"I don't think there is any cause--any reason to doubt Yoshio's fidelity. The man is devoted to Barry. His behaviour certainly sounds--curious, but can be attributed I am convinced to over-zealousness. He is an alien in a strange land, cut off from his own natural distractions and amusements, and with time on his hands his devotion to his master takes a more noticeable form than is usual with an ordinary English man-servant. That he designs any harm I cannot believe. He has been with Barry a long time--on the several occasions when he stayed with him at your house in London did you notice anything in his behaviour then similar to the attitude you have observed recently? No? Then I take it that it is due to the same anxiety that we ourselves have felt since Barry's return. Only in Yoshio's case it is probably based on definite knowledge, whereas ours is pure conjecture. Barry has undoubtedly been up against something--momentous. Between ourselves we can admit the fact frankly. It is a different man who has come back to us--and we can only carry on and notice nothing. He is trying to forget something. He has worked like a nigger since he came home, slogging away down at the estate office as if he had his bread to earn. He does the work of two men--and he hates it. I see him sometimes, forgetful of his surroundings, staring out of the window, and the look on his face brings a confounded lump into my throat. Thank God he's young--perhaps in time--" he shrugged and broke off inconclusively, conscious of the futility of platitudes. And they were all he had to offer.
There was no suggestion he could make, nothing he could do. It was repetition of history, again he had to stand by and watch suffering he was powerless to aid, powerless to relieve. The mother first and now the son--it would seem almost as if he had failed both. The sense of helplessness was bitter and his face was drawn with pain as he stared dumbly at the window against which the storm was beating with renewed violence. The sight of the angry elements brought almost a feeling of relief; it would be something that he could contend with and overcome, something that would go towards mitigating the galling sense of impotence that chafed him. He felt the room suddenly stifling, he wanted the cold sting of the rain against his face, the roar of the wind in the trees above his head. Abruptly he buttoned his jacket in preparation for departure. Miss Craven pulled herself together. She laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Peter," she said slowly, "do you think that Barry's trouble has any connection with--my brother? The change of pictures in the dining-room--it was so strange. He said it was a reparation. Do you think Barry--found out something in Japan?"