Charlie Chan rose at eight the next morning, and as he scraped the stubble of black beard from his cheeks, he grinned happily at his reflection in the glass. He was thinking of the small, helpless boy-child who no doubt at this moment lay in the battered old crib on Punchbowl Hill. In a few days, the detective promised himself, he would stand beside that crib, and the latest Chan would look up to see, at last, his father’s welcoming smile.

He watched a beetle-browed porter wheel his inexpensive little trunk off on the first leg of its journey to the Matson docks, and then neatly placed his toilet articles in his suitcase. With jaunty step he went down to breakfast.

The first page of the morning paper carried the tragic tale of Sir Frederic’s passing, and for a moment Chan’s eyes narrowed. A complicated mystery, to be sure. Interesting to go to the bottom of it⁠—but that was the difficult task of others. Had it been his duty, he would have approached it gallantly, but, from his point of view, the thing did not concern him. Home⁠—that alone concerned him now.

He laid the paper down, and his thoughts flew back to the little boy in Honolulu. An American citizen, a future boy scout under the American flag, he should have an American name. Chan had felt himself greatly attracted to his genial host of the night before. Barry Chan⁠—what was the matter with that?

As he was finishing his tea, he saw in the dining-room door the thin, nervous figure of Bill Rankin, the reporter. He signed his check, left a generous tip, and joined Rankin in the lobby.

“Hello,” said the reporter. “Well, that was some little affair up at the Kirk Building last night.”

“Most distressing,” Chan replied. They sat down on a broad sofa, and Rankin lighted a cigarette.

“I’ve got a bit of information I believe you should have,” the newspaper man continued.

“Begging pardon, I think you labor under natural delusion,” Chan said.

“Why⁠—what do you mean?”

“I am not concerned with case,” Chan calmly informed him.

“You don’t mean to say⁠—”

“In three hours I exit through Golden Gate.”

Rankin gasped. “Good lord. I knew you’d planned to go, of course, but I supposed⁠—Why, man alive, this is the biggest thing that’s broke round here since the fire. Sir Frederic Bruce⁠—it’s an international catastrophe. I should think you’d leap at it.”

“I am not,” smiled Charlie, “a leaping kind of man. Personal affairs call me to Hawaii. The postman refuses to take another walk. Very interesting case, but as I have heard my slanging cousin Willie say, I am not taking any of it.”

“I know,” said Rankin. “The calm, cool Oriental. Never been excited in your life, I suppose?”

“What could I have gained by that? I have watched the American citizen. His temples throb. His heart pounds. The fibers of his body vibrate. With what result? A year subtracted from his life.”

“Well, you’re beyond me,” said Rankin, leaning back and seeking to relax a bit himself. “I hope I won’t be boring you if I go on talking about Sir Frederic. I’ve been all over our luncheon at the St. Francis in my mind, and do you know what I think?”

“I should be pleased to learn,” returned Chan.

“Fifteen years make a very heavy curtain on the Indian frontier, Sir Frederic said. If you ask me, I’d say that in order to solve the mystery of his murder last night, we must look behind that curtain.”

“Easy said, but hard to do,” suggested Chan.

“Very hard, and that’s why you⁠—Oh, well, go on and take your boat ride. But the disappearance of Eve Durand is mixed up in this somehow. So, perhaps, is the murder of Hilary Galt.”

“You have reason for thinking this?”

“I certainly have. Just as I was about to sit down and write a nice feature story about that luncheon, Sir Frederic rushed into the Globe office and demanded I hush it all up. Why should he do that? I ask you.”

“And I pause for your reply.”

“You’ll get it. Sir Frederic was still working on one, or maybe both, of those cases. More than that, he was getting somewhere. That visit to Peshawar may not have been as lacking in results as he made out. Eve Durand may be in San Francisco now. Someone connected with one of those cases is certainly here⁠—someone who pulled that trigger last night. For myself, I would cherchez la femme. That’s French⁠—”

“I know,” nodded Chan. “You would hunt the woman. Excellent plan. So would I.”

“Aha⁠—I knew it. And that’s why this information I have is vital. The other night I went up to the Kirk Building to see Sir Frederic. Paradise told me he was in the office. Just as I was approaching the office door, it opened, and a young woman⁠—”

“One moment,” Chan cut in. “Begging pardon to interrupt, you should go at once with your story to Miss June Morrow. I am not connected.”

