ’Be so kind cease publish hon’ble paper; hon’ble publisher, hon’ble printer, hon’ble editor be so kind enter hon’ble prison’. Number two editor he go prison, number one editor he stay home." "I suppose they pay number two well for that," remarked Bob laughing. "No, sir; my uncle very poor man. His wages four yen a month; but no spend much, in prison every time." "Poor fellow! He earns his four yen." The little waiter’s countenance took on a lugubrious expression. "He prison editor not now no longer," he said. "Everything change in Nippon. These days number one editor go prison, number two he out of work. My poor uncle sell _Ninkin Shimbun_ Shimbashi railway-station." At this moment the hall-porter entered, and bowed to Bob with a deep Japanese obeisance. "Japanese gentleman, sir, beg you be so kind give him interview." "Oh! who is it?" said Bob, thinking that it must be the bearer of the expected summons from the minister. "Japanese gentleman, sir; say you not know his name. But he very great man, he very noble Samurai." Then, looking with an air of imparting important information, he added: "His name, sir, Rokuro Kobo San." Surprised that so important a personage should have been chosen to wait upon him, Bob rose and made his way across the corridor to the reception-room. The porter shut the door behind him, and as he advanced a slight figure stepped lightly across the room to meet him. Whatever dim picture of a Samurai Bob had formed in his mind was banished at the sight of a trim, exquisitely-dressed Japanese, wearing a frock-coat that would have done credit to Poole’s, and carrying with practised ease a silk hat, which might have been twin-brother of Bob’s unused Lincoln & Bennett. He was short, though perhaps rather above the average height of his nation. In feature he resembled the Japanese of better class whom Bob had seen at the government offices, but with an indefinable touch of added refinement, due partly, no doubt, to his Samurai blood, but partly also, as Bob surmised, to his evident familiarity with western civilization. He was sallow, like all his race; his jet-black hair was thick and strong, and a narrow moustache graced his upper lip. It is always difficult to judge the age of an alien in race, and Bob had little or no experience to guide him; but the impression made upon him by his visitor’s general bearing was that he was in the prime of life. "Good-morning, sir," said Bob pleasantly.