“I come with the greeting of evening, from the geisha station of the Naka-cho.”
He announced himself as he stepped in through the gate, the closing panel of which he found unbolted.
“What brings you here from the geisha station at this hour?” demanded a man with the appearance of a servant, who stuck his head and a lantern out of the opened space of the kitchen door, trying to scrutinize him suspiciously, in the light thrown upon the late caller.
“Well,”—and Shinsuké gave an awkward laugh for an apology—, “I was sent to fetch Somékichi-san—”
“What? To fetch Somékichi? I’ll slit your dirty mouth for saying that!” The man cut in with his invective speech. “—So, you’re one of the gang, too; but you come just too late! Your game is up, already. You thought you were going to make an ass of our Master and get away with a nice pot of money, didn’t you? Well, you have another tune to sing this time—”
Taken by storm, Shinsuké paused speechless and aghast, lost a while in a vague confusion of mind, when, suddenly, angry voices were heard way back within the house.
“Oi! You call me a swindler? Is your head as empty as your purse, now? You wanted the girl and gave her money—and now, bah! you call it a swindle! Blast the tongue that babbles it!” It was clearly Tokubey that was giving vent to his outraged mind.
“Now our game is spilt out, I am not going to squeal or mince my words. We did have—yes, you were right—a little thing between me and Tokubey here, and we were going to fleece you. And now, listen, Ashizawa-san, if you were fool enough to be taken in, you just own yourself beaten and take it gamely, if you are a man—and say no more about it. But if you are so sore that you can’t act in that style or haven’t sense enough to do it, why don’t you suit yourself—with your trinket knife, or pike, or anything else? But let me tell you, that you’re not going to get back your money—I don’t care how much it is. What I have is mine, and will stay so. That’s said!”
There came now a spell of stillness within the house, a hush that might be likened to the calm before a storm—broken only by the clear-ringing voice of Tsuya who went on with her taunting in all the steadiness she seemed to be possessed of.
A few more fleeting moments—and Tokubey’s howling rage: “You pulled out the sword! You miserable penny soldier! Don’t swing your trinket so you chop your own noddle!”—Tsuya’s voice was raised in a shrieking yell. In the same moment, came noises of a violent scuffle, as of three or four people hurling themselves into struggling confusion.
Smashing against the screen; heavy thudding upon the floor; the sharp clash of blade against blade; a moment yet of suspense, suddenly followed by a shrill cry of pain. As suddenly almost, Tokubey came running out to the kitchen, his rotund face covered with blood. Close upon his heels, darted Tsuya, with her hair loose, only to be stopped short by an officer who had grabbed her by the collar from behind. She was jerked into a crushing heap under the sword swung up overhead, ready for an instant blow.
Without a word or a cry, Shinsuké sprang upon the floor from his place on the kitchen ground; he wound his arms round the officer’s right hand.
“All your anger is just; but she is not to blame! Spare her life, I beg!”
“Who are you?” the officer asked, as he turned to look, lowering the weapon. He discovered there a man with features of clear-cut, handsome lines, clean shaved, about thirty four or five years of age, dressed in a habutai silk suit of dark russet colour, and a sash of black velvet, altogether an appearance of neat respectability.
“I am a page sent out from the Naka-cho to fetch back Somékichi-san. Be what it will, that has brought things to this pass, you are a man of too honoured a name and position. Please be lenient and save her—and your good self from unnecessary scandal! I pray you to put that sword back in its sheath!”
“You shall be spared this night.” Thrusting her off, Ashizawa said: “And the money—whatever it is—you shall keep, for I shall call it a separation fee. And never let me see you again about here!”
“Bosh! See you again?—Not likely if you begged me, you clown!” Tsuya hurled her abuse back at him, with bitter hatred.
The footman was missed, and was looked for in vain. There was only Tokubey squatting on the threshold, his wounded head between his hands, groaning in his agony. In addition to his head, he had suffered deep cuts in his upper arms and another across his thigh. Not like a man of strong nerves and grit that he usually was, he twitched and writhed like a moribund heap of flesh.
“Tsuya! Tsuya!” he called, gasping in a faint voice. “My wounds are serious and I’m losing so much blood that I’ll never pull through. That dog Ashizawa! Get Shinsuké-san to help you, and hack that miserable dog down for me! Take that vengeance for me!”
“Don’t be silly! What a song you sing with only those scratches—you will disgrace yourself! That rascal of a servant seems to have gone off somewhere. No time to lose, get hold of me and we shall get away before the officers show up!”
Tsuya took Tokubey by the
