For three nights past, since his wild motor-ride from Nikko, he had not slept, save in illusory snatches, from which he had waked with the sweat breaking on his forehead. Short as were these, they had held horrid visions, broken fragments of scenes that waved and clustered about the lilied altar in the Ts'kiji cathedral, echoing to the solemn service of the dead. Again and again there had started before him the stolid ring of blue-clad coolie women, swaying as they had swayed to the straw-ropes of the pile-driver in the moat-bottom with their weird chant-- _"Yó--eeya--kó--ra!_ _Yó--eeya--kó--ra!"_ And now they chanted a terrible refrain: _"Thou--shalt--not--kill!"_ To-night, however, deeper potations had done their work. He was dreaming--yellow dreams like the blackguard fancyings of the half-world--visions in which he moved, a Prince of Largesse, through unending pleasures of self-indulgence. He was on an European Boulevard, riding with Haru by his side in silk and pearls, and people turned to gaze as he went by. But now, with sinister topsyturvydom, the dream changed. The _cocher_ drove faster and faster, into a mad gallop. He turned his head and Phil saw that the face under the glazed hat was the face of his dead brother. The staring pedestrians began to pursue the carriage. They showered blow after blow on it, till the sound reverberated like thunder. Not the ghosts of his dream, but a hand of flesh and blood was knocking. It was on the outer _shoji_ and the frail dwelling shook beneath it. The servant, sunk in bovine sleep, heard no sound, but the chauffeur in the automobile that throbbed outside the wistaria gate, rose from his seat, and across a bamboo wattle a dog barked and scrambled venomously. Phil's eyes opened and he sat up giddily. He went unsteadily to the door and unfastened the _shoji_, blinking at the great form that strode past him into the inner apartment. Bersonin's gaze swept the room. "The girl!" he said hoarsely. "Where is she?" Phil looked about him dazedly--at the tumbled _f'ton_, the deserted wooden pillow. Haru gone? His senses, clouded by intoxication, took in the fact dully, as a thing of no meaning. The expert grasped him by his shoulder and shook him till the thin silk of the _kimono_ tore under the enormous white fingers. The violence had its effect. The daze fell away. Phil broke into loud imprecations. "Did you tell her anything?" Phil's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. "What is--what makes you think--" he stammered. Bersonin's face was a greenish hue. His great hands shook. "To-night," he said, in a whisper, "to-night--an hour ago--I saw her on the street. I wasn't sure at first, but I know now it was she! A naval officer was with her. _He took her into the house of the Minister of Marine!_" The other gave a low cry. A chalky pallor overspread his features. "Haru?--no, Bersonin! You're crazy, I say. She--she would never tell!"