The maid neither advanced nor retreated.  She simply stood stock still, petrified by the sight of a well-dressed visitor.

Brett suggested that she should inform her mistress of his presence.

“Please, sir,” whispered the girl, “are you from Ipswich?”

“No; from Victoria Street.”

“I only asked, sir, because master is particular about people from Ipswich.  They upset missus so.”

She vanished into the interior, and came back to usher him into the drawing-room.  The flat was expensively furnished, but very untidy.  He at once perceived, however, that the “former” Mr. Okasaki was not romancing when he boasted of his artistic tastes.  The Japanese articles in the room were gems of faience and lacquer work.

The entrance of Mrs. Jiro drew the barrister’s eyes from surrounding objects.  He was momentarily stunned.  The woman was almost a giantess, and amazingly stout.  In a tiny flat, waited on by a diminutive servant, and married to a Japanese, she was grotesque.

Originally a very tall and fairly good-looking girl, she had evidently blossomed out like one of the gorgeous chrysanthemums of her husband’s favoured land.

Assuredly she had acquired no Japanese traits either in manner or appearance.  At first she seemed to be in a genuinely British bad temper, but Brett excelled in the art of smoothing the ruffled plumes of femininity.

“What is it?” she demanded, surveying him suspiciously.

“I wish to see Mr. Jiro,” he said, “but permit me to apologise for making such an untimely call.  As he is not at home, I must not trouble you beyond inquiring a likely hour to see him to-morrow.”

He smiled so pleasantly that the lady became more complaisant.

“He may not be very long—­” she commenced, but the youthful Jiro’s voice was again heard in fretful complaint.

“My baby is not well to-night,” she explained.

“Poor little darling!” said Brett.

He was tempted to add:  “What is its name?” but refrained.

“Won’t you sit down?” said Mrs. Jiro.  “As I was saying, my husband may not be very long—­”

She was fated not to complete that doubly accurate sentence, for at that moment a key rattled in the outer door.

“Here he is,” she announced; and Mr. Jiro entered.

It was fortunate that the gravity of his errand, no less than his power of self-control, kept Brett from laughing.  As it was, he smiled very broadly when he greeted the master of the flat, for the little man was small even for a Japanese.

The contrast between him and his helpmate was ludicrous.  He could not possibly kiss her unless she stooped, nor would his arms encircle her shoulders.

“And how is my pretty karasu?” he asked, regarding his wife fondly.

“Don’t call me that, Nummie!” she cried.

Turning to Brett she explained:  “He calls me a crow, and says it is a compliment, but I don’t like it.”