Pathway to Japanese Literature

Husband's Notes

I had been drawn to a woman in the crowd waiting for the bus.

She appeared to be about my age—twenty-five or twenty-six, perhaps.
Her attire was modest for her age—hair sleekly arranged in a chignon without a single stray strand, a pale purple under-collar embroidered with silver thread, and a gold-threaded silk haori so smooth it evoked grape skin. Though I couldn’t discern details about her obi and kimono, everything harmonized perfectly: her healthy complexion, shapely shoulders that looked sculpted yet softly fleshed, and delicate bearing—truly embodying the young mistress type I so admired.
What I found even more delightful was the baby she held—likely around six months old, a girl with cheeks so plump they seemed ready to drop off, literally apple-like, swaddled in a Yuzen-patterned cloth about three times her size, its eye-catching vivid design making her utterly adorable.
Not bringing along any maid and having the mother hold the baby herself was unbearably endearing.

However, the many people waiting for the bus did not seem to be paying any mind to this lady.
Those people, intent on boarding even a moment sooner, kept pushing their way forward.
By the time the bus stopped in front of the crowd, the lady had somehow been pushed to the back and found herself caught in the crush between those still surging forward from behind.

I thought these people were truly hopeless as I watched the crowd swarm and jostle (the textile store-bound buses departing from Tokyo Station only form orderly lines when store staff are present to manage them—leave them unsupervised and this chaos erupts immediately!).

I wasn't rushing to board. To tell the truth, I wasn't someone who had business at textile stores or such places. Day after day I dragged my exhausted legs and clutched my hollow stomach - just a pitiful young man hunting for work. Had I not clashed with Father, I likely would've graduated around this year and secured some respectable position through parental connections without hardship - though dwelling on that now was useless. I'd just returned from being politely rejected at a company on Marunouchi Building's fifth floor, my day rendered purposeless with nowhere left to visit, when I considered returning to my wife waiting alone in our tenement room. But spotting that red-painted textile store bus streak past, I suddenly found myself wanting to go there for the first time in ages.

The crowd was so packed that I stood wavering between boarding or not when another bus arrived.
Half the crowd instantly swarmed before this new vehicle, pressing forward before those inside had even finished alighting.
Propelled by the human tide, I somehow found myself at the front of this freshly arrived bus.
When I glanced over, there was that same lady—likewise buffeted by the throng—staggering right beside me while desperately shielding her baby from being crushed.
I made up my mind to board at once.
Then, planting one foot on the deck, I turned to address her,

“Let me hold the baby.”

I called out, and without waiting for the lady’s reply, took the baby and jumped inside. Since it was still early in the boarding process, I managed to secure a seat far toward the back. Then, as they piled in noisily one after another, the bus quickly filled up, and two or three people stood hunched over in front of me, looking cramped. The bus started moving immediately.

When the bus started moving, what soon began to worry me was that I couldn't see the lady anywhere.
After all, it was so packed that I couldn't even tell what sort of people sat beside me, let alone see those boarding near the entrance—yet I simply couldn't sense any sign of the lady having gotten on.
I gradually grew more worried.

Before long, the bus came to a stop in front of the textile store.

I grew impatient, but my turn to alight didn’t come around.
When I finally managed to get one foot on the ground, I still expected to see the young lady waiting to greet me with a smile.
But her figure was nowhere to be seen.

I waited for the next bus with a sinking feeling.
There must have been some mechanical trouble—the bus was taking an unusually long time to arrive.
I felt tears welling up.
When at last a bus came rattling to a stop right before my eyes—Saved!—or so I thought, but what fresh torment was this?!
There was no sign of the lady!

I panicked.

Even when I desperately tried to soothe her, holding a baby who seemed ready to burst into tears at any moment left me unbearably anxious.
Moreover, I felt like passersby were staring.
When I thought about it—what a careless thing I’d done until now!—I couldn’t afford to be loitering in such a conspicuous place.
If someone I knew were to spot me here, what an impossible situation that would be.
I turned into a side street.
And then I occasionally ventured out to check the main street.
The police officer at the corner police box felt somehow intimidating.

Two or three more buses came one after another, but the lady did not appear. Wondering if she might have come while I was withdrawn into the side street, I resolutely entered inside. Weaving through what seemed an improbably large crowd of customers, I climbed up to the first and then second floors—but when I thought about it, this whole endeavor was utterly unreasonable. In such a crowded place, even if we were both searching for each other, we’d never meet—but by then I was already consumed by the chase. I didn’t even know which floor I was on. While rocking the baby, I went up and down searching everywhere. In the end, tears welled up from frustration and helplessness. Beautifully dressed ladies and young ladies watched me with puzzled expressions.

