The man stayed as impassive as he could under the flurry of blows and invective. At the officer's shrieked command the shoya was instantly on his feet and stood unflinchingly while the frenzied man beat him as cruelly around the face, the women and children trying not to wince at every blow, yet motionless.

As suddenly as the beatings had begun they stopped. Both men bowed deeply, their faces now welted. Again the shoya knelt. Formally the officer bowed back, all traces of the tirade gone. His men formed up and he led them towards the North Gate as though nothing untoward had happened.

Tyrer and McFay stared after them blankly. In a moment, when it was correct to do so, the shoya got up, the women and children went into the house, and he began to supervise the repair to the wall.

Village activity in the street picked up.

"What the devil was all that about?" McFay said.

"I don't know." Tyrer said, both of them shocked at the brutality and its impassive acceptance. "I only caught a word here and a word there--think it was to do with Nakama, I think they all said he'd never been there."

"That's impossible--I know he was inside that hut. I saw him myself." McFay mopped his brow. "Apart from that, why take all that from that bastard? He was a lunatic. And look at them now, acting as though nothing happened. Why?"

"I don't know--perhaps Nakama can explain."

Tyrer shuddered. "I'll tell you one thing, I'm damned if I'd like to be in their power. Ever."

"Hello, Angel, how are you?"

"Hello, darling, I'm, I'm much better, thank you." Angelique smiled wanly as Struan came in and shut the door. She was propped up by pillows in her bedroom in the French Legation, the late afternoon sun coming nicely through the window and the shadow of a guard now permanently stationed outside.

In the early hours of this morning when Struan had rushed--hobbled--to her side, she had resisted his entreaties to move, enough in command of herself to remember that she must stay here because tonight Andr`e Poncin would deliver the medicine that would deliver her from evil. No, not evil yes from evil, she had wanted to shout, Andr`e's going to deliver me from the evil I carry and from the evil I've done.

"Oh mon Dieu, Malcolm, I am all right and don't want to move!"

"Please don't cry, my darling, please."

"Then leave me be, it's all right, Malcolm, I'm quite safe, I always was safe and Doctor Babcott has given me something to stop this shaking, haven't you, Doctor?"' "That's right, Malcolm," Babcott had said, "and please don't worry, Angelique's perfectly all right, she'll be right as rain when she wakes up. It would be better not to move her. Not to worry."

"But I bloody do!"

"Tonight, perhaps she can move bac--"' "No," she had whimpered, tears spilling, "not tonight, perhaps tomorrow."

Thank God for tears, she thought again as she watched Malcolm plod over to the bed, knowing that this Heaven-given weapon against men, thought to be a weakness, was a mighty shield. His smile was fine but she noticed the dark rings under his eyes that seemed strange and an air of weariness.

"I dropped by earlier but you were dozing and I didn't want to disturb you."

"You would never disturb me." His concern and love was so open and so deep that she had to fight to keep quiet and not helplessly scream the truth.

"Don't worry, my dear one, everything will be wonderful soon, I promise."

He sat in a chair beside the bed, telling her about the near-riot and how Sir William had stopped it so quickly. "He's a good man in many ways," he told her, but he was thinking: not in others. He and Norbert had been forewarned about their summons into his presence tomorrow morning. At once they had met privately: "It's none of Wee Willie's bloody business,"

Norbert had agreed sourly, "let him concentrate on Japanners and getting the fleet back! Listen, the intruder, I hear you identified him as one of old Canterbury's murderers, the other Tokaido bastard?"' "No I didn't, I think he was a different man though he'd certainly been shot.

Hoag said he was the same one he operated on at Kanagawa."

"Why was he at her window, eh?"' "I don't know--it's weird. Just a thief I suppose."

"It's right weird. A Catholic too.

Weird..."

Struan saw that Angelique was waiting for him to continue and he wondered if he should bring the subject out into the open, the why of that man, to ask for her ideas and give her his, but she looked so tiny and defenseless that he decided to wait for another time and another day--the sod's dead whoever he was and that's that. "When I come back after dinner I'll bring the latest Illustrated London News, there's a great article about the latest London fashions..."

Angelique listened with half an ear, avoiding the clock on the mantelpiece that tick-tocked the minutes delicately. Andr`e had told her he would return from the Yoshiwara about nine that evening, that she should have a pot of warm green tea ready, and something sweet to eat as the mixture might be foul-tasting. Also some towels, and it would be best not to take any more of Babcott's sleeping draft.

She glanced at the clock. 6:46. It's so long, the waiting, she thought, her anxiety increasing. Then the inner voices became alive again. Don't worry, they whispered, the hours will quickly pass and then you are free, don't forget you won, Angelique, you were so brave and so clever, you did everything perfectly--don't worry about anything, you lived and he died and it was the only way you, or any woman, could have lived--soon you will be free, of him, of it, and all that has gone before will be no more than a bad dream...

I'll be free, thank God thank God.

The relief surged through her. She smiled at him. "How handsome you look, Malcolm. Your evening clothes are perfect."

Her warmth jerked him out of his gloom, everything dreadful surrounding him--except her. He beamed. "Oh, Angel, if it wasn't for you I think I'd explode." Tonight he had taken much trouble to select the right silk evening clothes and the finest doeskin half-boots, pure white silk ruffled shirt and white cravat with a ruby pin that his father had given him on his last birthday, his twentieth, May 21/. Only six more months and then I am free, he thought, free to do whatever I like. "You're the only thing that keeps me sane, Angel," he said and his smile banished the last of her devils.

"Thank you, my darling," she said.

"Explode? Why?"

"It's just business," he said, matter-of-fact, avoiding the real issues.

"Damned politicians are messing up our markets in their usual, obsessive pursuit of personal power, money and advancement, it never changes no matter what country, creed or color. Overall the Noble House is in fine fettle, thank God," he told her, sluffing over the crisis they were facing in Hawaiian sugar and Brock's increasing stranglehold over Struan's markets and borrowing facilities.

Yesterday an openly hostile letter arrived from the Victoria Bank, Hong Kong's central bank and Brock-dominated, a copy of one sent to Tess Struan, Managing Director, Struan's, his copy addressed, M. Struan Esq., Yokohama, For Information Only: Madam: This is just to remind Struan's it has ignoble debts, and too much paper supported by questionable assets and ignoble profits, the most of which paper becomes due January 31/, and to inform you, Madam, again, that repayment of all said highly unationoble paper the Bank owns is required on due date. I have the honour to be, Madam, your obedient servant.

Never mind those poxy bastards, he thought with certitude, I'll find a way to outsmart them and all the Brocks. Killing Norbert will be a good beginning. Our managers and staff are excellent, our fleet's still the best and our captains loyal.

"Never mind the Brocks and the rumors, Angel, we can deal with them, we always have. The American civil war has boosted our profits enormously. We're helping the South to run cotton through the Northern blockade for our Lancashire mills and bringing back all the powder, shot, guns and cannons that Birmingham can make, half for the South, half for the North--with everything else our factories can invent and provide, machinery, presses, and shoes and ships and sealing wax. British output is gigantic, Angelique, more than fifty percent of the world's industrial goods. Then we've our tea trade and Bengali opium to China, a bumper crop this year--I've an idea how to buy Indian cotton to boost the American lack--and together with all our usual cargoes...