Rankin stood up. “All right. But you’re certainly beyond me. The man of stone. I wish you a pleasant journey. And if this case is ever solved, I hope you never hear about it.”

Chan grinned broadly. “Your kind wishes greatly appreciated. Goodbye, and all luck possible.”

He watched the reporter as he dashed from the lobby into the street, then going above, he completed his packing. A glance at his watch told him he had plenty of time, so he went to say goodbye to his relative in Chinatown. When he returned to the hotel to get his bags, Miss Morrow was waiting for him.

“What happy luck,” he said. “Once again I am rewarded by a sight of your most interesting face.”

“You certainly are,” she replied. “I simply had to see you again. The district attorney has put this whole affair in my hands, and it’s my big chance. You are still determined to go home?”

“More than usual.” He led her to a sofa. “Last night I have joyous cable⁠—”

“I know. I was there when Mr. Kirk telephoned you. A boy, I think he said.”

“Heaven’s finest gift,” nodded Chan.

Miss Morrow sighed. “If it had only been a girl,” she said.

“Good luck,” Chan told her, “dogs me in such matters. Of eleven opportunities, I am disappointed but three times.”

“You’re to be congratulated. However, girls are a necessary evil.”

“You are unduly harsh. Necessary, of course. In your case, no evil whatever.”

Barry Kirk came into the lobby and joined them. “Good morning, father,” he smiled. “Well, we’re all here to speed the parting guest.”

Chan consulted his watch. Miss Morrow smiled. “You’ve quite a lot of time,” she said. “At least give me the benefit of your advice before you leave.”

“Happy to do so,” agreed Chan. “It is worthless, but you are welcome.”

“Captain Flannery is completely stumped, though of course he won’t admit it. I told him all about Hilary Galt and Eve Durand, and he just opened his mouth and forgot to close it.”

“Better men than the Captain might also pause in yawning doubt.”

“Yes⁠—I admit that.” Miss Morrow’s white forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “It’s all so scattered⁠—San Francisco and London and Peshawar⁠—it almost looks as though whoever solved it must make a trip around the world.”

Chan shook his head. “Many strings reach back, but solution will lie in San Francisco. Accept my advice, and take heart bravely.”

The girl still puzzled. “We know that Hilary Galt was killed sixteen years ago. A long time, but Sir Frederic was the sort who would never abandon a trail. We also know that Sir Frederic was keenly interested in the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar. That might have been a natural curiosity⁠—but if it was, why should he rush to the newspaper office and demand that nothing be printed about it? No⁠—it was more than curiosity. He was on the trail of something.”

“And near the end of it,” put in Kirk. “He told me that much.”

Miss Morrow nodded. “Near the end⁠—what did that mean? Had he found Eve Durand? Was he on the point of exposing her identity? And was there someone⁠—Eve Durand or someone else⁠—who was determined he should never do so? So determined, in fact, that he⁠—or she⁠—would not stop short of murder to silence him?”

“All expressed most clearly,” approved Chan.

“Oh⁠—but it isn’t clear at all. Was Hilary Galt’s murder connected somehow with the disappearance of that young girl from Peshawar? The velvet slippers⁠—where are they now? Did the murderer of Sir Frederic take them? And if so⁠—why?”

“Many questions arise,” admitted Chan. “All in good time you get the answers.”

“We’ll never get them,” sighed the girl, “without your help.”

Chan smiled. “How sweet your flattery sounds.” He considered. “I made no search of the office last night. But Captain Flannery did. What was found? Records? A casebook?”

“Nothing,” said Kirk, “that had any bearing on the matter. Nothing that mentioned Hilary Galt or Eve Durand.”

Chan frowned. “Yet without question of doubt, Sir Frederic kept records. Were those records the prize for which the killer made frantic search? Doubtless so. Did he⁠—or she⁠—then, find them? That would seem to be true, unless⁠—”

“Unless what?” asked the girl quickly.

“Unless Sir Frederic had removed same to safe and distant place. On face of things, he expected marauder. He may have baited trap with pointless paper. You have hunted his personal effects, in bedroom?”

“Everything,” Kirk assured him. “Nothing was found. In the desk downstairs were some newspaper clippings⁠—accounts of the disappearance of other women who walked off into the night. Sir Frederic evidently made such cases his hobby.”

“Other women?” Chan was thoughtful.

“Yes. But Flannery thought those clippings meant nothing, and I believe he was right.”

