WHO WROTE THE LETTER?
“Well, if this isn’t the most barefaced treachery!” Phil exclaimed
angrily, as he handed the letter to Sydney.
O’Neil and Marley stood, caps in hand, both eager to hear all within
the letter. They received it in their turn, and both, according to
their way, displayed the anger they felt.
“Say nothing of this to any one,” Phil counseled as the sailors moved
toward the door. “And, by the way, O’Neil,” he added, “you saw the
driver of the motor and also the man who got in with him.” O’Neil
nodded eagerly.
“See if you and Marley can find out their business here in Tokyo.”
O’Neil’s face lighted up in pleasurable anticipation at the suggestion
of detective work.
“The man who got in the motor with Impey, just before O’Neil and Marley
arrived, dropped a paper,” Sydney interjected. “I picked it up for
him.”
“You did!” Phil exclaimed in surprise. “What was it like?”
“A long white envelope,” Sydney replied. “I was too excited to notice
it particularly.”
Phil was thoughtfully silent.
“Here’s Sago, the captain’s steward’s address,” Phil said after a few
minutes of deep thought. “If you need an interpreter look him up. Come
back here when you have anything to tell us.”
The sailors departed, and the midshipmen again read the letter for the
“Shimbunshi.”
“No Japanese could write this,” Sydney declared. “This is the work of
an Englishman or American.”
“The writer of this,” Phil answered grimly, “is one of the gang of
rascals who have been for months trying to break up the friendly
relations between Japan and the United States. Could the man with Impey
have dropped it? O’Neil spoke of its lying where he had passed.”
“He dropped one letter; why not this one too!” Sydney exclaimed.
“If that is what happened,” Phil cried eagerly, “then we’ve found out
Impey’s calling. He’s the leader of these conspirators.”
“What shall we do with the letter?” Sydney asked suddenly.
“I shall place it at once in Captain Rodgers’ hands,” Phil replied
decidedly. “It’s too much responsibility for us to shoulder.”
“But,” Sydney said gravely, “then what was the cause of the constraint
in the navy building? Something was lost by their messenger. It might
have been this letter. Remember, Taki can write excellent English,
quite as good as this, and the handwriting, as I remember his, is not
unlike it.”
Phil whistled softly to show the seriousness of this thought.
“If this letter was composed in the Japanese navy department,” Sydney
continued excitedly, “it means but one thing.”
Phil nodded, his pulse beating faster. It meant that the Japanese navy
department was itself prejudicing the people against Americans.
“The ‘Shimbunshi’ is the newspaper that has been most vituperative
against everything American. It then would be the government organ,”
Phil said grimly and in a lowered voice. “The silent partner of the
Mikado’s ministers. It seems monstrous! I can’t believe it possible!
And Taki helping to poison the minds of his people against us after
greeting us so affectionately this afternoon!”
Phil was striving to excuse the people whom he admired greatly for
their wonderful achievements.
“Before we show this letter,” Sydney suggested, “hadn’t we better try
to find its true source? Let it rest until to-morrow, anyway. Maybe
O’Neil will be able to find out something to throw light on its origin.”
The lads therefore decided to wait until morning before giving Captain
Rodgers the highly colored letter whose author attributed the vilest
reasons for the “Alaska’s” visit to Tokyo.
Even Lieutenant Winston was not taken into confidence by the
midshipmen. They both rather feared his scepticism. To them the
adventures had become of great importance, and Winston’s remarks could
have only thrown cold water upon their boyish enthusiasm.
“Syd, I believe we have hit upon a big thing,” Phil exclaimed, while
they were dressing for the evening. “This fellow Impey is a clever
rogue, I feel sure of that. He may even be in the pay of Japan. That
may account for his friendliness with such important personages as
Captain Inaba and the Baron of the railroad train.”
“What can be his object?” Sydney returned questioningly. “He must have
strong reasons or else a large salary to serve as an agitator of that
kind. A man must be pretty far in disrepute to be willing to play
the part of a blackmailer, even if the blackmail is directed upon a
government and not an individual.”
The prime minister’s summer home had been made into a veritable
fairy-land for this grand ball in honor of the American naval officers.
