Thoughtfully Charlie Chan picked up Sir Frederic’s clippings from the desk and taking out a huge wallet, stowed them away inside. Barry Kirk’s eyes were on the door through which Flannery had taken his unceremonious departure.

“I’m very much afraid,” he said, “that the policeman’s lot is not a happy one. The dear old Captain seemed a bit⁠—what’s a good word for it? Nettled? Ah yes, nettled is a very good word.”

Miss Morrow smiled. “He’s frightfully puzzled, and that always makes a policeman cross.”

“I hope it doesn’t have that effect on you.”

“If it did, I’d be so cross right at this moment you’d order me out of your life forever.”

“A trifle baffled, eh?”

“Can you wonder? Was there ever a case like this?” She picked up her coat, which she had brought with her from the bungalow. “All that about Marie Lantelme⁠—”

“Humbly making suggestion,” remarked Chan, “do not think too much about Marie Lantelme. She is⁠—what you say⁠—an issue from the side. Remember always one big fact⁠—Sir Frederic Bruce dead on this very floor, the velvet shoes absent from his feet. Wandering too far from that, we are lost. Think of Eve Durand, think of Hilary Galt, but think most of all regarding Sir Frederic and last night. Bestow Marie Lantelme in distant pigeonhole of mind. That way alone, we progress, we advance.”

The girl sighed. “Shall we ever advance? I doubt it.”

“Take cheer,” advised Chan. “A wise man said, ‘The dark clouds pass, the blue heavens abide.’ ” He bowed low and disappeared toward the stairs leading up to the bungalow.

Barry Kirk held the girl’s coat. As he placed it about her shoulders the words of a familiar advertisement flashed into his mind. “Obey that impulse.” But one couldn’t go through life obeying every chance impulse.

“ ‘All time we get in deeper,’ ” he quoted. “It begins to look like a long and very involved case.”

“I’m afraid it does,” Miss Morrow replied.

“What do you mean, afraid? You and I are very brainy people⁠—thanks for including me⁠—and we should welcome a good stiff test of our powers. Let’s get together for a conference very soon.”

“Do you think that’s necessary?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Then it’s all settled,” she smiled. “Thanks for the lunch⁠—and goodbye.”

When Kirk reached the bungalow, Charlie called to him from the room formerly occupied by the man from Scotland Yard. Going in, he found the detective standing thoughtfully before Sir Frederic’s luggage, now piled neatly in a corner.

“You have investigated these properties of Sir Frederic?” Chan asked.

Kirk shook his head. “No, I haven’t. That’s hardly in my line. Flannery went through them last night, and evidently found nothing. He told me to turn them over to the British consul.”

“Flannery travels with too much haste,” protested Chan. “You have the keys, perhaps? If so, I experience a yearning of my own to look inside.”

Kirk handed him the keys, and left him alone. For a long time Chan proceeded with his search. Finally he appeared in the living-room with a great collection of books under his arm.

“Find anything?” Kirk asked.

“Nothing at all,” Chan returned, “with these somewhat heavy exceptions. Deign to come closer, if you will be kind enough.”

Kirk rose and casually examined the books. His offhand manner vanished, and he cried excitedly: “Great Scott!”

“The same from me,” Chan smiled. “You have noted the name of the author of these volumes.” He read off the titles. “Across China and Back. Wanderings in Persia. A Year in the Gobi Desert. Tibet, the Top of the World. My Life as an Explorer.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Kirk. “All the work of our good friend, Colonel Beetham. No other books amid Sir Frederic’s luggage. Does it not strike you as strange, his keen interest in one solitary author?”

“It certainly does,” agreed Kirk. “I wonder⁠—”

“I have never ceased to wonder. When I look into deep eyes of the lonely explorer last night, I ask myself, what make of man is this? No sooner is Sir Frederic low on the floor than my thoughts fly back to that mysterious face. So cold, so calm, but who knows with what hot fires beneath.” He selected one enormous volume, the Life. “I feel called upon to do some browsing amid Sir Frederic’s modest library. I will advance first on this, which will grant me bird’s-eye look over an adventurous career.”

“A good idea,” Kirk nodded.

Before Chan could settle to his reading, the bell rang and Paradise admitted Mrs. Dawson Kirk. She came in as blithely as a girl.

“Hello, Barry. Mr. Chan, I rather thought I’d find you here. Didn’t sail after all, did you?”

