"If you'd told us that in the first place," said Greene, "you could have saved everybody a lot of trouble, yourself included."
Cope stood up. "Well, Mr. Prosecutor, there you are. You're not going to hold him now?"
Greene rose briskly. "No. I'll arrange for his release at once." He and Egan went out together, then Hallet and Cope. John Quincy held out his hand to Carlota Egan—for by that name he thought of her still.
"I'm mighty glad for you," he said.
"You'll come and see me soon?" she asked. "You'll find a very different girl. More like the one you met on the Oakland ferry."
"She was very charming," John Quincy replied. "But then, she was bound to be—she had your eyes." He suddenly remembered Agatha Parker. "However, you've got your father now," he added. "You won't need me."
She looked up at him and smiled. "I wonder," she said, and went out.
John Quincy turned to Chan. "Well, that's that," he remarked. "Where are we now?"
"Speaking personally for myself," grinned Chan, "I am static in same place as usual. Never did have fondly feeling for Egan theory."
"But Hallet did," John Quincy answered. "A black morning for him."
In the small anteroom they encountered the Captain of Detectives. He appeared disgruntled.
"We were just remarking," said John Quincy pleasantly, "that there goes your little old Egan theory. What have you left?"
"Oh, I've got plenty," growled Hallet.
"Yes, you have. One by one your clues have gone up in smoke. The page from the guest book, the brooch, the torn newspaper, the ohia wood box, and now Egan and the Corsican cigarette."
"Oh, Egan isn't out of it. We may not be able to hold him, but I'm not forgetting Mr. Egan."
"Nonsense," smiled John Quincy. "I asked what you had left. A little button from a glove—useless. The glove was destroyed long ago. A wrist watch with an illuminated dial and a damaged numeral two—"
Chan's amber eyes narrowed. "Essential clue," he murmured. "Remember how I said it."
Hallet banged his fist on a table. "That's it—the wrist watch! If the person who wore it knows any one saw it, it's probably where we'll never find it now. But we've kept it pretty dark—perhaps he doesn't know. That's our only chance." He turned to Chan. "I've combed these islands once hunting that watch," he cried, "now I'm going to start all over again. The jewelry stores, the pawn shops, every nook and corner. You go out, Charlie, and start the ball rolling."
Chan moved with alacrity despite his weight. "I will give it one powerful push," he promised, and disappeared.
"Well, good luck," said John Quincy, moving on.
Hallet grunted. "You tell that aunt of yours I'm pretty sore," he remarked. He was not in the mood for elegance of diction.
John Quincy's opportunity to deliver the message did not come at lunch, for Miss Minerva remained with Barbara in the city. After dinner that evening he led his aunt out to sit on the bench under the hau tree.
"By the way," he said, "Captain Hallet is very much annoyed with you."
"I'm very much annoyed with Captain Hallet," she replied, "so that makes us even. What's his particular grievance now?"
"He believes you knew all the time the name of the man who dropped that Corsican cigarette."
She was silent for a moment. "Not all the time," she said at length. "What has happened?"
John Quincy sketched briefly the events of the morning at the police station. When he had finished he looked at her inquiringly.
"In the first excitement I didn't remember, or I should have spoken," she explained. "It was several days before the thing came to me. I saw it clearly then—Arthur—Captain Cope—tossing that cigarette aside as we reentered the house. But I said nothing about it."
"Why?"
"Well, I thought it would be a good test for the police. Let them discover it for themselves."
"That's a pretty weak explanation," remarked John Quincy severely. "You've been responsible for a lot of wasted time."
"It—it wasn't my only reason," said Miss Minerva softly.
"Oh—I'm glad to hear that. Go on."
"Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to link up that call of Captain Cope's with—a murder mystery."
Another silence. And suddenly—he was never dense—John Quincy understood.
"He told me you were very beautiful in the 'eighties," said the boy gently. "The captain, I mean. When I met him in that San Francisco club."
Miss Minerva laid her own hand on the boy's. When she spoke her voice, which he had always thought firm and sharp, trembled a little. "On this beach in my girl-hood," she said, "happiness was within my grasp. I had only to reach out and take it. But somehow—Boston—Boston held me back. I let my happiness slip away."
"Not too late yet," suggested John Quincy.
She shook her head. "So he tried to tell me that Monday afternoon. But there was something in his tone—I may be in Hawaii, but I'm not quite mad. Youth, John Quincy, youth doesn't return, whatever they may say out here." She pressed his hand, and stood. "If your chance comes, dear boy," she added, "don't be such a fool."
She moved hastily away through the garden, and John Quincy looked after her with a new affection in his eyes.
Presently he saw the yellow glare of a match beyond the wire. Amos again, still loitering under his algaroba tree. John Quincy rose and strolled over to him.
"Hello, Cousin Amos," he said. "When are you going to take down this fence?"
"Oh, I'll get round to it some time," Amos answered. "By the way, I wanted to ask you. Any new developments?"
"Several," John Quincy told him. "But nothing that gets us anywhere. So far as I can see, the case has blown up completely."
"Well, I've been thinking it over," Amos said. "Maybe that would be the best outcome, after all. Suppose they do discover who did for Dan—it may only reveal a new scandal, worse than any of the others."
"I'll take a chance on that," replied John Quincy. "For my part, I intend to see this thing through—"
Haku came briskly through the garden. "Cable message for Mr. John Quincy Winterslip. Boy say collect. Requests money."
John Quincy followed quickly to the front door. A bored small boy awaited him. He paid the sum due and tore open the cable. It was signed by the postmaster at Des Moines, and it read:
"No one named Saladine ever heard of here."
John Quincy dashed to the telephone. Some one on duty at the station informed him that Chan had gone home, and gave him an address on Punchbowl Hill. He got out the roadster, and in five minutes more was speeding toward the city.
Chapter XIX. "Good-By, Pete!"
Charlie Chan lived in a bungalow that clung precariously to the side of Punchbowl Hill. Pausing a moment at the Chinaman's gate, John Quincy looked down on Honolulu, one great gorgeous garden set in an amphitheater of mountains. A beautiful picture, but he had no time for beauty now. He hurried up the brief walk that lay in the shadow of the palm trees.
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