If Bob Eden had known the identity of the passenger in the taxi that he and Holley passed on their way to the mine, it is possible that, despite his concern for Paula Wendell, he would have turned back to Madden’s ranch. But he drove on unknowing; nor did the passenger, though he stared with interest at the passing car, recognize Eden. The car from the Eldorado station went on its appointed way, and finally drew up before the ranch-house.

The driver alighted and was fumbling with the gate, when his fare leaped to the ground.

“Never mind that,” he said. “I’ll leave you here. How much do I owe you?” He was a plump little man, about thirty-five years old, attired in the height of fashion and with a pompous manner. The driver named a sum, and, paying him off, the passenger entered the yard. Walking importantly up to the front door of the house, he knocked loudly.

Madden, talking with Thorn and Gamble by the fire, looked up in annoyance. “Now who the devil⁠—” he began. Thorn went over and opened the door. The plump little man at once pushed his way inside.

“I’m looking for Mr. P. J. Madden,” he announced.

The millionaire rose. “All right⁠—I’m Madden. What do you want?”

The stranger shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Madden. My name is Victor Jordan, and I’m one of the owners of those pearls you bought in San Francisco.”

A delighted smile spread over Madden’s face. “Oh⁠—I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Mr. Eden told me you were coming⁠—”

“How could he?” demanded Victor. “He didn’t know it himself.”

“Well, he didn’t mention you. But he informed me the pearls would be here at eight o’clock⁠—”

Victor stared. “Be here at eight o’clock?” he repeated. “Say, just what has Bob Eden been up to down here, anyhow? The pearls left San Francisco a week ago, when Eden did.”

“What!” Purple again in Madden’s face. “He had them all the time! Why, the young scoundrel! I’ll break him in two for this. I’ll wring his neck⁠—” He stopped. “But he’s gone. I just saw him driving away.”

“Really?” returned Victor. “Well, that may not be so serious as it looks. When I say the pearls left San Francisco with Eden, I don’t mean he was carrying them. Charlie had them.”

“Charlie who?”

“Why, Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police. The man who brought them from Hawaii.”

Madden was thoughtful. “Chan⁠—a Chinaman?”

“Of course. He’s here too, isn’t he? I understood he was.”

A wicked light came into Madden’s eyes. “Yes, he’s here. You think he still has the pearls?”

“I’m sure he has. In a money-belt about his waist. Get him here and I’ll order him to hand them over at once.”

“Fine⁠—fine!” chuckled Madden. “If you’ll step into this room for a moment, Mr. Jordan, I’ll call you presently.”

“Yes, sir⁠—of course,” agreed Victor, who was always polite to the rich. Madden led him by the inside passage to his bedroom. When the millionaire returned, his spirits were high.

“Bit of luck, this is,” he remarked. “And to think that blooming cook⁠—” He went to the door leading on to the patio, and called loudly, “Ah Kim!”

The Chinese shuffled in. He looked at Madden blankly. “Wha’s matta, boss?” he inquired.

“I want to have a little talk with you.” Madden’s manner was genial, even kindly. “Where did you work before you came here?”

“Get ’um woik all place, boss. Maybe lay sticks on gloun’ foah lailload⁠—”

“What town⁠—what town did you work in last?”

“No got ’um town, boss. Jus’ outdoahs no place, laying sticks⁠—”

“You mean you were laying ties for the railroad on the desert?”

“Yes, boss. You light now.”

Madden leaned back and put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. “Ah Kim⁠—you’re a damned liar,” he said.

“Wha’s matter, boss?”

“I’ll show you what’s the matter. I don’t know what your game here has been, but it’s all over now.” Madden rose and stepped to the door. “Come in, sir,” he called, and Victor Jordan strode into the room. Chan’s eyes narrowed.

“Charlie, what is all this nonsense?” demanded Victor. “What are you doing in that melodramatic outfit?”

Chan did not answer. Madden laughed. “All over, as I told you, Charlie⁠—if that’s your name. This is Mr. Jordan, one of the owners of those pearls you’re carrying in your money-belt.”

Chan shrugged. “Mr. Jordan juggles truth,” he replied, dropping his dialect with a sigh of relief. “He has no claim on pearls. They are property of his mother, to whom I give promise I would guard them with life.”

“See here, Charlie,” cried Victor angrily, “don’t tell me I lie. I’m sick and tired of this delay down here, and I’ve come with my mother’s authority to put an end to it. If you don’t believe me, read that.”

He handed over a brief note in Madame Jordan’s old-fashioned script. Chan read it. “One only answer,” he remarked. “I must release the pearls.” He glanced toward the clock, ticking busily by the patio window. “Though I am much preferring to wait Mr. Eden’s come back⁠—”

“Never mind Eden,” said Victor. “Produce that necklace.”

