“For whom do you speak?” Nikasti inquired.
Von Schwerin rose from his place.
“For the greatest of all.”
“Do I take anything but words to Tokio?”
the Japanese asked softly.
Fischer unfolded a pocketbook and drew from it a parchment
envelope.
“You take this letter,” he said, “which
I brought over myself from Berlin, signed and written
not more than three weeks ago. I ask you to believe
in no vague promises. I bring you the pledged
faith of the greatest ruler on earth. What do
you say, Nikasti? Will you accept our mission?
Will you go back to Tokio and see the Emperor?”
Nikasti bowed.
“I will go back,” he promised. “I
will sail as soon as I can make arrangements.
But I cannot tell you what the issue may be. We
Japanese are not a self-seeking nation. Above
and higher than all things are our ideals and our
honour. I cannot tell what answer our Sovereign
may give to this.”
“These are the days when the truest patriotism
demands the most sublime sacrifices,” Von Schwerin
declared. “Above all the ethics of individuals
comes the supreme necessity of self-preservation.”
The Japanese smiled slightly.
“Ah!” he said, “there speaks the
philosophy of your country, Baron, the paean of materialism.”
“The destinies of nations,” Baron von
Schwerin exclaimed, “are above the man-made
laws of a sentimental religion! One needs, nowadays,
more than to survive. It is necessary to flourish.”
Nikasti stood suddenly to attention.
“It is Mr. Van Teyl who returns,” he warned
them.
He glided from the room, shaking out a little the
dress coat which he had been carrying. The two
men looked after him. Fischer threw his cigar
savagely away and lit another.
“Curse these orientals!” he muttered.
“They listen and listen, and one never knows.
Van Teyl won’t be here for hours. That was
just an excuse to get away.”
But there was a smile of triumph on Von Schwerin’s
lips.
“I know them better than you do, Fischer,”
he declared. “Nikasti is our man!”
High up in one of the topmost chambers of the Hotel
Plaza, Nikasti, after his conference with Von Schwerin
and Fischer, sought solitude. He opened the high
windows, out of which he could scarcely see, dragged
up a chest of drawers and perched himself, Oriental
fashion, on the top, his long yellow fingers intertwined
around his knees, his soft brown eyes gazing over
the wooded slopes of the Park. He was away from
the clamour of tongues, from the poisoned clouds of
sophistry, even from the disturbance of his own thoughts,
incited by specious arguments to some form of reciprocity.
Here he sat in the clouds and searched for the true
things. His eyes seemed to be travelling over
the battlefields of Europe. He saw the swaying
fortunes of mighty armies, he looked into council
