“In Japan the clow speaks with the voice of love,” grinned Jiro.

“Well, it sounds funny in London, so just attend to this gentleman.  He has come to see you on business.”

Mrs. Jiro forthwith seated herself to listen to the conclave.  Brett, though warned by the maid’s remark, could not help himself, so he went straight to the point.

“Over a year ago,” he said, “you were in Ipswich.”

Instantly a severe chill fell upon his hearers.  The man shrank, the woman expanded, but before either could utter a word, the barrister continued: 

“Personally, I know no one in Ipswich.  I have only visited the town twice, during an Assize week.  It has come to my knowledge that you gave the police some information with reference to a Japanese weapon which figured in a noted crime, and I have ventured to come here to ask you for additional details.”

Mrs. Jiro heaved a great sigh of relief.

“My gracious!” she cried, “you did startle me.  I can’t bear to hear the name of Ipswich nowadays.  I was married from there.”

“Indeed!” said Brett, with polite interest.

“Yes; and my people are always hunting me up and making a row because I married Mr. Jiro.  Sometimes they make me that ill that I feel half inclined to go with him to Japan.  He is always worrying me to leave London, but the more I hear about Japan the less I fancy it.”

“Ah, my own little gan—­” broke in her husband.

“There you go again,” she snapped.  “Calling me a gan—­a goose, indeed!  Now, Mr. Brett, how would you like to be called a wild goose?”

“I have often deserved it,” he said.

“You do not understand,” chirped Jiro.  “In Japan the goose is beautiful, elegant.  It flies fast like a white spilit.”

His English was almost perfect, but in words containing a rolled “r” he often substituted an “l.”

“I understand enough to keep away from Japan, a place where they have an earthquake every five minutes, and people live in paper houses.  Besides, look at the size of your women-folk.  Just imagine me, Mr. Brett, walking about among those little dolls, like a turkey among tom-tits.”

“We give fat people much admilation,” said Jiro.

“Nummie, I do hate that word fat.  I can’t help being tall and well developed; but it is only short women who become ’fat’.”

She hissed the word venomously, as if she possessed the scorpion’s fabled power to sting herself.  Evidently Mrs. Jiro dreaded corpulence more than earthquakes.

Brett had never previously met such a strangely assorted couple.  He would willingly have prolonged his visit for mere amusement, but he was compelled to return to the cause of his presence.  Unless he asked direct questions he would make no progress.  He took from his pocket-book the drawing made in the Black Museum, and handed it to the Japanese, saying: 

“Would you mind telling me the meaning of that?”