Chan sighed. “I have encountered some difficulty in bringing vacation to proper stop. History is a grand repeater.”

“Well, I’m glad of it,” said Mrs. Kirk. “They’ll need you here. Frightful thing, this is. And to think, Barry, it happened in your building. The Kirks are not accustomed to scandal. I never slept a wink all night.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” her grandson said.

“Oh, you needn’t be. Not sleeping much anyhow, of late. Seems I got all my sleeping done, years ago. Well, what’s happened? Have they made any progress?”

“Not much,” Kirk admitted.

“How could they? That stupid police captain⁠—he annoyed me. No subtlety. Sally Jordan’s boy here will show him up.”

“Humbly accept the flattery,” Chan bowed.

“Flattery⁠—rot. The truth, nothing else. Don’t you disappoint me. All my hopes are pinned on you.”

“By the way,” said Kirk, “I’m glad you came alone. How long has that woman⁠—Mrs. Tupper-Brock⁠—been with you?”

“About a year. What’s she got to do with it?”

“Well⁠—what do you know about her?”

“Don’t be a fool, Barry. I know everything. She’s all right.”

“You mean all her past is an open book to you?”

“Nothing of the sort. I never asked about it. I didn’t have to. I’m a judge of people. One look⁠—that’s enough for me.”

Kirk laughed. “What a smart lady. As a matter of fact, you don’t know a thing about her, do you?”

“Oh, yes I do. She’s English⁠—born in Devonshire.”

“Devonshire, eh?”

“Yes. Her husband was a clergyman⁠—you’d know that by her starved look. He’s dead now.”

“And that’s the extent of your knowledge?”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree⁠—but you would. A nice boy, but never very clever. However, I didn’t come here to discuss Helen Tupper-Brock. It has just occurred to me that I didn’t tell all I knew last night.”

“Concealing evidence, eh?” smiled Kirk.

“I don’t know⁠—it may be evidence⁠—probably not. Tell me⁠—have they dug up any connection between Sir Frederic and that little Mrs. Enderby?”

“No, they haven’t. Have you?”

“Well⁠—it was just after the pictures started. I went out into the kitchen⁠—”

“You would.”

“My throat was dry. I didn’t see any water in the living-room. But what could I expect in a man-run house? In the passageway I came upon Sir Frederic and Mrs. Enderby engaged in what appeared to be a quite serious talk.”

“What were they saying?”

“I’m no eavesdropper. Besides, they stopped suddenly when I appeared, and remained silent until I had gone by. When I returned a few moments later, both were gone.”

“Well, that may be important,” Kirk admitted. “Perhaps not. Odd, though⁠—Sir Frederic told me he had never met Mrs. Enderby when he suggested I invite the pair to dinner. I’ll turn your information over to Miss Morrow.”

“What’s Miss Morrow got to do with it?” snapped the old lady.

“She’s handling the case for the district attorney’s office.”

“What! You mean to say they’ve put an important case like this in the hands of⁠—”

“Calm yourself. Miss Morrow is a very intelligent young woman.”

“She couldn’t be. She’s too good-looking.”

“Miracles happen,” laughed Kirk.

His grandmother regarded him keenly. “You look out for yourself, my boy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Kirk men always did have a weakness for clever women⁠—the attraction of opposites, I presume. That’s how I came to marry into the family.”

“You don’t happen to have an inferiority complex about you, do you?”

“No, sir. That’s one thing the new generation will never be able to pin on me. Well, go ahead and tell Miss Morrow about Eileen Enderby. But I fancy the important member of the investigating committee has heard it already. I’m speaking of Mr. Chan.” She rose. “I wrote Sally Jordan this morning that I’d met you,” she went on, to the detective. “I said I thought the mainland couldn’t spare you just yet.”

Chan shrugged. “Mainland enjoys spectacle of weary postman plodding on his holiday walk,” he replied. “No offense is carried, but I am longing for Hawaii.”

“Well, that’s up to you,” remarked Mrs. Kirk bluntly. “Solve this case quickly and run before the next one breaks. I must go along. I’ve a club meeting. That’s what my life’s come to⁠—club meetings. Barry, keep me posted on this thing. First excitement in my neighborhood in twenty years. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Kirk let her out, and returned to the living-room. The quick winter dusk was falling, and he switched on the lights.

“All of which,” he said, “brings little Eileen into it again. She did seem a bit on edge last night⁠—even before she saw that man on the fire-escape. If she really did see him. I’ll put Miss Morrow on her trail, eh?”