Every available officer from the “Alaska” was there by nine o’clock,
dressed in full uniform. The court set of Tokyo was all present. The
Emperor was represented by the princes and princesses of the blood, who
remained seated while the guests bowed before them.
Phil and Sydney had been greeted by Lieutenant Takishima almost
immediately on their arrival, and to the lads he seemed like his old
self in Annapolis days as he insisted on leading them by the hand
around the great ballroom, introducing them to one young girl after
another.
“By Jove! Taki, you’re as much a fusser as ever,” Phil exclaimed
good-naturedly as they arrived at their starting point; the midshipmen
meanwhile having engaged several dances.
“I am very fond of talking to your women,” Takishima answered
seriously; “they are so quick, so witty; not like our women, who are
not allowed to form opinions of anything outside of the household; but
I do not dare to dance with them; they are so tall and I am so short.
It would make me look so funny.
“Captain Inaba asks me to say he is very sorry for his brusqueness to
you this afternoon,” the officer continued, his voice showing a trace
of embarrassment. “He did not come himself. The man Oka was on an
important mission, and he lost a valuable paper which has not yet been
recovered.”
Phil and Sydney strove hard to control their faces, and attempted to
appear only solicitous for the loss.
“I quite understood,” Phil commenced, then he blushed and stammered
for fear of arousing Takishima’s suspicion. The paper the sailors had
found had not as yet been explained. “I mean, I thought it was natural
that he should be abrupt with that poor fellow lying there hurt by our
recklessness,” he explained quickly.
Takishima turned his dark almond eyes on Phil during this attempt to
excuse Captain Inaba’s apparent rudeness. His subtle mind was seeking a
reason for Phil’s remark. Could the document have fallen into the hands
of the Americans? However, he was sure Captain Inaba would be thorough
in his search even to a careful scrutiny of their rooms at the hotel.
That the paper would be of great interest to the Americans, Takishima
was sure; it was in the Japanese characters, but doubtless there would
be some one ready enough to translate it. It was in the young officer’s
mind to ask his American friends, frankly, if they knew where the
letter was; but even in his desire to help Captain Inaba, his great
friend, he realized that a ballroom was hardly the place to broach such
a subject. Poor Inaba, he had been completely crushed over the loss.
It was such an important and secret paper that it should not have been
trusted to a messenger and last of all to poor deaf Oka. As to what
would happen to Inaba in case the letter had gone into American hands,
Takishima did not dare think. He would be irreparably disgraced, and by
the old Samurai law might even be forced to wipe out the stain of his
dishonor by committing “hara-kiri.” Takishima believed that hara-kiri
was a crime. To destroy one’s life, no matter how hard living would be,
was by his Western teaching suicide, and a sin against society. He was
not in accord with this barbaric teaching of feudal Japan.
There had come a lull in the music furnished by the guards’ band, the
same that played before the Emperor. Phil had nearly forgotten the
presence of the thoughtful lieutenant, for his own eager eyes had
been searching the ballroom for some one who he knew was amidst this
profusion of bright colors. The dancers had stopped, and were fast
disappearing from the ballroom floor to seek the cooler air outside,
in the spacious hallways and porches, draped so artistically with the
national colors of America and Japan.
Helen Tillotson and Winston had joined the three classmates, and each
had penned his name on her dance card. They were standing near one of
the doors to the garden. Phil could see the many lanterns flickering
their subtle invitation. Winston still retained the girl’s fan, but
plunged into conversation with Takishima. The lad tried not to listen
but could not help catch the words, “torpedoes” and “distance,” and it
suddenly dawned upon him that Winston was the torpedo expert mentioned
in the “Shimbunshi” letter. He recalled that Winston had in the last
few months perfected the air chamber and superheater of the “Alaska’s”
torpedoes, and an experimental run had given it a much greater danger
radius. How could the author of the letter know this? Phil was more
perplexed than ever. Sydney, after writing his name on Helen’s card,
hurriedly excused himself with an implied intention of returning
instantly. “Some one I must see!” he exclaimed as he hastened off.
Helen’s eyes were directed out upon the garden, the dimly lighted
walks of which were already dotted with white shadowy figures from the
ballroom.