When I descended to the bottom floor after several attempts, I suddenly noticed a gentleman standing with his back to me near the entrance.
When I saw his profile, I was startled.
That was Father.
In the nearly three years since we’d last met—perhaps it was my imagination—he seemed somewhat haggard, but his imposing shoulders, thick stubborn eyebrows, and even the wrinkles on his high-cheekboned face remained exactly as they had been three years prior.
Father was glaring fixedly at the entrance.
But there was no telling when he might turn this way.
I hurried toward the exit.
In a frenzy, I grabbed my shoes and rushed outside.
I no longer had the courage to go out toward the main street.
I walked in the direction opposite to the main street.
When I reached the embankment, I wandered aimlessly from in front of the bank toward the bridge.

Fortunately，the baby occasionally made grimaces but had not yet begun to cry.But what was I supposed to do?While Father was there，I couldn’t go to the textile store.I thought about explaining the situation to the men at the textile store and leaving her with them，but they likely wouldn’t take her in easily.After all，she was just a baby.If I went to the corner police box，they would undoubtedly tell me to wait until that woman came.Moreover，for someone like me trying to stay out of sight，the police were the last people I wanted to deal with.But then，what was I supposed to do if she started crying there?That mother must have been frantically searching for me.I should have been waiting in front of the textile store.But what should I do about Father being there?Three years ago，before Father，I had boldly declared I would prove myself a capable adult without relying on his support.How could I possibly expose this shabby appearance—and while holding someone else’s child at that?

After much deliberation, I decided to return home once. My wife would surely be surprised. But if I explained the circumstances, she would surely understand. My wife could take care of the baby, and if it cried, the neighborhood wives would surely give it milk. After leaving the baby with my wife, I could immediately head back to the textile store. Since it was now three o'clock, there was sufficient time to make a round trip to Honjo before the textile store closed at five. By that time, Father would have returned home, and since that lady was concerned about her own child—though I felt sorry to cause her extra worry—she would surely be waiting. With that resolve, I boarded the streetcar.

When my wife saw me return with the baby, she stared with round eyes widening as though they might burst in astonishment.

When I briefly explained the situation, she said "Oh my" and accepted the baby.
And then,

“What a cute baby!” she said.

Anyone who saw this baby couldn’t help but say such a thing.
The baby must have also felt more comfortable being held by my wife.
The baby smiled warmly.

Although my wife was terribly afraid that Father might discover us, I calmed her down and immediately returned to the textile store.

I nervously stepped inside, but Father was nowhere to be seen.
To my dismay, the baby's mother was nowhere to be found either.

I wandered through the textile store until closing time.
Even after it closed, I lingered outside a while longer.
But ultimately, the lady never showed herself.

I dragged my heavy legs back home, steeped in gloom. The baby was sound asleep.
During my absence—though I heard she had cried intensely once—after receiving milk from a woman a few houses down, she fell fast asleep.
I exchanged glances with my wife and let out a sigh of relief.

Even the two of us were barely getting by—what were we supposed to do now that this angelic mischief-maker had come crashing in?

We discussed every possibility.

No matter what anyone said, reporting it to the police would have been the proper course—but we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. Father must have already enlisted them to search for me, so first and foremost we feared being discovered by him (my wife dreaded this most of all—if they found me, she was certain they’d tear us apart). We also lived in terror that our assumed names and current residence might somehow come to light.

I fell in love with my current wife three years ago.
My wife had been working as a café waitress at the time.
She was like an iris blooming among common reeds.
Her face held an innocent charm that mirrored her gentle and virtuous nature.
But my obstinate father refused to permit our marriage for no other reason than her being a waitress.
To Father—who had raised his only son alone after early separation from his wife—this child was more precious than any jewel cradled in one’s palm.
That this treasured son’s very soul was being pilfered by what he deemed little better than a streetwalker—a mere café girl—proved utterly intolerable to him.

One day, the inevitable moment finally arrived.
I bid formal farewell to Father and left home.
Afterward, to avoid recognition, we took pseudonyms and established a household in this modest house along a backstreet.

