Ethel Calvert was the daughter of an American grain merchant who represented the interests of the North American Grain Exporters Association at the seaport of Otaru, in Hokaidi, the North Island of Japan.  Three years before her mother had died of homesickness and a broken heart—­although the Japanese physician had called it tuberculosis, and had prescribed life in a tent!  Had they not suffered discomforts enough in that barbarous country without adding insult to injury?

Ethel was bountifully possessed of the qualities of hothouse beauty.  Her jet black hair hung over the snowy skin of her temples in striking contrast.  Her form was of a delicate slenderness and her movement easy and graceful with just a little of that languid listlessness considered as a mark of well-bred femininity.  She knew that she was beautiful according to the standards of her own people and her isolation from the swirl of the world’s social life was to her gall and wormwood.

The Calverts had never really “settled” in Japan, but had merely remained there as homesick Americans indifferent to, or unjustly prejudiced against the Japanese life about them.  Now, in the year 1958, the growing anti-foreign feeling among the Japanese had added to their isolation.  Moreover, the Japanese bore the grain merchant an especial dislike, for every patriotic Japanese was sore at heart over the fact that, after a century of modern progress, Japan was still forced to depend upon foreigners to supplement their food supply.

In fact, they had oft heard Professor Oshima grieve over the statistics of grain importation, as a speculator might mourn his personal losses in the stock market.

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For a time Ethel lay still and listened to the faint sound of voices from a neighboring porch.  Then the growing horror of the situation came over her with anewed force; if her father was dead, she was not only alone in the world, but stranded in a foreign and an unfriendly country; for there were but few Americans left in the city.

The girl arose and crept nervously into the dining-room.  She turned on the electric light; everything seemed in order.  She hurried over to Goyu’s room, and knocked.  There was no answer.  Then slowly opening the door, she peered in—­the room was empty and disordered.  Plainly the occupant had bundled together his few belongings and flown.

Ethel stole back through the silent house and tremblingly took down the telephone receiver.  In vain she called the numbers of the few American families of the city.  Last on the list was the American Consulate, and this time she received the curt information that the consul had left the city by aeroplane “with the other foreigners.”  The phrase struck terror into her heart.  If the European population had flown in such haste as to overlook her, clearly there was danger.  A great fear grew upon her.  Afraid to remain where she was, she tried to think of ways of escape.  She could not steer an aeroplane even if she were able to obtain one.  Otaru was far from the common ways of international traffic and the ships lying at anchor in the harbor were freighters, Japanese owned and Japanese manned.