Chan looked up from his big book, and nodded without interest. “All you can do.”

“She doesn’t intrigue you much, does she?” Kirk smiled.

“This Colonel Beetham,” responded Chan. “What a man!”

Kirk looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’m dining tonight at the Cosmopolitan Club, with a friend. I made the engagement several days ago.”

“Greatly pained,” said Chan, “if I interfered with your plans in any way. Tell me⁠—our Colonel Beetham⁠—you have seen him at Cosmopolitan Club?”

“Yes. Somebody’s given him a card. I meet him around there occasionally. I must take you over to the club one of these days.”

“The honor will be immense,” Chan said gravely.

“Paradise will give you dinner,” Kirk told him.

“Not to be considered,” Chan protested. “Your staff in kitchen deserves holiday after last night’s outburst. I am doing too much eating at your gracious board. I too will dine elsewhere⁠—there are little matters into which I would peer inquiringly.”

“As you wish,” nodded Kirk. He went into his bedroom, leaving Chan to the book.

At six thirty, after Kirk had left, Chan also descended to the street. He had dinner at an inexpensive little place and when it was finished, strolled with what looked like an aimless step in the direction of Chinatown.

The Chinese are a nocturnal race; Grant Avenue’s shops were alight and thronged with customers; its sidewalk crowded with idlers who seemed at a loose end for the evening. The younger men were garbed like their white contemporaries; the older, in the black satin blouse and trousers of China, shuffled along on felt shod feet. Here and there walked with ponderous dignity a Chinese matron who had all too obviously never sought to reduce. A sprinkling of bright-eyed flappers lightened the picture.

Chan turned up Washington Street, then off into the gloomy stretch of Waverly Place. He climbed dimly lighted stairs and knocked at a familiar door.

Surprise is not in the lexicon of the race, and Chan Kee Lim admitted him with stolid face. Though they had said farewell only that morning, the detective’s call was accepted calmly by his cousin.

“I am here again,” Chan said in Cantonese. “It was my thought that I was leaving the mainland, but the fates have decreed otherwise.”

“Enter,” his cousin said. “Here in my poor house the welcome never cools. Deign to sit on this atrociously ugly stool.”

“You are too kind,” Charlie returned. “I am, as you must surmise, the victim of my despicable calling. If you will so far condescend, I require information.”

Kee Lim’s eyes narrowed, and he stroked his thin gray beard. He did not approve of that calling, as Charlie well knew.

“You are involved,” he said coldly, “with the white devil police?”

Chan shrugged. “Unfortunately, yes. But I ask no betrayal of confidence from you. A harmless question, only. Perhaps you could tell me of a stranger, a tourist, who has been guest of relatives in Jackson Street? The name Li Gung.”

Kee Lim nodded. “I have not met him, but I have heard talk at the Tong House. He is one who has traveled much in foreign lands. For some time he has been domiciled with his cousin Henry Li, the basket importer, who lives American style in the big apartment-house on Jackson Street. The Oriental Apartments, I believe. I have not been inside, but I understand there are bathrooms and other strange developments of what the white devil is pleased to call his civilization.”

“You are an acquaintance of Henry Li?” Charlie asked.

Kee Lim’s eyes hardened. “I have not the honor,” he replied.

Charlie understood. His cousin would have no part in whatever he proposed. He rose from his ebony stool.

“You are extremely kind,” he said. “That was the extent of my desire. Duty says I must walk my way.”

Kee Lim also rose. “The briefness of your stop makes it essential you come again. There is always a welcome here.”

“Only too well do I know it,” nodded Charlie. “I am busy man, but we will meet again. I am saying goodbye.”

His cousin followed to the door. “I hope you have a safe walk,” he remarked, and there was, it seemed, something more in his mind than the conventional farewell wish.

Chan set out at once for Jackson Street. Halfway up the hill he encountered the gaudy front of the Oriental Apartments. Here the more prosperous members of the Chinese colony lived in the manner of their adopted country.

He entered the lobby and studied the letter boxes. Henry Li, he discovered, lived on the second floor. Ignoring the push buttons, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and he went inside. He climbed to the third floor, walking softly as he passed the apartment occupied by Henry Li. For a moment he stood at the head of the stairs, then started down. He had proceeded about halfway to the floor below, when suddenly he appeared to lose his footing, and descended with a terrific clatter to the second-floor landing. The door of Henry Li’s apartment opened, and a fat little Chinese in a business suit peered out.