For three long years we endured great hardship.
Since I couldn’t permit my wife to continue working as a café waitress after our marriage, we eked out a living—relying on the meager funds I’d brought with me—through odd jobs and poorly paid work.
What wretched fortune this was!
Three months ago I had entirely lost employment.
The modest savings I’d desperately conserved now wouldn’t last beyond two more months.
Thus I walked daily searching for work.
Yet my stubborn pride refused absolutely to apologize to Father.
The shame of him witnessing my degradation outweighed even death itself.
Given these circumstances, appealing to the police remained utterly impossible.

And for the same reason, we couldn’t place a newspaper advertisement either. As for hiring a private detective—even if we assumed the other party would cover the cost afterward—there was no telling when they might find out.

We were perplexed with the cute baby between us.

Two or three days had passed while we kept saying, “What should we do? What should we do?” We had to purchase and prepare various things for the baby. Thinking that the parents must be searching desperately, we went to the newspaper office and borrowed from the neighbors—checking every single advertisement in the newspapers—but found nothing that seemed relevant. Thinking maybe, I went to the textile store two or three times as well, but it was no use.

But the baby grew without any problems. By now she had grown quite accustomed to us—whenever she saw our faces, she would smile warmly. Whenever he thought about what the real parents must be feeling, he couldn’t remain still.

His wife made swaddling clothes changed them washed them and despite added household struggles always wore a cheerful expression while caring for baby.
His wife seemed genuinely love baby.
On morning of third day she said this.

“You, shall we make this baby our child?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” I responded. “How could such a thing be done? First of all, the parents would never agree.”

“But it’s strange they still haven’t done anything about it. There must be circumstances—maybe they abandoned her.”

“What are you saying? Who in their right mind would abandon a child in broad daylight with so many people around? And even if they specifically chose someone, there’s no one who’d hand her over to a poor student like me.”

Even so, I found it truly inexplicable myself. I couldn’t fathom parents who wouldn’t even place a newspaper advertisement or try to find their child’s whereabouts.

My wife fell silent. I understood her heart well—because she knew full well how I agonized over having brought this burden upon us through my own carelessness, she hid her own worries and spoke that way to comfort me. My poor wife. What was I supposed to do?

But how merciless Heaven was—or perhaps this was punishment for defying my parent—for in this dire predicament, I ended up catching a cold.
But even though I had caught a cold, I couldn't just stay still.
I had to find both job opportunities and the baby's parents.
I forced myself to walk outside.

After two or three days, I collapsed into bed.
My temperature rose to forty degrees.
I couldn't get up no matter how hard I tried.
I developed pneumonia.
At the very moment our savings were about to run out, at the very moment we had taken on someone else's baby, I became immobilized.
Whenever I saw my wife working diligently between the wailing baby and me delirious with high fever, my hot tears streamed down unbidden.
But I could no longer even put pen to paper....

Wife's Diary

It has been one week since my husband took to bed.
The high fever of forty degrees continued, and the doctor said this was now the most critical time.
They said prompt treatment was crucial for pneumonia, so I applied ice, administered compresses and inhalations, and nursed him through the night without sleep.
But I still can’t see an end.
What am I supposed to do?

I was worried about my husband, but I was also terribly concerned about whether the baby might catch it.
Because the baby was someone else’s child.
My husband had contracted an unexpected serious illness, and amidst this turmoil, I found myself raising the baby with unpracticed hands.
If we had plenty of money to spare—but in such poverty—when I thought about our funds that might vanish by tomorrow, I felt truly wretched.
Yet all of this must have been God’s trial.
If only my husband would recover like this—if even this baby would grow up properly—then all our hardships until now would mean nothing.
But because my husband lay bedridden, I couldn’t search for the baby’s mother and remained at my wit’s end.
What in heaven’s name was that mother doing?

When my husband first brought the baby home, I was quite surprised, but I did not think there could be any falsehood in his story.
If one were truly in the parents' position, how terribly painful it must be.
I wanted to return her as soon as possible.

But the next day, when I suddenly noticed how much the baby resembled my husband, how shocked I was.
The profile looked exactly alike.
Though I knew I shouldn't suspect him, I thought this must be a child he had fathered elsewhere and brought home for some reason.
But my husband's story was simply too strange.