“And the cutting about Eve Durand remained in Sir Frederic’s purse?” continued Chan.

“By gad!” Kirk looked at the girl. “I never thought of that. The clipping was gone!”

Miss Morrow’s dark eyes were filled with dismay. “Oh⁠—how stupid,” she cried. “It was gone, and the fact made no impression on me at all. I’m afraid I’m just a poor, weak woman.”

“Calm your distress,” said Chan soothingly. “It is a matter to note, that is all. It proves that the quest of Eve Durand held important place in murderer’s mind. You must, then, cherchez la femme. You understand?”

“Hunt the woman,” said Miss Morrow.

“You have it. And in such an event, a huntress will be far better than a hunter. Let us think of guests at party. Mr. Kirk, you have said a portion of these people are there because Sir Frederic requested their presence. Which?”

“The Enderbys,” replied Kirk promptly. “I didn’t know them. But Sir Frederic wanted them to come.”

“That has deep interest. The Enderbys. Mrs. Enderby approached state of hysteria all evening. Fear of dark might mean fear of something else. Is it beyond belief that Eve Durand, with new name, marries again into bigamy?”

“But Eve Durand was a blonde,” Miss Morrow reminded him.

“Ah, yes. And Eileen Enderby has hair like night. It is, I am told, a matter that is easily arranged. Color of hair may be altered, but color of eyes⁠—that is different. And Mrs. Enderby’s eyes are blue, matching oddly raven locks.

“Never miss a trick, do you?” smiled Kirk.

“Mrs. Enderby goes to garden, sees man on fire-escape. So she informs us. But does she? Or does she know her husband, smoking cigarette on stairs, has not been so idly occupied? Is man on fire-escape a myth of her invention, to protect her husband? Why are stains on her gown? From leaning with too much hot excitement against garden rail, damp with the fog of night? Or from climbing herself on to fire-escape⁠—you apprehend my drift? What other guests did Sir Frederic request?”

Kirk thought. “He asked me to invite Gloria Garland,” the young man announced.

Chan nodded. “I expected it. Gloria Garland⁠—such is not a name likely to fall to human lot. Sounds like a manufacture. And Australia is so placed on map it might be appropriate end of journey from Peshawar. Blonde, blue-eyed, she breaks necklace on the stair. Yet you discover a pearl beneath the office desk.”

Miss Morrow nodded. “Yes⁠—Miss Garland certainly is a possibility.”

“There remains,” continued Chan, “Mrs. Tupper-Brock. A somewhat dark lady⁠—but who knows? Sir Frederic did not ask her presence?”

“No⁠—I don’t think he knew she existed,” said Kirk.

“Yes? But it is wise in our work, Miss Morrow, that even the smallest improbabilities be studied. Men stumble over pebbles, never over mountains. Tell me, Mr. Kirk⁠—was Colonel John Beetham the idea of Sir Frederic, too?”

“Not at all. And now that I remember, Sir Frederic seemed a bit taken back when he heard Beetham was coming. But he said nothing.”

“We have now traversed the ground. You have, Miss Morrow, three ladies to receive your most attentive study⁠—Mrs. Enderby, Miss Garland, Mrs. Tupper-Brock. All of proper age, so near as a humble man can guess it in this day of beauty rooms with their appalling tricks. These only of the dinner party⁠—”

“And one outside the dinner party,” added the girl, to Chan’s surprise.

“Ah⁠—on that point I have only ignorance,” he said blankly.

“You remember the elevator operator spoke of a girl employed by the Calcutta Importers, on the twentieth floor? A Miss Lila Barr. She was at work in her office there last night.”

“Ah, yes,” nodded Chan.

“Well, a newspaper man, Rankin of the Globe, came to see me a few minutes ago. He said that the other evening⁠—night before last⁠—he went to call on Sir Frederic, in Mr. Kirk’s office, rather late. Just as he approached the door, a girl came out. She was crying. Rankin saw her dab at her eyes and disappear into the room of the Calcutta Importers. A blonde girl, he said.”

Chan’s face was grave. “A fourth lady to require your kind attention. The matter broadens. So much to be done⁠—and you in the midst of it all, like a pearl in a muddy pool.” He stood up. “I am sorry. But the Maui must even now be straining at her moorings⁠—”

“One other thing,” put in the girl. “You made quite a point of that Cosmopolitan Club yearbook lying beside Sir Frederic. You thought it important?”

