"Calcutta, mostly."
"Other places, too?" The girl nodded. "In Peshawar, perhaps?"
"No," answered Miss Barr. "I was never in Peshawar."
Chan coughed rather loudly, and, catching his eye, Miss Morrow dropped the matter of India. "You had never heard of Sir Frederic before he came here?" she asked.
"Oh, no, indeed."
"And you saw him just that once, when he said nothing at all?"
"Only that once."
Miss Morrow rose. "Thank you very much. That is all for the present. I trust Mr. Kinsey has apologized?"
The girl smiled. "Oh, yes—that's all right now. Thank you for asking." She went out quickly.
Barry Kirk had disappeared from the room, and now he returned. "Kinsey's on his way up," he announced. "Grab him quick before they can compare notes—that was my idea. Getting to be some little detective myself."
"Excellent," nodded Miss Morrow approvingly. A tall, dark young man, very well dressed, came in.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Kirk?" he inquired.
"Yes. Sorry to butt into your private affairs, Kinsey, but I hear you are sort of engaged to a Miss Lila Barr, who works in one of the offices. Did you know about it?"
Kinsey smiled. "Of course, Mr. Kirk. I have been meaning to mention the matter to you, but the opportunity wasn't offered."
"Day before yesterday you had a bit of a quarrel with her?"
"Oh, it was nothing, sir." Kinsey's dark face clouded. "It's all fixed up now."
"That's good. But on that evening, contrary to your custom, you didn't wait to take her home? You walked out on her?"
"I—I'm afraid I did. I was somewhat annoyed—"
"And you wanted to teach her a lesson. What I call the proper spirit. That's all—and please pardon these personal questions."
"Quite all right, sir." Kinsey turned to go, but hesitated. "Mr. Kirk—"
"Yes, Kinsey?"
"Nothing, sir," said Kinsey, and disappeared.
Kirk turned to Miss Morrow. "There you are. The story of Miss Lila Barr, duly authenticated."
"Such a reasonable story, too," sighed the girl. "But it gets us nowhere. I must say I'm disappointed. Mr. Chan—you thought I went too far—on India?"
Chan shrugged. "In this game, better if the opponent does not know what we are thinking. Assume great innocence is always my aim. Sometimes what I assume is exactly what I've got. Others—I am flying at a low altitude."
"I'm afraid I should have flown at a lower altitude than I did," the girl reflected, frowning. "Her story was perfectly plausible, and yet—I don't know—"
"Well, one thing's certain," remarked Kirk. "She's not Eve Durand."
"How do you know that?" asked Miss Morrow.
"Why,—her age. She's a mere kid."
Miss Morrow laughed. "Lucky a woman is in on this," she said. "You men are so painfully blind where a blonde is concerned."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there are certain artifices which fool a man, but never fool a woman. Miss Barr is thirty—at the very least."
Kirk whistled. "I must be more careful," he said. "I thought her sweet and twenty."
He turned to find Paradise at his elbow. The butler had entered noiselessly, and was holding out a silver tray in the manner of one offering rich treasure.
"What shall I do with these, sir?" he inquired.
"Do with what?" Kirk asked.
"Letters addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce, sir. They have just been delivered by the local office of Thomas Cook and Sons."
Miss Morrow came eagerly forward. "I'll take charge of them," she said. Paradise bowed, and went out. The girl's eyes sparkled. "We never thought of this, Sergeant. Sir Frederic's mail—it may prove a gold mine." She held up a letter. "Here—the first thing—one from London. The Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard—"
Quickly she ripped open the envelope and withdrawing a single sheet of paper, spread it out. She gave a little cry of dismay.
Kirk and Charlie Chan came nearer. They stared at the sheet of paper that had arrived in the envelope from Scotland Yard. It was just that—a sheet of paper—completely blank.
Chapter VII. Muddy Water
MISS MORROW stood, her brows contracted in bewilderment, looking down at the unexpected enclosure she had found in the envelope with the London postmark.
"Oh, dear," she sighed. "There's just one trouble with this detective business. It's so full of mystery."
Chan smiled. "Humbly begging pardon to mention it, I would suggest you iron out countenance. Wrinkles might grow there, which would be a heart-breaking pity. Occasional amazing occurrence keeps life spicy. Accept that opinion from one who knows it."
"But what in the world does this mean?" she asked.
"One thing I am certain it does not mean," Chan replied. "Scotland Yard in sudden playful mood does not post empty paper over six thousand miles of land and water. No, some queer business has blossomed up near at hand, which it is our duty to unveil." The girl began to smooth the blank sheet. Chan stretched out a warning hand. Despite his girth, the hand was thin and narrow, with long, tapering fingers. "I beg of you, do not touch further," he cried. "A great mistake. For although we can not see, there is something on that paper."
"What?" she inquired.
"Fingerprints," he answered. Gingerly by one corner he removed the paper from her hand. "The fingerprints, dainty and firm, you have made. The fingerprints, also, perhaps not so dainty, of the person who folded it and put it in envelope."
"Oh, of course," said Miss Morrow.
"I am no vast admirer of science in this work," Chan went on. "But fingerprints tell pretty much truth. Happy to say I have made half-hearted study of the art. In Honolulu, where I am faced by little competition, I rejoice in mouth-filling title of fingerprint expert. Mr. Kirk, have you a drawer with heavy lock, to which you alone hold key?"
"Surely," replied Kirk. He unlocked a compartment in a handsome Spanish desk, and Chan deposited the paper inside. Kirk turned the key, and removing it from the ring, handed it to Charlie.
"Later," remarked Chan, "with lamp black and camel's hair brush, I perform like the expert I have been pronounced. Maybe we discover who has been opening Sir Frederic's mail." He picked up the empty envelope. "Behold—steam has been applied. The marks unquestionable."
"Steam," cried Barry Kirk. "But who in the world—oh, I say. Sir Frederic's mail came through the local office of Thomas Cook and Sons."
"Precisely," grinned Chan.
"And Mr. Carrick Enderby is employed there."
Chan shrugged. "You are bright young man. It is not beyond possibility that the mark of Mr. Enderby's large thumb is on that paper. However, speculation is idle thing. Facts must be upearthed. Miss Morrow—may I rudely suggest—the remainder of Sir Frederic's mail?"
"Yes, of course," said the girl. "I feel rather guilty about this, but when duty calls, you know—"
She sat down and went through the other letters. Obviously her search was without any interesting result.
"Well," she said finally, "that's that. I leave the matter of the blank