I thought long and hard.
I don’t think my husband of all people would do such a thing, but when I considered the possibility, it felt utterly heartbreaking.
But the baby was unbearably cute.
If this were my husband’s child, I would gladly raise her if only the mother consents.
I love my husband with all my heart.
He quarreled with his father for my sake, and because of that, we’re leading such a wretched life, you see.
If I think of it as my husband’s child, I can love her as if she were my own.
I thought several times about telling my husband about that matter.
Because she resembles him too much, you see.
But even I couldn’t bring myself to say it outright—when I once joked we should make her our child, he immediately called me a fool and scolded me.
But women are such hopeless creatures—I was still wavering.

Soon after, as my husband’s illness persisted with a high fever, he began rambling deliriously about his father and me.
Though I was frantic with worry, I found myself—appalled at my own narrow-mindedness—listening intently for any secret about the baby he might let slip.
But regarding the baby, he only mentioned it twice when lucid, saying he wanted to return her to her parents’ hands soon—nothing more.
People can’t tell lies in such states.
If it were his own child, he’d surely have shown concern and said something.
I’d truly done something unforgivable by doubting him.
The baby isn’t my husband’s child or anything like that.
It’s another person’s baby.

Once I realized this, the tension drained away, leaving me deflated.
The baby was so utterly precious and had grown so attached to me—I hated the thought of letting her go—but we couldn’t go on like this forever.
I needed to return her to her parents soon, and my husband was ill—what was I supposed to do?

Ah, the children next door were making a racket again.
The neighbors were all good people, and since the mother was raising so many children alone, it couldn’t be helped—but what if their commotion interfered with my husband’s recovery, when rest was supposed to be paramount?
I felt unbearably sorry for my husband, bedridden in this dim six-tatami room within a three-mat partitioned shack.
If only I didn’t exist, he could live comfortably without any hardship—but what would we do if his fever never broke?
But more than that, if his illness continued for another week, I wouldn’t even be able to administer his medicine.
Ah, with all these tears, I couldn’t make sense of anything.
You spineless wretch.

You spineless wretch.

Please let my husband’s illness be cured as soon as possible, and may the baby’s parents be found—I pray to God.

Private Detective’s Notes

I was entrusted with a strange case unlike any I had ever handled before.
The client was a young woman whose husband had taken custody of a baby believed to belong to an unknown woman—with the intent of assisting her in boarding a bus bound for the textile store—only to end up separated from her. He had brought the baby home and continued caring for it due to various circumstances.When her husband fell gravely ill,the woman—his wife—visited my office to secretly request that I locate the mother.

This is truly a strange case.

That the custodial party did not report this to the police—one might accept there being reasons for that—but that the entrusting party sought to secretly bury the matter defies comprehension.
I promptly investigated every police station in the metropolitan area and all private detective agencies in our profession, yet found not a single missing child report filed for the infant.

Given the surrounding circumstances, this could not reasonably be considered an abandoned child.
From the observation that both baby and presumed mother were dressed respectably, they hardly seemed burdened by financial hardship.
What then could explain avoiding police involvement?
By ordinary logic, no mother could maintain composure after losing her own child.
How much less plausible when dealing with an infant described as so endearing that none could behold her without feeling affection?

The fact that she hadn’t reported this to the police could only be attributed to some guilty conscience—but what exactly was she afraid of?

The first thing that came to mind was that either the mother or the father—or someone else in the family—was wanted by the police.
However, the mother’s demeanor did not appear connected to criminal activity.
Moreover, a mother’s love cannot be exchanged for mere trivial punishment.

The second [reason] was that after handing over the child, the mother had been immediately cut off from external contact due to some circumstance—for instance, being arrested for shoplifting or other crimes, or perhaps being kidnapped. However, according to my investigation, there had been no signs of her arrest, nor were there any missing person reports that matched.

The third possibility—though a particularly weak one—was that there were no other avenues left to consider. Specifically, that the child was illegitimate—an illegitimate child, the product of an adulterous affair, or a criminal's offspring—and that either the father or mother wished to keep their identities concealed from the authorities. However, even if they had come forward, such matters could have been easily kept hidden; after all, the police would not have gone out of their way to disclose such personal secrets. Therefore, I did not believe this alone would be enough to stop a mother who had lost her child. Other scenarios—stepchildren, adopted children, foundlings, and similar non-biological relationships—could be listed, but even if the child wasn't biologically related, there would be no reason to simply remain unconcerned after entrusting them to someone else and losing all trace of their whereabouts.