“You are concerned in an accident?” he inquired solicitously.

“Haie!” cried Chan, picking himself up, “the evil spirits pursue me. I have lost my footing on these slippery stairs.” He tried to walk, but limped painfully. “I fear I have given my ankle a bad turn. If I could sit quietly for a moment⁠—”

The little man threw wide his door. “Condescend to enter my contemptible house. My chairs are plain and uncomfortable, but you must try one.”

Profuse in thanks, Chan followed him into an astonishing living-room. Hang-chau silk hangings and a few pieces of teakwood mingled with blatant plush furniture from some department store. A small boy, about thirteen, was seated at a radio, which ground out dance music. He wore the khaki uniform of a boy scout, with a bright yellow handkerchief about his throat.

“Please sit here,” invited Henry Li, indicating a huge chair of green plush. “I trust the pain is not very acute.”

“It begins to subside,” Chan told him. “You are most kind.”

The boy had shut off the radio, and was standing before Charlie Chan with keen interest in his bright eyes.

“A most regrettable thing,” explained his father. “The gentleman has turned his ankle on our detestable stairs.”

“So sorry,” the boy announced. His eyes grew even brighter. “All boy scouts know how to make bandages. I will get my first-aid kit⁠—”

“No, no,” protested Chan hastily. “Do not trouble yourself. The injury is not serious.”

“It would be no trouble at all,” the boy assured him. With some difficulty Charlie dissuaded him, and to the detective’s great relief, the boy disappeared.

“I will sit and rest for a moment,” Chan said to Henry Li. “I trust I am no great obstacle here. The accident overwhelmed me when I was on the search for an old friend of mine⁠—Li Gung by name.”

Henry Li’s little eyes rested for a moment on the picture of a middle-aged Chinese in a silver frame on the mantel. “You are a friend of Li Gung?” he inquired.

The moment had been enough for Chan. “I am⁠—and I see his photograph above there, tastefully framed. Is it true, then, that he is stopping here? Has my search ended so fortunately after all?”

“He was here,” Li replied, “but only this morning he walked his way.”

“Gone!” Chan’s face fell. “Alas, then I am too late. Would you be so kind as to tell me where he went?”

Henry Li became discreet. “He disappeared on business of his own, with which I have no concern.”

“Of course. But it is a great pity. A friend of mine, an American gentleman who goes on a long, hazardous journey, required his services. The recompense would have been of generous amount.”

Li shook his head. “The matter would have held no interest for Gung. He is otherwise occupied.”

“Ah, yes. He still remains in the employ of Colonel John Beetham?”

“No doubt he does.”

“Still, the reward in this other matter would have been great. But it may be that he is very loyal to Colonel Beetham. A loyalty cemented through many years. I am trying to figure, but I can not. How long is it your honorable cousin is in Colonel Beetham’s service?”

“Long enough to cement loyalty, as you say,” returned Li, non-commitally.

“Fifteen years, perhaps?” hazarded Chan.

“It might be.”

“Or even longer?”

“As to that, I do not know.”

Chan nodded. “When you know, to know that you know, and when you do not know, to know that you do not know⁠—that is true knowledge, as the master said.” He moved his foot, and a spasm of pain spread over his fat face. “A great man, Colonel Beetham. A most remarkable man. Li Gung has been fortunate. With Colonel Beetham he has seen Tibet, Persia⁠—even India. He has told you, perhaps, of his visits to India with Colonel Beetham?”

In the slanting eyes of the host a stubborn expression was evident. “He says little, my cousin,” Henry Li remarked.

“Which point of character no doubt increases his value to a man like the Colonel,” suggested Chan. “I am very sorry he has gone. While I would no doubt have failed, owing to his feeling of loyalty for his present employer, I would nevertheless have liked to try. I promised my friend⁠—”

The outer door opened, and the active little boy scout burst into the room. After him came a serious, prematurely bearded young American with a small black case.

“I have brought a physician,” cried Willie Li triumphantly.

Chan gave the ambitious boy a savage look.

“An accident, eh?” said the doctor briskly. “Well⁠—which one of you⁠—”

Henry Li nodded toward Chan. “This gentleman’s ankle,” he said.

The white man went at once to Chan’s side. “Let’s have a look at it.”