A moment later Phil and Helen had left the two naval officers deep in
their discussions, and walked out together into the garden.
They walked silently, admiring the illumination made with row after row
of delicately tinted Japanese lanterns.
“We looked for you and Mr. Monroe this afternoon,” she said as they
reached the seats of a small pagoda from which they could look out upon
the fairy-like scene about them. “You can’t say you didn’t know it,”
she added pointedly, noticing the look in Phil’s face, “for I told Mr.
Monroe of it myself.”
The midshipman hesitated in some confusion. He saw that he must take
Helen into his confidence, or seem extremely rude to his ambassador’s
daughter.
“We were on the way,” Phil explained, “in Mr. Impey’s motor car, when
we ran over a Japanese messenger. Afterward it was so late and we were
both so agitated that we went directly to the hotel.”
Helen showed her interest and sympathy for the victim in many rapid
questions, and Phil thereupon told her the story.
“Mr. Impey will not be here to-night,” she said, after Phil had
finished his recital. “I had a note from him before leaving home, in
which he said he would be detained on business.” She was glancing as
she spoke at her dance card: the music had again started, and the
dancers were moving toward the ballroom.
“This dance is his,” she added as Phil made a movement to stand,
expecting Helen would also return to the ballroom. “Are you engaged for
it?” she asked.
“No, I’m very glad to say.”
“Then if you don’t mind we shall stay here; it’s too beautiful to go
inside.”
Helen regarded the young man with anxious eyes as she suddenly asked a
question which had been long in her thoughts.
“Why has the ‘Alaska’ come to Japan?”
Phil looked up, surprise in his face at the sudden turn in the
conversation.
“I am sure I don’t know,” he replied honestly; “just a regulation visit
of courtesy, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Do you believe in the Japanese? Are they honestly our friends?” she
asked another question for an answer to his.
“I believe they are,” Phil replied thoughtfully. “Our misunderstandings
are caused by the great gulf between the two races. The Japanese
understand us much better than we do them.”
“Do you think a war is likely?” she exclaimed impatiently, not wholly
satisfied at Phil’s indirect answer.
“Not likely,” he replied quietly, “but always possible. Miss Helen,
there are people here in Tokyo, men of influence, who are working to
bring on war between Japan and our country.”
Helen’s blue eyes opened in alarm.
“What do you mean?” she asked in an excited whisper.
Phil told her of the conversation he had heard on the train and also of
the letter for the “Shimbunshi.”
Her face now was rosy with eagerness.
“And you and Mr. Monroe are going to endeavor to discover the identity
of these people,” she cried enthusiastically. “I wish I could help.”
“Maybe you can,” he said quickly, then he hesitated.
“Go on,” she urged.
“How long have you known Mr. Impey, and what is his business?” he asked
hurriedly, and in some embarrassment, for he did not know how close a
friend the foreigner might be to the ambassador’s family.
“What has that to do with it?” Helen asked.
“I’ll tell you presently,” Phil insisted, “after you’ve answered my
question.”
“I have known Mr. Impey since we came to Japan,” she returned
haughtily; “he is a very warm friend of father’s. What his business
is I haven’t the remotest idea. He owns a yacht, and an automobile. I
don’t believe he really has any steady business except society. One
always sees him out.”
Phil smiled grimly. The girl’s description of Impey’s occupation
more than ever made him feel suspicious. Could he trust himself to
ask another question? He decided to take the risk and brave Helen’s
displeasure if she divined the course of his mind.
“Was Mr. Impey in Yokohama this morning?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, I am sure he was,” she answered innocently, not dreaming of
Phil’s reason for asking the question. “While we were driving to the
garden fête he told us he had come up on the train with the American
officers through the help of his friend, Baron Kosuba.”
Phil’s eyes were fairly dancing with delight; but Helen’s face was
turned away; the music had ceased and the dancers were coming out into
the garden.
“Who is Baron Kosuba?” Phil asked eagerly.
“Why, don’t you know?” she asked. “He is one of Japan’s richest men. He
is the president and owner of her largest steamship company.
“I wish you would talk to Mr. Impey,” she added. “He told me in
strictest confidence that the Japanese statesmen could not be
trusted--that they were determined to force a war very soon.”
