“My father did this!”... Upon such a sentence the whole dreadful structure was built. Thoughts of her childhood had their significance in the breaking of this horrid storm of war. Aye, and the little house in Tyrone before her coming! It was there that the black shadow, falling upon his country, crept into the brain of Jerry Cardinegh. The shadow grew, was identified with her earliest memories. Into her father’s mortal wound, inflicted by the passing of the sweetest woman, the shadow had sunk with all its Tartarean blackness. She saw it all now--the sinister, mysterious passion which had rivalled even his love for her. The wars had deepened, blackened it. The last visit to Ireland had turned it into hideous, tossing night. And this was the beating storm--babes with sticks for guns, companies of soldiers in the _Fukiage_, the wailing “Banzai Niphon” from Shimbashi station, where the regiments entrained for the southern ports of mobilization; and on the lower floor of the hotel, where still were gathering the war-experts from all the earth.... The strength ran from her limbs, and her heart cried out. Japan, which she had loved, became like a haunted house to her; yet she could not hope to find Routledge without some word concerning him, and Tokyo was the natural base of her search operations. All the correspondents going out with the different armies were pledged to communicate with her any word they might receive regarding him. The correspondents, unsecured to any of the four armies, and destined to work from the outside--at Chifu, Newchwang, Chemulpo, Shanhaikwan or Shanghai--even these had promised her a cable-flash at the sight of Routledge. Through an agent in New York she learned that the name “Routledge” was not attached for work in the Orient to any newspaper on the Atlantic seaboard; still, by cable she subscribed for the chief American newspapers. Tokyo was her address.