As each sentence of this indictment proceeded it was pitiable to watch the faces of the couple.  Jiro became a grotesque, fit to adorn the ugliest of Satsuma plaques.  Mrs. Jiro visibly swelled with agitation.  Brett felt that she was too full, and would overflow with tears in an instant.

“This is vely bad!” gasped Jiro.

“Oh, Nummie dear, have we been doing wrong?” moaned his spouse.

The barrister determined to frighten them thoroughly.

“It is a grave question with the authorities whether they should not arrest you instantly,” he said.

“On what charge?” cried Jiro.

“On a charge of complicity after the act in relation to the murder of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer.  Your accomplice, Ooma, is the murderer.”

“What!” shrieked Mrs. Jiro, flouncing on to her knees and breaking forth into piteous sobs.  “Oh, my precious infant!  Oh, my darling Nummie!  Will they part us from our babe?”

The door opened, and a frowsy head appeared.

“Did you call, mum?” inquired the small maid-servant.

“Get out!” shouted Brett; and the door slammed.

“Mr. Blett,” whimpered the Japanese, “I did not do this thing.  I am innocent.  I knew nothing about it until—­until—­”

“You verified the motto on the blade by consulting the ‘Nihon Suai Shi’ in the British Museum.”

This shot floored Jiro metaphorically, and his wife literally, for she sank into a heap.

“He knows everything, Nummie,” she cried.

“Evelything!” repeated her husband.

“Then tell him the rest!”. (Yet she was born in Suffolk.)

Brett scowled terribly as a subterfuge for laughter.

“Tell me,” he said, “why you helped this amazing scoundrel?”

“I did not help,” squeaked Jiro, his voice becoming shrill with excitement and fear.  “He was my fliend.  He is a Samurai of Japan.  We met in Okasaki, and again in London.  I came to England long after the clime you talk of.  He told me these Flazel people were bad people, who had lobbed his father in the old days.  He wanted them to be all hanged, then he would get money.  He said they might watch him and get him sent back to Japan, where he belongs to a political palty who are always beheaded when they are caught.  So when you come, I think, ‘Hello, he wants to find Ooma!’ I lite Ooma a letter, and he lite me to send Mrs. Jilo, dlessed in man’s clothes, to tell him evelything.  I did that to save my fliend.”

“Have you Ooma’s letter?”

“Yes; hele it is.”

He took a document from a drawer, and Brett saw at a glance that Jiro’s statement was correct.

“You appear to have acted as his tool throughout,” was his scornful comment.

“But, Mr. Brett,” sobbed the stout lady, “I ought to say that when I—­when I—­put on those things—­and met Mr. Ooma, I disobeyed my husband in one matter.  I—­liked you—­and was afraid of Mr. Ooma, so instead of describing you to him I described Mr. Hume-Frazer from what my husband told me of his appearance in the dock.  He was the first man I could think of, and it seemed to be best, as the quarrel was between them.  Only—­I gave him—­a beard and moustache, so as to puzzle him more.  Didn’t I, Nummie?  I told you when I came home.”