“It is nothing,” Chan protested. “Nothing at all.”

He held out his foot, and the doctor ripped off shoe and stocking. He made a quick examination with his fingers, turned the foot this way and that, and studied it thoughtfully for a moment. Then he stood up.

“What are you trying to do⁠—kid me?” he said with disgust. “Nothing wrong there.”

“I remarked the injury was of the slightest,” Chan said.

He looked at Henry Li. An expression of complete understanding lighted the basket merchant’s face.

“Five dollars, please,” said the doctor sternly.

Chan produced his purse, and counted out the money. With an effort he refrained from looking in the boy’s direction.

The white man left abruptly. Chan drew on his stocking, slipped into his shoe, and stood up. His dignity requiring that he still maintain the fiction, he limped elaborately.

“These white devil doctors,” he remarked glumly. “All they know is five dollars, please.”

Henry Li was looking at him keenly. “I recall,” he said, “there was one other who came to ask questions about Li Gung. An Englishman⁠—a large man. They are clever and cool, the English, like a thief amid the fire. Was it not his death I read about in the morning paper?”

“I know nothing of the matter,” responded Chan stiffly.

“Of course.” Henry Li followed to the door. “If you will accept advice offered in humble spirit,” he added, “you will walk softly. What a pity if you encountered a really serious accident.”

Mumbling a goodbye, Chan went out. By the door he passed young Willie Li, who was grinning broadly. The event had come to an unexpected ending, but none the less the lad was happy. He was a boy scout, and he had done his good turn for the day.

Chan returned to the street, thoroughly upset. Rarely had any of his little deceptions ended so disastrously. His usefulness on the trail of Li Gung was no doubt over for all time. He consigned all boy scouts to limbo with one muttered imprecation.

Entering a drug store, he purchased a quantity of lamp black and a camel’s hair brush. Then he went on to the Kirk Building. The night watchman took him up to the bungalow, and he let himself in with a key Kirk had given him. The place was dark and silent. He switched on the lights, and made a round of the rooms. No one seemed to be about.

He unlocked the compartment in Kirk’s desk, and carefully removed the sheet of paper that had arrived in the envelope from Scotland Yard. With satisfaction he noted the paper was of a cheap variety, highly glazed. Along the lines where it had been folded, someone’s fingers must have pressed hard.

Seated at the desk, with a floor lamp glowing brightly at his side, he cautiously sprinkled the black powder in the most likely place. Then he carefully dusted it with his brush. He was rewarded by the outline of a massive thumb⁠—the thumb of a big man. He considered. Carrick Enderby was a big man. He was employed at Cook’s. In some way he must procure impressions of Enderby’s thumb.

He returned the paper to the compartment, and with it the tools of his investigation. Turning over ways and means in his mind, he sat down in a comfortable chair, took up Colonel John Beetham’s story of his life, and began to read.

About an hour later Paradise came in from outside. He was absent for a moment in the pantry. Then, entering the living-room with his inevitable silver platter, he removed a few letters and laid them on Kirk’s desk.

“The last mail is in, sir,” he announced. “There is, I believe, a picture postcard for you.”

He carried card and tray negligently at his side, as though to express his contempt for picture postcards. Chan looked up in surprise; he had telephoned the hotel to forward any mail to him here, and this was quick work. Paradise offered the tray, and Chan daintily took up the card.

It was from his youngest girl, designed to catch him just before he left. “Hurry home, honorable father,” she wrote. “We miss you all the time. There is Kona weather here now, and we have ninety degrees of climate every day. Wishing to see you soon. Your loving daughter, Anna.”

Chan turned over the card. He saw a picture of Waikiki, the surf boards riding the waves, Diamond Head beyond. He sighed with homesickness, and sat for a long moment immobile in his chair.

But as Paradise left the room, the little detective leaped nimbly to his feet and returned to the desk. For Paradise had glued the postcard to his tray with one large, moist thumb, a thumb which had fortunately rested on the light blue of Hawaii’s lovely sky.

Quickly Chan applied lamp black and brush. Then he removed the blank paper from the compartment, and with the aid of a reading glass, studied the impressions.

He leaned back in his chair with a puzzled frown. He knew now that he need not investigate the fingerprints of Carrick Enderby. The thumbprint of Paradise was on the postcard, and the same print was on the blank sheet of paper that had arrived in the envelope from Scotland Yard. It was Paradise, then, who had tampered with Sir Frederic’s mail.