“I’d advise her, if I were you,” said Johnny slowly, “to find out as much as she can, and not take too many chances.  The man may be one of the Radicals, and he may be using the supposed treasure as a decoy.  At the same time, if she handles the affair discreetly enough, she may be able to assist you in locating the Russian and his band, which, I take it, is your chief end and aim in life just now.”

Hanada sent him another penetrating glance.  “You have guessed that much,” he admitted.  “Well, soon I may be able to tell you all.  In the meantime, if you need more money to pay this Jerry—­Jerry, what was it you called him?”

“Jerry the Rat.”

“Yes, yes, Jerry the Rat.  If you need more money for him, I can get you more, plenty more.  But,” the lines of his face grew tense, “we must find them and soon, or it may be too late.  We must act quickly.”

Hanada had not said one word of his affairs of the night before, nor did he now as they were about to part.

Dull and heavy, there came the tread of feet on the bridge.

“The police!” whispered Johnny.

Hanada seemed distinctly nervous.

As the two patrolmen came abreast of them one of them flashed his light.

Hanada cringed into the shadows.

“Well,” said a deep voice, “here’s luck!  Youse guys come with us.  Youse guys is wanted at the station.”

“What for?” Johnny demanded.

“Youse guys know well enough.  Treason, they call it.”

“Treason?” Johnny gave a happy laugh.  “Treason?  They’ll have hard work to prove that.”

* * * * *

Had one been privileged to see Cio-Cio-San at the moment Johnny Thompson and his friend were arrested, he might easily have imagined that she was back in Japan.  The room in which she paced anxiously back and forth was Japanese to the final detail.  The floor was covered thickly with mattings and the walls, done in a pale blue, were hung everywhere with long scrolls of ancient Japanese origin.  Here a silver stork stood in a pool of limpid blue; there a cherry orchard blossomed out with all the extravagant beauty of spring, and in the corner a pagoda, with sloping, red-tile roof and wide doors, proclaimed the fact that the Japanese were a people of art, even down to house building.  Silk tapestries of varying tints hung about the room, while in the shadows a small heathen god smiled a perpetual smile.

But it was none of these things that the girl saw at that moment.  This room, fitted up as it had been by rich Japanese students, most certainly had brought back fond memories of her own country.  But at this instant, her eyes turned often to a screen behind which was a stand, and on that stand was a desk telephone.

Hanada had promised to consult Johnny Thompson regarding the strange proposition of the unknown Japanese.  He had promised to call her at once; by eight-thirty at the latest.  The stranger was to return for his answer at nine.  It now lacked but ten minutes of that hour, and no call had come from Hanada.  She could not, of course, know that the men on whom she depended for counsel were prisoners of the police.  So she paced the floor and waited.