ormal College to answer many personal questions. For a moment he
dallied with a few preliminary statements; then, throwing aside all
reserve, the man began his probe as a skilled surgeon might search a
victim's body for hidden bullets.

Page, outwardly calm, answered steadily at first, but his knotted
fingers and swelling veins showed the strain. Once his lips trembled. I
had never seen a man's lips tremble before. It's no wonder mothers can
die for sons.

Inquiries as to quantity and quality of ancestors, place of birth, age,
calling now and formerly came with the precision of a marksman hunting
the center of the target. "How long have you been in this country?"

"About a year."

"From where did you come to Japan?"

Page hesitated, then stammered: "Don't remember."

The high-lifted brows of the official were eloquent, his voice
increasingly sarcastic: "So! Your memory makes absence. Repeat your
name once again."

"Page Hanaford."

"Hanaford? So! Now your other name?"

"I have no other name."

"Your other name!" was the sharp demand.

"My name is Page Hanaford, I tell you." He spoke with quick anger as he
arose from the chair.

"Your other name!" sternly reiterated his inquisitor.

A wave of confusion seemed to cover the boy. Desperate and at bay, he
rather feebly steadied himself for a last defense. "What do you mean?
Can't you hear me? I tell you for the last time my name is--"

"Ford Page Hamilton," supplied the voice of Kobu, cool, suave and sure
as he came from behind the curtain. "I arrest you as fugitive. See what
paper says? You take moneys from bank." He exposed a circular printed in
large type. It read:

"$5,000 reward for information of one Ford Page Hamilton, dead or alive.
Last seen in Singapore, summer of 1912," followed by a detailed
description and signed by a Chicago banking firm.

"It's a lie!" shouted Page as he read.

"No lie. See? Page Hanaford San, Ford Hamilton San all same." Kobu held
close to the pitiful white face a photograph which undoubtedly could
have been Page Hanaford in happier days.

The boy looked, then laid his shaking arm across his eyes. With a moan
as if his soul had yielded to despair he hoarsely whispered: "Oh, God! A
thief! It's over!"

He sank to the floor.

XVIII

A VISITOR FROM AMERICA

In old Nippon the flower of kindness reaches full perfection when friend
or foe suffers defeat. Page Hanaford might be a long-hunted prize in the
police