He went to Tokio, and certainly did not look unhappy when he returned. Mrs. Pottle bombarded him with questions about what had happened. "Oh, it was all right," said Bob. "He’s a very good sort; so’s the Empress. It wasn’t the formal affair I expected. They had me in their private apartments and gave me some tea, and the Emperor said uncommonly nice things, and presented me with—this." He held up a ribbon with a gold ornament attached. "My!" exclaimed Mrs. Pottle, "what’s that?" "It’s the insignia of the order of the Sacred Treasure." "Mysakes! Only think of that! Well, I’ll say this; it’s no more than you deserve. There!" "I’m so glad," said Ethel. "What’s it worth in cash?" drawled Mr. Charteris. "Oh, poppa, you unromantic, practical, shocking old man! The idea! It’s perfectly priceless. Mr. Fawcett wouldn’t part with it for anything, I’m sure." "I sha’n’t tempt him. I don’t cotton to fal-lals of that sort. A thumping cheque would have been more to the point. Say, Mr. Fawcett, you ain’t a rich man?" Bob flushed at the blunt question, and Ethel blushed in sympathy. "No offence!" added the old man, his eyes twinkling. "It’s just this way. I’ve been thinking for a week, Mr. Fawcett. It ain’t right for that tramp of yours across the Manchurian hills to be thrown slick away. How long do you suppose this war will last out?" "That’s more than I can even imagine," replied Bob. "I don’t see how Port Arthur can hold out much longer; they are closing in on it; and as to the land campaign, the Japanese generals are driving the Russians from pillar to post. If the Russians are wise, the war will end with the fall of Port Arthur." "Ah! and then?" "What do you mean, sir?" "Well, I suppose the Japs—" "Poppa!" interrupted Ethel. "Don’t use that horrid word—call them Japanese." "Anything to please you, my love. I was going to say that I suppose the Japs—Japanese, I mean—are not running this war for nothing. They’ll want to develop the country—what?" "No doubt." "And they’ll keep an ’open door’, eh? Well, what I’ve been thinking is this. When the war ends, it’ll be time for me to slip in with a syndicate to work out some of the minerals—what! And it seems to me, from what I’ve heard and seen of you—especially what I’ve seen—that you’re the right sort to be of use. You know the country; say, you’ve had a practical training—not wasted too much time on defunct languages, eh? and what’s most to the point, you’ve got a pretty level head, and I’ll go bail you ain’t afraid of work. So, if you’re agreeable, we’ll strike a bargain. What?" "I accept your offer with pleasure, sir," said Bob, his face flushed, his eyes shining. "I’ve always wanted to live an active life, and—" "Shake!" said the American, relapsing into his usual laconic mode of utterance. Mrs. Pottle gleamed benevolence through her eye-glasses, and Bob’s eyes sought Ethel’s.