What suddenly occurred to me was that perhaps the woman had known the young man who took the baby for some reason.
For according to the reasons I had exhaustively discussed above, a mother could never remain composed after handing her baby over to a complete stranger.
For reasons unknown, if the woman knew the young man, she could remain somewhat composed because she could believe that the baby would someday be safely returned to her own hands.
Considering this, there was some explanation for why the woman had not come forward.
In other words, the woman knew that the young man was living in obscurity and, out of sympathy for him, did not come forward.

Under this hypothesis, I decided to investigate the client’s acquaintances.
Given that the client herself was concealing her identity, this investigation proved extremely difficult; however, after three or four days, it came to light that the young man who was her husband turned out to be the only son of a certain banker and had run away from home two years prior due to a marriage dispute.
From the banker, requests for a search had been made to the police and, of course, to our peers in the industry as well.
Ironically, a request had duly come to me as well.
The banker seemed to regret having disowned his only son in a fit of rage, and particularly as his advancing age made the more than two years of not knowing his son’s whereabouts weigh on him increasingly, he had recently intensified his search even more fiercely.

I traced connections through the parents and then through the young man’s circle of friends, but found no households grieving over a recently lost baby. Had my assumption missed its mark?

I tried putting myself in the mother’s position.
Even if she learned her own baby was in the hands of an acquaintance, and even if she understood that she couldn’t meet them right away because they were avoiding public attention—could she really stay still?
She must have been expecting that the young man would find some way to return the baby to her.
But the young man didn’t know her name or whereabouts.
Then where was he to go to return her?
That place had to be one known to both of them.
Then where?
It was Tokyo Station front.
The textile store.
If the young man had been healthy, he would have gone there.

The time?
It must be the same time as when they had first parted.

Thinking this, on the fifth day after accepting the case—just past two in the afternoon—I went to Tokyo Station front.

The station front was as crowded as ever.
The textile store-bound bus was teeming with people.
I involuntarily smiled.

While seeing off two or three buses, I suddenly noticed a woman standing a short distance away from there.

She appeared to be about twenty-five or twenty-six—slightly haggard, yet a beautiful woman with her hair arranged in a neat married woman’s chignon, every inch the proper wife. As I kept watching intently, each time a bus arrived or departed, her eyes would brighten and she would anxiously scan the boarding and disembarking passengers. When the bus vanished from view, those wide, clear eyes of hers suddenly clouded with sorrow.

I thought. This was the woman. This had to be the woman. I resolved to approach her and speak. At that moment, an unexpected intruder intervened. Before I could draw near, from the opposite direction came a sturdy-looking gentleman nearing sixty—his forehead creased with melancholy wrinkles—swinging a thick cane as he briskly closed in on the woman's side. He whispered a word or two, then they promptly began walking away together.

I lost my chance and stood blankly watching their retreating figures grow smaller in the distance.

But I was fortunate.
That night, unexpectedly, the mother who had left her baby with someone and lost track of them came to visit me to request that I search for the baby.
She was the beautiful woman with a round chignon whom I had seen at Tokyo Station front earlier that day.

Once Again, the Wife’s Diary

When I tried to stand up after breaking ice at Ryūgen, I grew dizzy and suddenly everything went dark. How much time had passed? When I noticed the baby’s crying, I found myself lying face down on the kitchen floor. My eyelids kept shutting on their own from endless sleep deprivation, but I desperately fought off the fading consciousness to enter the room and gently placed an ice pack on my sleeping husband’s head. Then I peered in at the baby sleeping in the three-tatami space.

The fever that had briefly subsided flared up again, his high temperature persisting for another week. Though the baby remained blissfully healthy, caring for my sick husband while tending to an infant—something I’d never done before—left me nothing but worries. Nothing went right. I felt certain the moment would soon come when I could no longer move at all.

Moreover, the savings that my husband and I had discussed—believing they would last about two months if we lived frugally—were completely spent within two weeks on medicine costs, ice costs, charcoal costs, the baby’s milk expenses, and so forth.
What would we do starting tomorrow?

The neighborhood wives were truly taking such good care of us.
But they all had their own children and work to tend to.
And as for money—how could I possibly ask for that?
A spineless person like me couldn’t possibly earn money—let alone have anywhere to borrow from.

If I were to visit Father-in-law and explain the situation—since it concerns your beloved son—he might hate me (in which case I would simply step aside), but... You spineless fool—who cries over such things?—it wasn’t just once or twice that I thought Father-in-law would surely help us somehow, but by clinging to the empty hope that the fever might break tomorrow, and dreading the pain of being scolded later by my husband—who had made such a resolute decision—I clenched my teeth and endured until today.

