Each guest on departing received a fan as a souvenir; because, as they were to learn before they left Japan, no Japanese ever receives a present without giving another in return.  Every person attached to the tea house went out to see the departure of the car, and the old woman clutched her husband’s arm fearfully when she heard the vibrations of the machinery and saw Billie turn the “Comet” down the hillside to the main road.

At last, fortified by strange if not unpalatable food and thoroughly enjoying themselves, they arrived at the entrance to the magnificent avenue called Arakawa Ridge, along each side of which, as far as the eye could see, ran two rows of cherry trees in full bloom.

The avenue was lined with ’rikshas, and hundreds of pedestrians paced slowly along.  They were in holiday attire and the bright colors of the kimonos and obis made a bewildering and brilliant picture.  At intervals booths had been erected, decorated with lanterns, where refreshments were sold, and nearby a roving band of musicians and dancers were entertaining the crowd.

The mistake Billie made was to attempt to take the car through the crowded road where apparently there were only pedestrians and jinrikshas.  But Komatsu had not objected and since they had been accustomed to take the “Comet” wherever there was a navigable road, they pushed innocently on.  As for the populace celebrating the cherry blossom festival, they evidently regarded the sight of a young woman driving a red devil-wagon as something just short of miraculous.  Slowly and at a dignified pace the motor car moved along the avenue, and suddenly like a bolt from the blue two things happened.

A little boy escaped from his sister’s hand and ran across the road.  Billie reversed the lever just as the child fell under the wheels.  At the same instant a tire on a rear wheel exploded with a loud report.

Miss Campbell groaned and hid her face in her hands.

Instantly they were surrounded by a mob of angry people.

CHAPTER VII.

A bad quarter of an hour.

In the uncertainty of that terrible moment everything turned black before Billie’s eyes.

“I am a murderer,” was all she could think.  “I’ve killed a little child.”

When the mists had cleared away she saw a weird scene about her:  hundreds of Japanese men and women, speaking in low angry voices which somehow reminded her of the breaking of the surf on the beach—­perhaps because the Japanese language has a sing-song rhythm.  The little boy, apparently limp and lifeless, lay in his sister’s arms.  Komatsu had leapt clear over the front of the car and pushed his way through the people gathered about them.  With a hand as skillful as a doctor’s he felt the child’s pulse and placed his ear over his heart.

“Baby only make believe dead,” he said.  “Honorable heart beating all same like steam engine.”