Chan bowed and, turning, fumbled for a moment at his waist. The Phillimore necklace was in his hand.

Madden took it eagerly. “At last,” he said.

Gamble was staring over his shoulder. “Beautiful,” murmured the professor.

“One minute,” said Chan. “A receipt, if you will be so kind.”

Madden nodded, and sat at his desk. “I got one ready this afternoon. Just have to sign it.” He laid the pearls on the blotter, and took a typewritten sheet from the top drawer. Slowly he wrote his name. “Mr. Jordan,” he was saying, “I’m deeply grateful to you for coming down here and ending this. Now that it’s settled I’m leaving at once⁠—” He offered the receipt to Chan.

A strange look had come into the usually impassive eyes of Charlie Chan. He reached out toward the sheet of paper offered him, then with the speed of a tiger he snatched for the pearls. Madden snatched too, but he was a little late. The necklace disappeared into Chan’s voluminous sleeve.

“What’s this?” bellowed Madden, on his feet. “Why, you crazy⁠—”

“Hush,” said Chan. “I will retain the pearls.”

“You will, will you?” Madden whipped out a pistol. “We’ll see about that⁠—”

There was a loud report and a flash of fire⁠—but they did not come from Madden’s gun. They came from the silken sleeve of Charlie Chan. Madden’s weapon clattered to the floor, and there was blood on his hand.

“Do not stoop!” warned Chan, and his voice was suddenly high and shrill. “Postman has been on such long walk, but now at last he has reached journey’s end. Do not stoop, or I put bullet in somewhat valuable head!”

“Charlie⁠—are you mad?” cried Victor.

“Not very,” smiled Chan. “Kindly favour me by backing away, Mr. Madden.” He picked up the pistol from the floor⁠—Bill Hart’s present, it seemed to be. “Very nice gun, I use it now.” Swinging Madden round, he searched him, then placed a chair in the centre of the room. “Be seated here, if you will so far condescend⁠—” he said.

“The hell I will,” cried Madden.

“Recline!” said Chan.

The great Madden looked at him a second, then dropped sullenly down upon the chair. “Mr. Gamble,” called Chan. He ran over the slim person of the professor. “You have left pretty little weapon in room. That is good. This will be your chair. And not to forget Mr. Thorn, also unarmed. Comfortable chair for you too.” He backed away, facing them. “Victor, I make humble suggestion that you add yourself to group. You are plenty foolish boy, always. I remember⁠—in Honolulu⁠—” His tone hardened. “Sit quickly, or I puncture you and lift big load from mother’s mind!”

He drew up a chair between them and the exhibition of guns on the wall. “I also will venture to recline,” he announced. He glanced at the clock. “Our wait may be a long one. Mr. Thorn, another suggestion occurs. Take handkerchief and bind up wounded hand of chief.”

Thorn produced a handkerchief and Madden held out his hand. “What the devil are we waiting for?” snarled the millionaire.

“We await come back of Mr. Bob Eden,” replied Chan. “I am having much to impart when he arrives.”

Thorn completed his act of mercy, and slunk back to his chair. The tall clock by the patio windows ticked on. With the patience characteristic of his race Chan sat staring at his odd assortment of captives. Fifteen minutes passed, a half-hour, the minute hand began its slow advance toward the hour of nine.

Victor Jordan shifted uneasily in his chair. Such disrespect to a man worth millions! “You’re clear out of your mind, Charlie,” he protested.

“Maybe,” admitted Chan. “We wait and see.”

Presently a car rattled into the yard. Chan nodded. “Long wait nearly over,” he announced. “Now Mr. Eden comes.”

His expression altered as a knock sounded on the door. It was pushed open, and a man strode brusquely in. A stocky, red-faced, determined man⁠—Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad. After him came another, a lean, wiry individual in a two-quart hat. They stood amazed at the scene before them.

Madden leaped to his feet. “Captain Bliss. By gad, I’m delighted to see you. You’re just in time.”

“What’s all this?” inquired the lean man.

“Mr. Madden,” said Bliss, “I’ve brought along Harley Cox, sheriff of the county. I guess you need us here.”

“We sure do,” replied Madden. “This Chinaman has gone crazy. Take that gun away from him and put him under arrest.”

The sheriff stepped up to Charlie Chan. “Give me the firearms, John,” he ordered. “You know what that means⁠—a Chinaman with a gun in California. Deportation. Good Lord⁠—he’s got two of them.”

“Sheriff,” said Charlie with dignity. “Permit me the honour that I introduce myself. I am Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police.”

The sheriff laughed. “You don’t say. Well, I’m the Queen of Sheba. Are you going to give me that other gun, or do you want a charge of resisting an officer?”