Phil’s face became suddenly thoughtful as he felt Helen’s eyes upon him.
“So he has been giving the identical medicine to both sides,” he
thought.
“But why all this mystery?” Helen asked, suddenly remembering that Phil
had not as yet enlightened her. “Why shouldn’t Mr. Impey have been in
Yokohama to-day?”
Phil was silent, thinking how best to avert an awkward situation.
“You don’t mean to insinuate that Mr. Impey was the man you overheard
on the train?” she exclaimed. “Why, the idea is ridiculous. He couldn’t
be such a blackguard.”
“It may have been only a coincidence,” Phil hastened to say, in an
attempt to relieve the tension, for he saw that Helen was indignant at
his presumption in accusing a friend of being a traitor. “I didn’t see
the man; his voice was that of an Englishman. Impey is an Englishman,
you know.”
“He is not an Englishman,” Helen exclaimed eagerly. “His mother was not
English; she was an East Indian of high rank. His father was in the
British East India Company first, and afterward in the Chinese Customs
service. Mr. Impey was born in the Orient. He speaks and writes Chinese
and in that way can read the classic Japanese.”
“Are you quite sure that Mr. Impey is sincere?” Phil asked. The case in
his mind was quite clear against Impey. His desire now was to convince
Helen and put her on the guard against him. “Has he any reason to
dislike Americans?”
“How should I know?” the girl answered. “I have always believed him
sincere and very friendly to us, but you upset all my beliefs.”
“I am truly sorry, Miss Helen,” Phil returned. “I suppose I should be
just and not condemn him unheard. If you believe in him I hope I have
been mistaken in my estimate of him.”
As much as Phil desired the companionship of Helen, whom he had come to
admire greatly, he nevertheless welcomed the interruption of Sydney’s
coming for his dance. He was beginning to fear he had said too much.
Takishima and Sydney entered the pagoda together. After a few moments
Phil found himself alone with his Japanese classmate.
“Taki, it certainly seems good to see you so unchanged,” Phil
exclaimed, turning enthusiastically upon him after the two were seated.
“You must come on board the ‘Alaska,’ and Syd and I will show you how
you would have been existing if you’d been born an American.”
Takishima showed his white teeth in a smile, through the not too
abundant black moustache.
“Perry,” Takishima’s face was again grave and there was marked
hesitancy in his speech, “you and I are old friends and classmates.
By birth we are of widely different races. Your ancestors have been
living in what is termed civilization for some hundreds of years.
Mine, by your standards, have been living in the dark ages, under a
feudal system similar to that of the days of King Arthur and his Round
Table. It therefore is not odd that my countrymen and yours hold widely
different views on many subjects. There is no reason, however, why you
and I should not look into each other’s hearts and talk as brother to
brother.”
Phil’s face had gone serious. The playful banter on his tongue
was nipped in the bud. He laid an affectionate hand on the young
lieutenant’s shoulder, as they sat on the bench of the summer-house.
“What is it, Taki? What has happened?”
“Perry, where is the much boasted generosity of your country? Are all
the Lincolns and the Washingtons dead? Did your people awaken us from
our peaceful, childlike sleep of mediævalism, showing us the path to
greatness and civilization, only to make us sorry that your great
namesake, Commodore Perry, forced us to embrace the new civilization?”
“I don’t understand!” Phil exclaimed amazedly. “What has my country
done that you should so condemn it?”
“Can’t you see to what we are drifting, Perry?” Takishima replied
excitedly. “Only a year ago our two countries were friendly. Nothing
but what was good was being said by one of the other. My Emperor’s
subjects in America were everywhere treated kindly, and here in Japan
we bowed respectfully and affectionately wherever an American appeared.
Now all is different. Each looks upon the other with suspicion.”
“I think you are wrong, Taki,” Phil exclaimed, his pulse beating fast
at Takishima’s words. “I have not been in America for over a year, but
I am sure no such feeling as you describe is felt there. Our labor
unions have fought against your countrymen coming to America because
they will work for much less money than will our own people, and they
will not join the unions, but that is hardly enough reason for making
Japan distrust America.”
