"Why naturally. I supposed you knew—"
"I'm afraid I'm woefully ignorant of American customs. I thought that was merely a social function. I didn't dream—"
"You mean you don't want him to print it?" asked Barry Kirk, surprised.
Sir Frederic turned quickly to Charlie. "Good-by, Sergeant. This has been a real pleasure. I shall see you tonight—"
He hastily shook hands with Chan, and dragged the dazed Barry Kirk to the street. There he motioned for a taxi. "What paper was that young scoundrel representing?" he inquired.
"The Globe," Kirk told him.
"The Globe office—and quickly, please," Sir Frederic ordered.
The two got in, and for a moment rode in silence.
"You are curious, perhaps," said Sir Frederic at last.
"I hope you won't think it's unnatural of me," smiled Kirk.
"I know I can rely on your discretion, my boy. I told only a small part of the story of Eve Durand at luncheon, but even that must not reach print just yet. Not here—not now—"
"Great Scott. Do you mean—"
"I mean I am near the end of a long trail. Eve Durand was not murdered in India. She ran away. I know why she ran away. I even suspect the peculiar method of her going. More than that—"
"Yes?" cried Kirk eagerly.
"More than that I can not tell you at present." The journey was continued in silence, and presently they drew up before the office of the Globe.
In the city editor's cubby-hole, Bill Rankin was talking exultantly to his chief. "It's going to be a corking good feature," he was saying, when he felt a grip of steel on his arm. Turning, he looked into the face of Sir Frederic Bruce. "Why—why—hello," he stammered.
"There has been a slight mistake," said the detective.
"Let me explain," suggested Barry Kirk. He shook hands with the editor and introduced Sir Frederic, who merely nodded, not relaxing his grip on the reporter's paralyzed arm. "Rankin, this is unfortunate," Kirk continued, "but it can't be helped. Sir Frederic is unfamiliar with the ways of the American press, and he did not understand that you were gathering a story at lunch. He thought it a purely social affair. So we have come to ask that you print nothing of the conversation you heard this noon."
Rankin's face fell. "Not print it? Oh—I say—"
"We appeal to you both," added Kirk to the editor.
"My answer must depend on your reason for making the request," said that gentleman.
"My reason would be respected in England," Sir Frederic told him. "Here, I don't know your custom. But I may tell you that if you print any of that conversation, you will seriously impede the course of justice."
The editor bowed. "Very well. We shall print nothing without your permission, Sir Frederic," he said.
"Thank you," replied the detective, releasing Rankin's arm. "That concludes our business here, I fancy." And wheeling, he went out. Having added his own thanks, Kirk followed.
"Well, of all the rotten luck," cried Rankin, sinking into a chair.
Sir Frederic strode on across the city room. A cat may look at a king, and Egbert stood staring with interest at the former head of the C.I.D. Just in front of the door, the Englishman paused. It was either that or a collision with Egbert, moving slowly like a dark shadow across his path.
Chapter III. The Bungalow in the Sky
BARRY KIRK stepped from his living-room through French windows leading into the tiny garden that graced his bungalow in the sky—"my front yard," he called it. He moved over to the rail and stood looking out on a view such as few front yards have ever offered. Twenty stories below lay the alternate glare and gloom of the city; far in the distance the lights of the ferry-boats plodded across the harbor like weary fireflies.
The stars were bright and clear and amazingly close above his head, but he heard the tolling of the fog bell over by Belvedere, and he knew that the sea mist was drifting in through the Gate. By midnight it would whirl and eddy about his lofty home, shutting him off from the world like a veil of filmy tulle. He loved the fog. Heavy with the scent of distant gardens, salt with the breath of the Pacific, it was the trade-mark of his town.
He went back inside, closing the window carefully behind him. For a moment he stood looking about his living-room, which wealth and good taste had combined to furnish charmingly. A huge, deep sofa, many comfortable chairs, a half-dozen floor lamps shedding their warm yellow glow, a brisk fire crackling on a wide hearth—no matter how loudly the wind rattled at the casements, here were comfort and good cheer.
Kirk went on into his dining-room. Paradise was lighting the candles on the big table. The flowers, the snowy linen, the old silver, made a perfect picture, forecasting a perfect dinner. Kirk inspected the ten place cards. He smiled.
"Everything seems to be O.K.," he said. "It's got to be to-night. Grandmother's coming, and you know what she thinks about a man who lives alone. To hear her tell it, every home needs a woman's touch."
"We shall disillusion her once again, sir," Paradise remarked.
"Such is my aim. Not that it will do any good. When she's made up her mind, that's that."
The door-bell rang, and Paradise moved off with slow, majestic step to answer it. Entering the living-room, Barry Kirk stood for a moment fascinated by the picture he saw there. The deputy district attorney had paused just inside the door leading from the hallway; she wore a simple, orange-colored dinner gown; her dark eyes were smiling.
"Miss Morrow," Kirk came forward eagerly. "If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look much like a lawyer to-night."
"I presume that's intended for a compliment," she answered. Chan appeared at her back. "Here's Mr. Chan. We rode up together in the elevator. Heavens—don't tell me we're the first."
"When I was a boy," smiled Kirk, "I always started in by eating the frosting off my cake. Which is just to tell you that with me, the best is always first. Good evening, Mr. Chan."
Chan bowed. "I am deeply touched by your kindness. One grand item is added to my mainland memories tonight." He wore a somewhat rusty dinner coat, but his linen gleamed and his manners shone.
Paradise followed with their wraps on his arm, and disappeared through a distant doorway. Another door opened. Sir Frederic Bruce stood on the threshold.
"Good evening, Miss Morrow," he said. "My word—you look charming. And Mr. Chan. This is luck—you're the first. You know I promised to show you a souvenir of my dark past."
He turned and reentered his room. Kirk led his guests over to the blazing fire.
"Sit down—do," he said. "People are always asking how I can endure the famous San Francisco zephyrs up here." He waved a hand toward the fireplace. "This is one of my answers."
Sir Frederic rejoined them, a distinguished figure in his evening clothes. He carried a pair of slippers. Their tops were of cut velvet, dark red like old Burgundy, and each bore as decoration a Chinese character surrounded by a design of pomegranate blossoms. He handed one to the girl, and the other to Charlie Chan.
"Beautiful," cried Miss Morrow. "And what a history! The essential clue."
"Not any too essential, as it turned out," shrugged the great detective.
"You know, I venture to presume, the meaning of the character inscribed on velvet?" Chan inquired.
"Yes," said Sir Frederic. "Not any too appropriate, in this case, I believe. I was told it signifies