“I do not resist,” said Chan. He gave up his own weapon. “I only call to your attention I am fellow-policeman, and I yearn to save you from an error you will have bitter cause to regret.”

“I’ll take the chance. Now, what’s going on here?” The sheriff turned to Madden. “We came about that Louie Wong killing. Bliss saw this Chinaman on a train last night with the fellow named Eden, all dolled up in regular clothes and as chummy as a brother.”

“You’re on the right trail now, Sheriff,” Madden assured him. “There’s no doubt he killed Louie. And just at present he has somewhere about him a string of pearls belonging to me. Please take them away from him.”

“Sure, Mr. Madden,” replied the sheriff. He advanced to make a search, but Chan forestalled him. He handed him the necklace.

“I give it to your keeping,” he said. “You are officer of law and responsible. Attend your step.”

Cox regarded the pearls. “Some string, ain’t it? Kinda pretty, Mr. Madden. You say it belongs to you?”

“It certainly does⁠—”

“Sheriff,” pleaded Charlie, with a glance at the clock, “if I may make humble suggestion, go slow. You will kick yourself angrily over vast expanse of desert should you make blunder now.”

“But if Mr. Madden says these pearls are his⁠—”

“They are,” said Madden. “I bought them from a jeweller named Eden in San Francisco ten days ago. They belonged to the mother of Mr. Jordan here.”

“That’s quite correct,” admitted Victor.

“It’s enough for me,” remarked the sheriff.

“I tell you I am of the Honolulu police⁠—” protested Chan.

“Maybe so, but do you think I’d take your word against that of a man like P. J. Madden? Mr. Madden, here are your pearls⁠—”

“One moment,” cried Chan. “This Madden says he is the same who bought the necklace at San Francisco jeweller’s. Ask him, please, location of jeweller’s store.”

“On Post Street,” said Madden.

“What part Post Street? Famous building across way. What building?”

“Officer,” objected Madden, “must I submit to this from a Chinese cook? I refuse to answer. The pearls are mine⁠—”

Victor Jordan’s eyes were open wide. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me in this. Mr. Madden, my mother told me of the time when you first saw her. You were employed then⁠—where⁠—in what position?”

Madden’s face purpled. “That’s my affair.”

The sheriff removed his ample hat and scratched his head. “Well, maybe I better keep this trinket for a minute,” he reflected. “Look here, John⁠—or⁠—er⁠—Sergeant Chan, if that’s your name⁠—what the devil are you driving at, anyhow?”

He turned suddenly at a cry from Madden. The man had edged his way to the array of guns on the wall, and stood there now, with one of them in his bandaged hand.

“Come on,” he cried, “I’ve had enough of this. Up with your hands⁠—Sheriff, that means you! Gamble⁠—get that necklace! Thorn⁠—get the bag in my room!”

With a magnificent disregard for his own safety, Chan leaped upon him and seized the arm holding the pistol. He gave it a sharp twist, and the weapon fell to the floor.

“Only thing I am ever able to learn from Japanese,” he said. “Captain Bliss, prove yourself real policeman by putting handcuffs on Thorn and the professor. If the sheriff will so kindly return my personal automatic, which I employ as detective in Hawaii, I will be responsible for this Madden here.”

“Sure, I’ll return it,” said Cox. “And I want to congratulate you. I don’t know as I ever saw a finer exhibition of courage⁠—”

Chan grinned. “Pardon me if I make slight correction. One recent morning at dawn I have busy time removing all cartridges from this splendid collection of old-time pistols on the wall. Long, dusty job, but I am glad I did it.” He turned suddenly to the big man beside him. “Put up the hands, Delaney,” he cried.

“Delaney?” repeated the sheriff.

“Undubitably,” replied Chan. “You have questioned value of my speech against word of P. J. Madden. Happy to say that situation does not arise. This is not P. J. Madden. His name is Jerry Delaney.”

Bob Eden had entered quietly from the patio. “Good work, Charlie,” he said. “You’ve got it now. But how in Sam Hill did you know?”

“Not long ago,” answered Chan, “I shoot gun from his grasp. Observe the bandage on his hand, and note it is the left. Once in this room I told you Delaney was left-handed.”

Through the open door behind Eden came a huge, powerful, but weary-looking man. One of his arms was in a sling, and his face was pale beneath a ten days’ growth of beard. But there was about him an air of authority and poise; he loomed like a tower of granite, though the grey suit was sadly rumpled now. He stared grimly at Delaney.

“Well, Jerry,” he said, “you’re pretty good. But they always told me you were⁠—the men who ran across you at Jack McGuire’s. Yes⁠—very good, indeed. Standing in my house, wearing my clothes, you look more like me than I do myself.”