“A year ago only it started,” Takishima said, scarcely heeding Phil’s
denial. “First there were only vague hints, but gradually it has grown
until to-day every move my country makes is misunderstood and condemned
in your great newspapers, which are the eyes, ears and brains of your
countrymen. We are doing our duty by China and Korea. We have been
awakened from our long sleep of inaction, and it is our duty to awaken
our blood brothers. Japan stands in the same light in the Orient with
China and Korea as your great country with the republics of South
America.”
“In the newspapers?” Phil exclaimed smiling. “Why, Taki, you can’t
take everything that’s said by our newspapers seriously. You know we
have entire freedom of the press. Our newspapers can say anything. You
Japanese are entirely too sensitive.”
Takishima smiled grimly.
“Do you think it over-sensitive to be hurt at hearing that the
legislature of one of your states considered a measure to exclude
Japanese from the state?”
Phil’s face was very grave. As Takishima had stated, it was only too
true.
“But the measure was lost,” Phil hastened to say.
“Yes, but not before much discussion,” Takishima returned, “which
showed us that our countrymen were not as welcome in America as yours
are in Japan.”
“That is purely commercial,” Phil declared. “We have a tariff to
exclude goods made in other countries; a laborer is as much an article
for purchase as anything else. We cannot require him to pay duty upon
himself in order that his hire will be the same as that paid to our own
countrymen; so the labor unions wished to prevent the Japanese laborer
from landing in America. It is only a question of money, nothing more.”
“We are old friends, Perry,” Takishima said soberly, drawing nearer
to his classmate and lowering his voice. “I am in a position where
I hear much that is not intended for young ears. Our statesmen have
given a life-study to questions of the Orient. Have yours given these
far-reaching, perplexing questions the attention they deserve?”
Phil was silent. He did not wish to belittle the statesmen of his
country, but he could but acknowledge that their conditions were
different. A statesman in America was a very rare and precious person.
The entire government changed every four years; new statesmen arose
every four years to die politically at the end of their term. Policies,
therefore, were unstable. Only the great publicists could be depended
upon to diagnose a situation. Phil knew that his country was in this
greatly handicapped.
“Taki, common sense and justice make a statesman. Such men are born,
and no amount of study can produce them otherwise. We have enough such
statesmen in my country,” he returned proudly.
“Perry, you are a faithful champion,” Takishima said, an affectionate
ring in his voice, “but even that cannot lessen our danger. Our people
believe that America is aiming to control all of China; to use that
vast country as a market for her manufactured articles that cannot be
sold elsewhere. They believe that Japan will be excluded and sealed
forever within its island kingdom.”
“But why should they believe such ridiculous nonsense,” Phil cried
angrily, “when there is not an atom of truth in any of it?”
“Manchuria and Korea,” Takishima continued, “have been won through
the spilling of much precious blood. So you can see how such thoughts
arouse my people. The Emperor is fearful that something unpleasant will
occur during the ‘Alaska’s’ visit, and has issued an order from the
throne for all to be courteous to the Americans.”
Impey and the “Shimbunshi” letter had danced before Phil’s mind during
this long talk with Takishima.
“What has caused this sudden misunderstanding, Taki? Who has kept the
discussions alive?”
Takishima shook his head.
“It began when your fleet started for Manila by way of the south of
Africa,” he replied, “and has steadily increased in intensity until
now, when we are nearer to war than we have ever been without having
it.”
“Then in a month more it will die a natural death,” Phil said,
brightening, “for the fleet is to return next month to the east coast
of the United States. The cause then of all this jingo talk will have
been removed.”
“A month!” Takishima exclaimed grimly. “Much can happen in that time.”
“If Japan is truthful when she says she does not desire war,” Phil
said, “I can see no cause for worry. We are not seeking a war. We have
enough to care for without getting into a fight so far from home.”
“But how can Japan be sure that what you say is correct?” Takishima
asked quickly. “To whom in America can we go to be assured that she is
peacefully inclined?”
“To our President,” Phil answered, his eyes flashing proudly, “the most
powerful leader in the world. If he gives his word it is law. Even
Congress would not dare betray it.
“Taki,” he continued, “I am sure that our people admire yours. We
think your head may be just a little swollen over your prowess in war,
and would like to see the swelling subside; but a war with you or any
other country is not our desire now or at any other time. The United
States fights only when its honor is involved, and not for conquest.
