"Not at all," she replied, in a voice that somehow suited her.
They sat in silence. Presently Kirk was aware that she was looking at him. He glanced up, to meet her smile.
"People are always late," he ventured.
"Aren't they?"
"No reason for it, usually. Just too inefficient to make the grade. Nothing annoys me more."
"I feel the same way," the girl nodded.
Another silence. The girl was still smiling at him.
"Go out of your way to invite somebody you don't know to lunch," Kirk continued, "and he isn't even courteous enough to arrive on time."
"Abominable," she agreed. "You have all my sympathy—Mr. Kirk."
He started. "Oh—you know me?"
She nodded. "Somebody once pointed you out to me—at a charity bazaar," she explained.
"Well," he sighed, "their charity didn't extend to me. Nobody pointed you out." He looked at his watch.
"This person you're expecting—" began the girl.
"A lawyer," he answered. "I hate all lawyers. They're always telling you something you'd rather not know."
"Yes—aren't they?"
"Messing around with other people's troubles. What a life."
"Frightful." Another silence. "You say you don't know this lawyer?" A rather unkempt young man came in and hurried past. "How do you expect to recognize him?"
"He wrote me he'd be wearing a green hat. Imagine! Why not a rose behind his ear?"
"A green hat." The girl's smile grew even brighter. Charming, thought Kirk. Suddenly he stared at her in amazement. "Good lord—you're wearing a green hat!" he cried.
"I'm afraid I am."
"Don't tell me—"
"Yes—it's true. I'm the lawyer. And you hate all lawyers. What a pity."
"But I didn't dream—"
"J. V. Morrow," she went on. "The first name is June."
"And I thought it was Jim," he cried. "Please forgive me."
"You'd never have invited me if you'd known—would you?"
"On the contrary—I wouldn't have invited anybody else. But come along. There are a lot of murder experts in the lobby dying to meet you."
They rose, and walked rapidly down the corridor. "You're interested in murder?" Kirk inquired.
"Among other things," she smiled.
"Must take it up myself," Kirk murmured.
Men turned to look at her a second time, he noticed. There was an alertness in her dark eyes that resembled the look in Chan's, her manner was brisk and businesslike, but for all that she was feminine, alluring.
He introduced her to the surprised Sir Frederic, then to Charlie Chan. The expression on the face of the little Chinese did not alter. He bowed low.
"The moment has charm," he remarked.
Kirk turned to Rankin. "And all the time," he accused, "you knew who J. V. Morrow was."
The reporter shrugged. "I thought I'd let you find it out for yourself. Life holds so few pleasant surprises."
"It never held a pleasanter one for me," Kirk answered. They went in to the table he had engaged, which stood in a secluded corner.
When they were seated, the girl turned to her host. "This was so good of you. And of Sir Frederic, too. I know how busy he must be."
The Englishman bowed. "A fortunate moment for me," he smiled, "when I decided I was not too busy to meet J. V. Morrow. I had heard that in the States young women were emancipated—"
"Of course, you don't approve," she said.
"Oh—but I do," he murmured.
"And Mr. Chan. I'm sure Mr. Chan disapproves of me."
Chan regarded her blankly. "Does the elephant disapprove of the butterfly? And who cares?"
"No answer at all," smiled the girl. "You are returning to Honolulu soon, Mr. Chan?"
A delighted expression appeared on the blank face. "To-morrow at noon the Maui receives my humble person. We churn over to Hawaii together."
"I see you are eager to go," said the girl.
"The brightest eyes are sometimes blind," replied Chan. "Not true in your case. It is now three weeks since I arrived on the mainland, thinking to taste the joys of holiday. Before I am aware events engulf me, and like the postman who has day of rest I foolishly set out on long, tiresome walk. Happy to say that walk are ended now. With beating heart I turn toward little home on Punchbowl Hill."
"I know how you feel," said Miss Morrow.
"Humbly begging pardon to mention it, you do not. I have hesitation in adding to your ear that one thing calls me home with unbearable force. I am soon to be happy father."
"For the first time?" asked Barry Kirk.
"The eleventh occasion of the kind," Chan answered.
"Must be sort of an old story by now," Bill Rankin suggested.
"That is one story which does not get aged," Chan replied. "You will learn. But my trivial affairs have no place here. We are met to honor a distinguished guest." He looked toward Sir Frederic.
Bill Rankin thought of his coming story. "I was moved to get you two together," he said, "because I found you think alike. Sir Frederic is also scornful of science as an aid to crime detection."
"I have formed that view from my experience," remarked Sir Frederic.
"A great pleasure," Chan beamed, "to hear that huge mind like Sir Frederic's moves in same groove as my poor head-piece. Intricate mechanics good in books, in real life not so much so. My experience tell me to think deep about human people. Human passions. Back of murder what, always? Hate, greed, revenge, need to make silent the slain one. Study human people at all times."
"Precisely," agreed Sir Frederic. "The human element—that is what counts. I have had no luck with scientific devices. Take the dictaphone— it has been a complete washout at the Yard." He talked on, while the luncheon progressed. Finally he turned to Chan. "And what have your methods gained you, Sergeant? You have been successful, I hear."
Chan shrugged. "Luck—always happy luck."
"You're too modest," said Rankin. "That won't get you anywhere."
"The question now arises—where do I want to go?"
"But surely you're ambitious?" Miss Morrow suggested.
Chan turned to her gravely. "Coarse food to eat, water to drink, and the bended arm for a pillow—that is an old definition of happiness in my country. What is ambition? A canker that eats at the heart of the white man, denying him the joys of contentment. Is it also attacking the heart of white woman? I hope not." The girl looked away. "I fear I am victim of crude philosophy from Orient. Man—what is he? Merely one link in a great chain binding the past with the future. All times I remember I am link. Unsignificant link joining those ancestors whose bones repose on far distant hillsides with the ten children—it may now be eleven—in my house on Punchbowl Hill."
"A comforting creed," Barry Kirk commented.
"So, waiting the end, I do my duty as it rises. I tread the path that opens." He turned to Sir Frederic. "On one point, from my reading, I am curious. In your work at Scotland Yard, you follow only one clue. What you call the essential clue."