Chan shrugged. “I fear I was in teasing mood. I believed it hardest puzzle of the lot. Therefore I am mean enough to press it on Captain Flannery’s mind. What it meant, I can not guess. Poor Captain Flannery will never do so.”

He looked at his watch. The girl rose. “I won’t keep you longer,” she sighed. “I’m very busy, but somehow I can’t let you go. I’m trailing along to the dock with you, if you don’t mind. Perhaps I’ll think of something else on the way.”

“Who am I,” smiled Chan, “to win such overwhelming honor? You behold me speechless with delight. Mr. Kirk⁠—”

“Oh, I’m going along,” said Kirk. “Always like to see a boat pull out. The Lord meant me for a traveling salesman.”

Chan got his bag, paid his bill, and the three of them entered Kirk’s car, parked round the corner.

“Now that the moment arrives,” said Chan, “I withdraw from this teeming mainland with some regret. Fates have been in smiling mood with me here.”

“Why go?” suggested Kirk.

“Long experience,” replied Chan, “whispers not to strain fates too far. Their smile might fade.”

“Want to stop anywhere on the way?” Kirk asked. “You’ve got thirty minutes until sailing time.”

“I am grateful, but all my farewells are said. Only this morning I have visited Chinatown⁠—” He stopped. “So fortunate you still hang on,” he added to the girl. “I was forgetting most important information for you. Still another path down which you must travel.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I’m dizzy now. What next?”

“You must at once inflict this information on Captain Flannery. He is to find a Chinese, a stranger here, stopping with relatives on Jackson Street. The name, Li Gung.”

“Who is Li Gung?” asked Miss Morrow.

“Yesterday, when delicious lunch was ended, I hear of Li Gung from Sir Frederic.” He repeated his conversation with the great man. “Li Gung had information much wanted by Sir Frederic. That alone I can say. Captain Flannery must extract this information from Li.”

“He’ll never get it,” replied the girl pessimistically. “Now you, Sergeant⁠—”

Chan drew a deep breath. “I am quite overcome,” he remarked, “by the bright loveliness of this morning on which I say farewell to the mainland.”

They rode on in silence, while the girl thought hard. If only she could find some way of reaching this stolid man by her side, some appeal that would not roll off like water from a duck’s back. She hastily went over in her mind all she had ever read of the Chinese character.

Kirk drove his smart roadster on to the pier, a few feet from the Maui’s gangplank. The big white ship was gay with the color of women’s hats and frocks. Taxis were sweeping up, travelers were alighting, white-jacketed stewards stood in a bored line ready for another sailing. Goodbyes and final admonitions filled the air.

A steward stepped forward and took Chan’s bag. “Hello, Sergeant,” he said. “Going home, eh? What room, please?”

Chan told him, then turned to the young people at his side. “At thought of your kindness,” he remarked, “I am choking. Words escape me. I can only say⁠—goodbye.”

“Give my regards to the youngest Chan,” said Kirk. “Perhaps I’ll see him some day.”

“Reminding me,” returned Chan, “that only this morning I scour my brain to name him. With your kind permission, I will denote him Barry Chan.”

“I’m very much flattered,” Kirk answered gravely. “Wish to heaven I had something to send him⁠—er⁠—a mug⁠—or a what-you-may-call-it. You’ll hear from me later.”

“I only trust,” Chan said, “he grows up worthy of his name. Miss Morrow⁠—I am leaving on this dock my heartiest good wishes⁠—”

She looked at him oddly. “Thank you,” she remarked in a cool voice. “I wish you could have stayed, Mr. Chan. But of course I realize your point of view. The case was too difficult. For once, Charlie Chan is running away. I’m afraid the famous Sergeant of the Honolulu police has lost face today.”

A startled expression crossed that usually bland countenance. For a long moment Chan looked at her with serious eyes, then he bowed, very stiffly. “I wish you goodbye,” he said, and walked with offended dignity up the gangplank.

Kirk was staring at the girl in amazement. “Don’t look at me like that,” she cried ruefully. “It was cruel, but it was my last chance. I’d tried everything else. Well, it didn’t work. Shall we go?”

“Oh⁠—let’s wait,” pleaded Kirk. “They’re sailing in a minute. I always get a thrill out of it. Look⁠—up there on the top deck.” He nodded toward a pretty girl in gray, with a cluster of orchids pinned to her shoulder. “A bride, if you ask me. And I suppose that vacant-faced idiot at her side is the lucky man.”

