They were standing beside a high, if battered wall, the exterior of some school yard that offered some small protection from the rain. This officer’s refusal was all that Bat Conroy needed to make him stay.

“I am Conroy, of World Press.”

The officer looked closely at him. “Papers?”

Conroy showed his line passes and the officer became very courteous.

“I am sorry. I was given orders not to let anyone see these prisoners. But if you are Mr. Conroy—”

“Thank you,” said Conroy and turned to address a Chinese officer who, stripped of sidearms and coat, dismally awaited his reunion with his ancestors. But before Conroy could speak, there came a crashing rattle beyond the wall. Two machine guns were going in there. They stopped. Conroy looked sharply at the Japanese officer and then turned to enter the arch.

“No. No. So sorry! You cannot go in there!”

Thank you,” said Conroy, and walked in.

The yard was about a hundred yards long, surrounded by the wall. Two or three hundred prisoners were herded into one end of it, and perhaps fifty corpses were caved in at Conroy’s right. Two machine gunners sat dispassionately upon their tripods and waited for the next batch to be sorted out and stood up.

The officers had men hauled out of the mob at random, clearly with the intention of executing all of them at length, but giving those who still lived something to think about to occupy their time.

Into the present batch was pulled a White Russian officer. His shoulder was damp with redness and he wore no cap. But he was grandly condescending to his captors. Two Chinese snipers were next.

Then the guard hauled out a white girl from the mob and thrust her into the newly forming group!

She was speaking in very rapid Japanese—so fast that Conroy could scarcely follow her. But she did not seem to be frightened, merely concerned.

“But I tell you this is a mistake! I am not a Russian. I am an American. I . . . I am an American missionary, and if you will cable President Roosevelt I’m sure he will tell you—”

“Quiet!” barked a Japanese officer.

“But the President and I are old friends! And besides, how could I be a White Russian! Born in Lansing, Michigan, USA!”

A guard thrust her toward the wall.

She disconsolately took out a pack of cigarettes and, offering one to the White Russian officer, lit his and her own.

“This is highly irregular, Ivan. Your name, of course, is Ivan, isn’t it? They ought to have a court-martial and then a blindfold, and somebody ought to wave a sword before they fire and say it is all for the good of the Mikado.”

“It is a very messy day on which to die, madame,” said the White Russian. “One will make such a soggy corpse. But then, since birth, I have known that I would some day come to a bad end, and so now I have no longer to worry about it. First my vast estates, and now my life. Ah, but then that is fate.”

“Officer!” said the girl. “Officer, don’t you want my last words?”

“Quiet!”

Conroy, throughout all this, had been stunned. She had spoken Russian to a Russian, Japanese to a Japanese, and she must be terribly sure of getting out of this, for certainly no woman had that much nerve. And what a strange girl she was to find up here in the drenched plains of central China! She belonged on a stage on Broadway with that face and figure. She was as blond as he was, and quite as splattered with mud—

She looked toward the gate and saw Conroy, and then she stood up straight and quickly masked the joy which had nearly burst through to the surface. Instead, she registered tearful relief.

“Oh! My brother!” she cried in Japanese. “My dear, long-lost brother! How I have searched for you!” And, her arms outstretched, she came past the guard and straight toward Conroy. The guard took a moment to see whom she was addressing and so failed to block her. And the next instant Conroy had her arms around his neck and was being kissed tearfully.

“What is this?” cried the officer in charge.

“My brother,” sobbed the girl. “I have found him at last!”

“Who are you?” demanded the officer of Conroy. “Don’t you know that this woman is a White Russian spy?”

“He is Conroy, of World Press,” said the officer at the gate to his comrade at arms.

“Conroy?”

“Yes,” said the other Japanese. “I have inspected his papers.”

“Ah! I am so sorry. But is this woman really your sister?”

“Er . . . uh . . . ouch! Certainly. Yes, indeed. My long-lost sister. (Bite me again, my dizzy jane, and I’ll drown you!) Of course she is!”

“Ah! I am so sorry . . . so very, very sorry!” said the officer. “If there is anything we can do—”

But if this strange feminine waif of the battlefields was quick on the uptake, Bat Conroy was quicker. He had intended stealing a staff car or something and getting to the river, and then taking a launch down to Changkow. But there would apparently be no more battle in this vicinity, so—

“I do not know,” said Conroy, “how I can overlook this outrage. I was on the verge of reporting this as a sweeping Japanese victory. But if you celebrate a victory by trying to kill my innocent sister—well!” And he started to draw the girl through the arch, trying not to notice the startled and admiring way in which she now regarded him.

“No, no!” said the officer. “Wait! There is my colonel. I am sure we can explain. She was—”

“I am sorry,” said Conroy. “This matter cannot be so lightly forgiven.”

They reached the colonel, and the officer tried to explain and save his own face. But while he was doing it, a staff car came down the road, the enemy having left the place, and General Shimizu was signaled to a halt.

“There is nothing to be said,” said Conroy. “This is a shocking incident, and I deeply regret—”

“What is this, Mr. Conroy?” said the general.

They told him, all talking at once, and when he finally understood he seemed very anxious.

“Mr. Conroy, if there is anything we can do to make you forget this—”

“Nothing,” said Conroy grimly.

“Not even . . . not even a plane to wherever you want to go?”

“Well—”