“No like honorable devil-wagon,” went on Komatsu steadily.

While this low, rapid dialogue was taking place Billie, standing on the front seat of the “Comet” on the lookout for help, saw something that made her blood turn cold.  A band of fierce looking young men in Japanese costume was approaching on the run.  The leader was brandishing a short knife with a two-edged glittering blade and the others flourished sword canes.  Billie was thankful that Miss Campbell was too much occupied at that moment in assuring the poor mother that her child was not injured to notice this murderous looking company.  Komatsu had quietly placed himself beside the car, faithful soul, ready to die in the service of his ladies.

Were they all going to be cut to pieces or was only the “Comet” to be sacrificed in revenge for the accident?

The Motor Maids exchanged frightened glances.

“If I only knew six words in Japanese,” thought Billie.

“Make honorable quickness to descend, gracious lady.  Come, come,” Komatsu urged.  “To jinriksha.  Leave red devil-wagon.  This place no good for staying in.”

“Oh, Komatsu, try and reason with them,” pleaded Billie.  “We don’t want to lose the ‘Comet,’ It wasn’t his fault.  He was going quite slowly.  He didn’t mean to hurt the little boy.  He’s the kindest hearted old thing.  It wasn’t anybody’s fault.  Can’t you tell them that?”

Billie was too distracted and unhappy to realize how absurd her words might have sounded to any English-speaking person.  It had always seemed to her that a real heart beat somewhere in the mechanical organism of the red motor.  Gasoline was his life’s blood and his pulse-beats were only the throb of the engine, but, to Billie, he was a faithful and devoted soul and she was not quite prepared to say what she would do in order to save him from destruction.

However, at the moment that the band of young men, scarcely more than boys any of them, reached the car, some one sprang into the machine from the other side.

Turning quickly, Billie was confronted by a tall, slender young woman in a white serge suit and a big black hat.  She had a dark, creamy complexion, dark eyes that slanted slightly and hair of a queer mousy shade of brown.

“Wait,” said the stranger, “I will speak to them,” and mounting the seat, she addressed the crowd in their own tongue with extraordinary fluency, the girls thought, remembering what they had heard concerning the difficulties of that language.  There was an elegance and fascination indescribable about the stranger.  Nancy recognized her instantly as the lady in the garden.  Miss Campbell knew her as Mme. Fontaine, newspaper correspondent.  The others in the party imagined her to be almost anything romantic and interesting; perhaps a foreign princess; a great actress; something remarkable, surely.

In a beautiful, cultured voice, far reaching in spite of its soft tones, she harangued the multitude which little by little fell back.  The group of fierce young men put away their weapons and disappeared in the mob.  The little boy, the cause of all the trouble, was now standing on his feet blinking his eyes at Miss Campbell.  How the picture was stamped on their minds like a vividly colored print!