What could the baby's parents be doing?
A week ago I went to a private detective agency, but still nothing has come of it.
It's useless to complain now, but if only I hadn't taken in this baby—then I could have properly cared for my husband.
No—I mustn't think that way.
I mustn't think at all.
This must all be God's will.

But what will we do starting tomorrow?
Without money, how can I cure my husband's illness?
How can I raise this baby?
If anything were to happen to my husband, I couldn't face his father again.
What should I do?

I cried and cried until even my tears ran dry.
My strength and spirit were utterly spent.
I ended up collapsing heavily onto the tatami mats.

At that moment, the lattice door was thrown open with a loud clatter. When I sat up with a start, an elderly gentleman suddenly entered without any announcement, so I was startled. Upon closer inspection, realizing it was my husband’s father whom I had met once before—though I tried not to show surprise—I immediately pressed my head to the tatami in shame and fear.

Father strode heavily to my husband’s side and stared intently at his emaciated face and labored breathing, but tears glistened in his eyes.

“You’ve been through so much.”
“It’s alright now.”
“Rest assured.”

Unexpectedly being spoken to with such kind words, I could no longer endure it and ended up bursting into loud sobs.

“Is the baby here?”

Having said this, Father slid open the fusuma door to the three-tatami room with a clatter and entered, then suddenly scooped up the baby.

“Oh, you’ve been keeping well!” he said while soothing her and turning toward me. “It’s thanks to you. I offer my deepest gratitude.”

I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything.

The baby smiled with a round, chubby face as she was being held.

When I suddenly noticed, there was a lady with a round chignon standing outside the lattice.
I was too ashamed to speak up.
With the joy of my husband being saved and the relief of knowing the baby’s parents, I wandered about in a dreamlike state.

Husband’s Notes Again

When I think about our happy life these days, it feels like a dream.
This time last year, I was wandering between life and death.
I was suffering from a high fever in a damp room in the back tenement.
Between my gravely ill self and the baby I had brought home from that strange incident—the baby who can now walk and is busily playing mischief right beside me as I write this—my wife stood enduring every hardship.
It was then that Father came rushing in.

When Father came rushing in, my wife had apparently been terribly startled. When Father picked up the baby and soothed her, she had apparently been unable to make sense of anything.

The baby was Father’s child after all. She was my sister after all.

Father fell in love with the maid who came into service after I ran away from home.
After living a long single life and being betrayed by his only son, Father—now past fifty—tasted true love for the first time.

The woman soon gave birth to a child.
That was the baby’s mother I had seen.
The baby’s mother had apparently once served at my house before, and she knew me well.
That day, when she was struggling to board the bus, she caught a glimpse of the young man who had kindly taken the baby, and realizing it was me, let out an "Oh!" before missing her chance to get on.
The next bus taking so long to arrive was what led to the mistake.
She was so anxious that she took the train.
Because the train had broken down and she had to walk to the transfer point, it took a great deal of time.
Before long, I found Father—he had been waiting for her and the baby.
Since he and she were living separately—they occasionally met up to go shopping together—he had gone out, so by the time she arrived, I was not there.
Father and she searched for me, but of course they couldn’t find me.

Father had been somewhat relieved that the baby had come into none other than my hands.
And Father disliked involving the police in this baby incident.
Father had forgiven me long before.
Father had been ready to welcome me with open arms whenever I returned.
So he had already done everything possible to search for my whereabouts, but—
Since this time he could simultaneously track down both my whereabouts and the baby’s, he concealed matters regarding the baby and devoted all his efforts solely to searching for me—filing new requests with the police, troubling private detective agencies—exhausting every possible means.

However, as the ten-odd days of searching had proven fruitless, Father finally sent the mother to a detective agency to entrust them with the matter of the baby.
It turned out that by coincidence, the detective agency where my wife had gone to make her request was the very same one, so the matter was resolved immediately.
Father heard about my dire circumstances and my wife’s devotion, and shed tears.
And then he came rushing into our hideout—the back tenement.

After that, Father, I, my wife, the baby, and the baby’s mother were all happy.
The baby was an angel who had guided us to happiness.

The sister is doted on by everyone.
How could anyone not dote on her?
“But since you take after me, you’ve given your wife quite a scare.”

(“Tantei Bungei,” April 1926 Issue)