Miss Morrow looked, without interest.

“A great place for a honeymoon, Hawaii,” went on Kirk. “I’ve often thought⁠—I hope I’m not boring you?”

“Not much,” she said.

“I know. Brides leave you cold. I suppose divorce is more in your line. You and Blackstone. Well, you shan’t blast my romantic young nature.” He took out a handkerchief and waved it toward the girl on the top deck. “So long, my dear,” he called. “All the luck in the world.”

“I don’t see Mr. Chan,” said the young woman from the district attorney’s office.

Mr. Chan was sitting thoughtfully on the edge of the berth in his stateroom, far below. The great happiness of his long anticipated departure for home had received a rude jolt. Running away⁠—was that it? Afraid of a difficult case? Did Miss Morrow really think that? If she did, then he had lost face indeed.

His gloomy reflections were interrupted by a voice in the next stateroom⁠—a voice he had heard before. His heart stood still as he listened.

“I fancy that’s all, Li,” said the familiar voice. “You have your passport, your money. You are simply to wait for me in Honolulu. Better lie low there.”

“I will do so,” replied a high-pitched, singsong voice.

“And if anyone asks any questions, you know nothing. Understand?”

“Yes-s-s. I am silent. I understand.”

“Very good. You’re a wonderful servant, Li Gung. I don’t like to flatter you, you grinning beggar, but I couldn’t do without you. Goodbye⁠—and a pleasant journey.”

Chan was on his feet now, peering out into the dim passageway along which opened the rooms on the lowest deck. In that faint light he saw a familiar figure emerge from the room next door, and disappear in the distance.

The detective stood for a moment, undecided. Of all the guests at Barry Kirk’s party one had interested him beyond all others⁠—almost to the exclusion of the others. The tall, grim, silent man who had made his camps throughout the wastelands of the world, who had left a trail of the dead but who had always moved on, relentlessly, toward his goal. Colonel John Beetham, whom he had just seen emerging from the stateroom next to his with a last word of farewell to Li Gung.

Chan looked at his watch. It was never his habit to hurry, but he must hurry now. He sighed a great sigh that rattled the glasses in their rings, and snatched up his bag. On the saloon deck he met the purser.

“Homeward bound, Charlie?” inquired that gentleman breezily.

“So I thought,” replied Chan, “but it seems I was mistaken. At the last moment, I am rudely wrenched ashore. Yet I have ticket good only on this boat.”

“Oh, they’ll fix that up for you at the office. They all know you, Charlie.”

“Thanks for the suggestion. My trunk is already loaded. Will you kindly deliver same to my oldest son, who will call for it when you have docked at Honolulu?”

“Sure.” The “visitors ashore” call was sounding for the last time. “Don’t you linger too long on this wicked mainland, Charlie,” the purser admonished.

“One week only,” called Chan, over his shoulder. “Until the next boat. I swear it.”

On the dock, Miss Morrow seized Kirk’s arm. “Look. Coming down the gangplank. Colonel Beetham. What’s he doing here?”

“Beetham⁠—sure enough,” said Kirk. “Shall I offer him a lift? No⁠—he’s got a taxi. Let him go. He’s a cold proposition⁠—I like him not.” He watched the Colonel enter a cab and ride off.

When he turned back to the Maui, two husky sailors were about to draw up the plank. Suddenly between them appeared a chubby little figure, one hand clutching a suitcase. Miss Morrow gave a cry of delight.

“It’s Chan,” Kirk said. “He’s coming ashore.”

And ashore Charlie came, while they lifted the plank at his heels. He stood before the two young people, ill at ease.

“Moment of gentle embarrassment for me,” he said. “The traveler who said goodbye is back before he goes.”

“Mr. Chan,” the girl cried, “you dear! You’re going to help us, after all.”

Chan nodded. “To the extent of my very slight ability, I am with you to finish, bitter or sweet.”

On the top deck of the Maui the band began to play⁠—“Aloha Oe,” that most touching of farewells. Long streamers of bright-colored paper filled the air. The last goodbyes, the final admonitions⁠—a loud voice calling “Don’t forget to write.” Charlie Chan watched, a mist before his eyes. Slowly the boat drew away from the pier. The crowd ran along beside it, waving frantically. Charlie’s frame shook with another ponderous sigh.

“Poor little Barry Chan,” he said. “He would have been happy to see me. Captain Flannery will not be so happy. Let us ride away into the face of our problems.”