Wiley was strolling about the lobby when Nathan came down for dinner. Wiley was the Y. man who had shared Nat’s cabin. They dined together. Afterward they explored Yokohama in the warm summer evening. Through dank, clean-smelling side streets their silent _kuruma_, or rickshaw men, trotted them,—in and out of moonlight and shadow, past tradesmen’s shops where the tradesman’s family sprawled on shining-matted rooms in the rear, a single electric droplight hanging from the low, polished ceiling, across a canal, northwestward where lights glowed and music played, and Theater Street reveled in illumination and bunting and laughter. Laughter, laughter! Everywhere was laughter. The land was saturated with it. Old men laughed, young men laughed, women laughed, children shrieked continually. Everybody seemed gloriously happy. Wiley and Nathan left their _kuruma_ and walked the length of Theater Street, with its bizarre shops, exotic music, peanut whistles, shuffling _geta_; they went to a Japanese movie and sat on floor cushions while a “lecturer” talked the film as it unreeled; they bought “ice cream,”—scraped ice with fruit juice spilled upon it; three times they narrowly “dodged” being run into _geisha_ houses. Nathan retired to bed finally with a little twinge of disappointment. He had not met his father. He went to the Consulate promptly next morning. “Forge?” repeated the consul. “Came out three years ago, you say? I’ll have one of the boys look back over the books. But I don’t know any Johnathan Forge living here in the country at present.” The books were searched. There was no record. “Then he couldn’t have come here under that name,” Nathan was informed. “Was there any reason why he should have employed a different one?” Nathan shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter,” he observed. He did not find his father. IV He was sitting in one of the big windows of the southern portico looking out over Tokio Bay, ten days later, when Wiley caught sight of him and came abruptly over. Wiley was in khaki,—a bright new uniform. On his left sleeve glowed a heavy scarlet triangle. “I’m off to-morrow, Nathan,” he cried. “How goes it? Found your goods yet?” “Yes,” replied Nathan. “Found them in a fine mess! All smashed together in a _godown_ over in Tsuruga, on the other side the island. They’d been held up because of broken crates and lack of tonnage—to carry them up across the Japan Sea.” “What are you going to do with them?” “Sell them to the Japanese Government. To thunder with the Russians! In another year they won’t have cash enough to buy their own propaganda newspapers.” “Nat, they’re going to have a draft at home!” “I’ve heard about it.”