The launch whistled--a tearing in her brain. The call to her father was instant and inexorable.... But she clung to Routledge--drew him to the very edge of the stone-pier, blind to the glances of men and women who brushed by. “Quick, tell me of Jerry!” he said. “Is he out for the war?” “My father is dying a slow death out yonder on the ship. I must go to him. Already he is dead to wars and friends--all but dead to me!” She added imperiously, “When my work is finished with him, I shall keep my promise, Routledge-san. I shall come to you!” “No--I’m going where you could not follow----” “I shall find you!” “But I have nothing between wars--no British press now, Noreen--only a begging-bowl in India. Why, my name is a whispered hate!... Just a begging-bowl in India, Noreen--and your sweet faith in me.” She was splendid in the ardor of her answer: “That begging-bowl in India--I shall carry and share with you! I shall take for mine--that name of whispered hate!... Routledge-san, you have done no wrong--but I should love you, if you led the armies of the world--to burn London!” He helped her aboard, as the bow was putting out into the river. “In a time like this there are not big enough words for you, Noreen Cardinegh.” “Oh, Routledge-san,--until I come, take care of your life for me!” she called.... Then, fearless, full-voiced, she added, standing in the snowy dusk: “And when I come--I shall take care of your life for you--even in the Leper Valley!” He watched her through the big, slow-falling flakes, until the launch disappeared behind the white stern of an American gunboat. FIFTEENTH CHAPTER NOREEN CARDINEGH APPEARS AFTER MIDNIGHT IN THE BILLIARD-ROOM OF THE _IMPERIAL_--AN INEFFABLE REMEMBRANCE Finacune caught a train for Tokyo, after disembarking at Yokohama, an hour or two before the Cardineghs. He wanted to prepare the way at the Imperial for the coming of the dean and his daughter. It was dark when he reached Shimbashi station and crossed the _Ginza_ to the now-famous hotel. Certain of the English correspondents were gathered in the lobby, it being not yet time to dress for dinner. These Finacune beckoned to the billiard-room, and, standing at the head of the farthest table, glanced over the faces to be sure that none but the trusted British were present. Then he whispered impressively: “Scene: the Bund at Shanghai, snowy twilight; time, five days ago. Looking out upon the darkening river, ‘... a face thin as a dead camel’s and yellow-white like coral!’ That’s one of his own sentences, and God pity or punish the sorrow of his face--as you like----” “Cut out the scenario,” ordered Bingley. “Who was it?” “The great frieze coat.” Bingley was first to break the silence.