They were in a troop-train at last, down the Tokaido, the old cedar-lined highway of the _daimios_,--Feeney, Finacune, Trollope, Bingley, other English and as many more Americans. The road was a brown streak of troop-laden trains off to embarkation ports. Japan was sending out her willing wealth of men to a brown and sullen land of such distances as would balk the short-sighted Japanese eye, so used to toy sizes in all things--toy trees, terraces, hills, and roads, whose ends are mostly in view. These men were off to fight now in the outer court of “the last and the largest empire, whose map is but half unrolled.” Bingley was sitting apart as usual, already in puttees and Bedford cords, a blanket-roll underfoot and a light, travelling type-mill in a leather-case by his side. Bingley was brimming with the morbid, moody passion for Bingley triumphs. A great type of the militant Englishman this, with his stiff jaw and strong-seasoned blood, utterly painless to almost everything but the spur of ambition; identified peculiarly, penetratingly, with Bingley and no other; the six feet of animal named Bingley, in a soft shirt and Bingley cords. He was sombrely glad this April morning to be started for the field at last. Presently the _Thames_, London, the world, would hear the name of Bingley again--and the name would mean a giant grappling with “monster heroisms” in the midst of Asia and armies. The revelation and death of Jerry Cardinegh the night before had a personal aspect from Bingley’s point of view. It was that Routledge, vindicated, would have a free hand again. He would probably oust Benton Day from the _Review_ and seek to regain his old supremacy. Routledge would require lots of handling, delicate and daring, to be downed and dimmed. To Feeney and Finacune, the events of the night before had taken a place among the great military crises of their experience. They had cabled the morning hours away, as the other Englishmen had done, urged by the woman. Indeed, the American correspondents were not a little disturbed by the unwonted activity of the Londoners at a time when, to them, all was done. What the confession of Jerry Cardinegh meant to the English is difficult adequately to express. Routledge had always been _outré_ and mysterious. The great treachery adjusted itself to him with a degree of readiness, since it is easier to identify a brilliant crime with an individual held loftily, than with one in the more immediate reaches of the public comprehension. But that old Jerry, their dean, their master of many services, their idol and chief, should have turned this appalling trick against the British arms which he had helped to make famous--this was a heart-jolt which bruised the twinings of a hundred sentiments. Feeney was an Irishman, and could understand the Cardinegh-passion, probably better than the others, but he could not understand its expression in treachery. To him there was only one explanation--madness....