If both countries are honest and do not attempt to trick each other by
threatening to strike in order to force a favorable action on a measure
or treaty unfavorable to the other, then there can be no war.”
“And you will help me to prevent these misunderstandings?” Takishima
asked.
“To-day Captain Inaba lost a valuable paper,” Takishima added
earnestly. “The messenger Oka, who was injured, was carrying it in
his hand when he was struck by Mr. Impey’s machine. If that paper,
translated, should fall into the hands of indiscreet persons, it would
cause a vastly greater strain on the friendly relations between our
countries.”
Phil listened eagerly. Could it be possible that the paper the sailors
had found was the one in question, and if so did Takishima know the
character of it? Phil recalled quite clearly the venomous composition,
calculated to arouse the entire Japanese nation against the American
people in general and the cruiser “Alaska” in particular. If this
was the letter and Takishima knew the contents then there was but
one conjecture to make; that Taki’s protestations of honesty were
hypocritical. But Phil would not condemn his classmate unheard.
“Do you know the contents of this paper?” he asked breathlessly.
“Yes. I helped prepare it; it was addressed to the general board, the
Emperor’s advisers,” Takishima answered without hesitation.
Phil breathed more freely. Then this paper was, as he had begun to
suppose, a composition written by an English speaking person for the
“Shimbunshi” and was in no way official. But what of the one Sydney had
picked up and given to Impey’s companion? Might not that have been the
lost official letter?
“Go on,” the midshipman urged, for he knew that Takishima had not
opened the conversation simply to tell of the loss of the paper.
“Captain Inaba has just sent me word that he has discovered that one of
the two sailors with you this afternoon picked up an envelope that in
description resembled the lost document. They drove away with you, so
it is natural to suppose that you know of the existence of this paper.”
Takishima recalled Phil’s evident embarrassment when he had apologized
for Captain Inaba’s abruptness. He now regarded the midshipman
beseechingly.
“You realize what it will mean to Captain Inaba if the document is not
found or if its contents are divulged?” he asked.
Phil shook his head.
“It will mean disgrace, worse to us than death.” Takishima’s voice was
dramatic.
Phil thought quickly.
He would not tell him of the letter to the “Shimbunshi.” Not at least
until he had shown the letter to Captain Rodgers and obtained his
advice.
“Taki, we didn’t find your letter,” Phil assured him. “If it ever
comes into my hands, or if I ever have knowledge as to where it is, I
will tell you.”
Takishima’s face had regained its composure. If the Americans had not
the letter then it would soon be found. It undoubtedly was in the hands
of one of his own countrymen and the secret service men would soon
place it in Captain Inaba’s hands.
Takishima pressed Phil’s hand as he rose to his feet.
“I feel better now that I have unburdened myself,” he said earnestly.
“You can be certain that Japan wishes above everything to avoid
trouble. That does not mean that we will neglect our army and navy,
for we see that preparedness for war is the surest road to peace. If
there is any way in which I can aid you, consider I am always more
than ready. Above everything it should be peculiarly our duty, yours
and mine, to reëstablish the good opinion which was once held by each
nation for the other.”
Phil became aware during Takishima’s earnest talk that a Japanese
policeman was awaiting attentively just behind him. The lad saw that
he was endeavoring to attract the lieutenant’s attention; seeing at
once that it was on a matter of importance he gently pushed Takishima
toward the impatient guardian of the peace.
Phil waited, silently wondering what manner of trouble was brewing, for
he could see that Takishima’s face had become suddenly serious, while
the policeman talked excitedly.
“Just what I feared has happened, Perry,” Takishima exclaimed, making a
gesture of finality, as much as to say, “that’s the end of all our good
intentions.”
“Get Monroe and meet me at the entrance to the street,” he added
promptly. “If we are to be on time we must not lose a minute.”
The policeman had saluted and hurried away, while Takishima, after
standing for a moment, silently dejected, straightened up his broad
little shoulders and half ran toward the house, followed as rapidly by
the midshipman.
“What on earth has happened?” was Phil’s unspoken question; in his mind
he was revolving all the possibilities.