"Peter--I'm horribly worried about Barry," the words came with a rush. He understood her too well to cavil.
"Dear lady, so am I," he replied with a promptness that did not console.
"Peter, what is it?" she went on breathlessly. "Barry is utterly changed. You see it as well as I. I don't understand--I'm all at sea--I want your help. I couldn't discuss him with anybody else, but you--you are one of us, you've always been one of us. Fair weather or foul, you've stood by us. What we should have done without you God only knows. You care for Barry, he's as dear to you as he is to me, can't you do something? The suffering in his face--the tragedy in his eyes--I wake up in the night seeing them! Peter, can't you do something?" She was beside him, clutching at the mantel-shelf, shaking with emotion. The sight of her unnerved, almost incoherent, shocked him. He realised the depth of the impression that had been made upon her--deep indeed to produce such a result. But what she asked was impossible. He made a little negative gesture and shook his head.
"Dear lady, I can't do anything. And I wonder whether you know how it hurts to have to say so? No son could be dearer to me than Barry--for the sake of his mother--" his voice faltered momentarily, "but the fact remains--he is not my son. I am only his agent. There are certain things I cannot do and say, no matter how great the wish," he added with a twisted smile.
Miss Craven seemed scarcely to be listening. "It happened in Japan," she asserted in fierce low tones. "Japan! Japan!" she continued vehemently, "how much more sorrow is that country to bring to our family! It happened in Japan and whatever it was--Yoshio knows! You spoke of him just now. You said he was hanging about--waiting--watching. Peter, he's doing it all the time! He watches continually. Barry never has to send for him--he's always there, waiting to be called. When Barry goes out the man is restless until he comes in again--haunting the hall--it gets on my nerves. Yet there is nothing I can actually complain of. He doesn't intrude, he is as noiseless as a cat and vanishes if he sees you, but you know that just out of sight he's still there--waiting--listening. Peter, what is he waiting for? I don't think that it is apparent to the rest of the household, I didn't notice it myself at first. But a few months ago something happened and since then I don't seem able to get away from it. It was in the night, about two o'clock; I was wakeful and couldn't sleep. I thought if I read I might read myself sleepy. I hadn't a book in my room that pleased me and I remembered a half-finished novel I had left in the library. I didn't take a light--I know every turn in the Towers blindfold. As you know, to reach the staircase from my room I have to pass Barry's door, and at Barry's door I fell over something in the darkness--something with hands of steel that saved me from an awkward tumble and hurried me down the passage and into the moonlit gallery before I could find a word of expostulation. Yoshio of course. I was naturally startled and angry in consequence. I demanded an explanation and after a great deal of hesitation he muttered something about Barry wanting him--which is ridiculous on the face of it. If Barry had really wanted him he would have been inside the room, not crouched outside on the door mat. He seemed very upset and kept begging me to say nothing about it.