"He say Mr. Philip Ware stay here," he announced, "but house is ownerships of his friend, Mr. Daunt, of America Embassy. He regret sadly that no one are not at home." Ware reflected. Daunt's house? He lived in the Embassy compound--so they had said at dinner last night. Why should he maintain this native house in another quarter of Tokyo? There came to his mind that hackneyed phrase "the custom of the country," the foreigner's specious justification of the modern "Madame Butterfly." In this interminable city, with its labyrinthine mazes, who could tell what this or that gray roof might shelter? Was this a nook enisled, for pretty Japanese romances "under the rose"? He had loaned it to Phil--they were friends. Ware struck his stick hard against the hedge. He scarcely knew what thought had entered his mind, so nebulous was it, so indefinable. If he had thought to use this discovery, he knew no way; if it was Daunt's covert, here was Phil in possession. "Ask him if he has any idea where he is." The guide translated. The servant was ignobly unacquainted, as yet, with the _danna-San's_ illustrious habits. He arrogantly presumed to suggest that he might augustly be in any one of a hundred esteemed spots. Ware thought a moment, frowningly. "Tell him I am Ware-_San's_ brother," he said then, "and that I have just arrived in Tokyo. I shall wait in the house till he comes." The old man bowed profoundly at the statement of the relationship. He spoke at some length to the guide. The latter looked at Ware questioningly but hesitated. "Well?" asked the other tartly. "He think better please you wait to the hotel." Ware struck open the gate with a flare of irritation. "You can go now," he said to the guide, and disdaining the servant, strode along the gravel path to the house entrance. The old man looked after him with an enigmatic Japanese smile. It was not his fault if the foreigners (the _kappa_ devour them!) ate dead beasts and were all quite mad! He tucked up his _kimono_, stacked his gardening-tools neatly under the hedge, and betook himself across the street for a smoke and a game of _Go_ with the neighbor's _betto_. Under the trailing vine Ware slid back the _shoji_ and entered the house. As he stood looking at the interior his lip curled. He hated the cheapness and vulgarity to which Phil turned with instinctive liking, and he had long ago come thoroughly to despise his younger brother and to relish the whip-hand which the law, with its guardianship, gave him. The place fitted Phil, from the cigarette odor to the loud photograph in the dragon-frame and the partly open wall-closet with its significant array of bottles. It expressed his idea of "a good time!"