The North Wind began a wild song through the trees in the night.  It tore at the mountains with the fury of an attacking army.  It lashed the waters of the sea into a frenzy.  With the dawn came the snow.  Softly and tenderly it wrapped the earth in a great white coverlet, hushing the troubled notes of the savage storm music into plaintive echoes of a lullaby.  As it grew light a world of magic beauty greeted my eyes.  Winter was King, but withal a tender monarch wooing as his handmaidens the beauties of early spring.  The great Camellia trees gave lavishly of their waxen flowers, brocading the snow in crimson.  Young bamboo swinging low under the burden, edged its covering of white down with a lacy fringe of delicate green.  The scene should have called forth a hymn of praise; but the feelings which gripped me more nearly matched the clouds rolled in heavy gray masses over land and sea.

Page was to call for me at ten.  Long before that time I was sitting on the edge of the chair, ready and waiting, trying to coax into my over-soul an ounce or so of poise, a measure of serenity.  It needed no fortune teller to forecast that this visit to the Kencho would be productive of results, whether good or bad the coming hours alone could tell.

Knowing the searching questions that would be put to Page Hanaford, I was beginning to wonder if the offer of this position was not part of the game Kobu was playing.  I had never seen Japan’s famous manhunter till the day before, but by reputation I knew him to be relentless in pursuit of victims to be offered as tribute to his genius.  Thoughts of Page Hanaford in prison garb behind barred doors made me shiver.

I was depressed in spirits and was trying to plan what I could possibly do, when the sound of Zura’s voice came to me as she moved about in the upper story attending to her household duties.  It was a foolish old negro melody she sang, and one of its verses ran: 

    Ole Cap’n Noah a-feelin’ mighty blue,
    Kep’ a sayin’ to hisself, “Oh, what shall I do?”
    ’Long come a sparrow bird, spic ’n spin,
    ‘N he say, “Brer Noah, do de bes’ you kin.

    Yo’ joy ‘n yo’ trouble is sho’ gwine to bide
    ‘N las’ jes’ as long as yo’ own tough hide. 
    So say, Cap’n Noah, better laugh ’n grin;
    Perk up yo’ speerits ‘n do de bes’ yo kin.

The insistent note of happiness in the girl’s voice and the humble philosophy of the song so cheered me that, when my escort appeared on the stroke of ten, hope came riding down on the streaks of sunshine that were battling through the clouds.

While my companion had about him every mark of nervous restlessness that so often precedes a crisis or an illness he also had the air of a man at last determined to turn and face a pursuing enemy and stand, or fall by the clash.  Fear was absent from face and manner.  He even lightly jested as Jane, while greeting him, slipped into his pocket a tempting-looking package.