“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 ‘Long life and happiness.’ ”
“Precisely.” Chan turned the slipper slowly in his hand. “There exist one hundred and one varieties of this character—one hundred for the people, one reserved for the Emperor. A charming gift. The footwear of a mandarin, fitting only for one high-placed and wealthy.”
“Well, they were on Hilary Galt’s feet when we found him, murdered on the floor,” Sir Frederic said. “ ‘Walk softly, my best of friends’—that was what the Chinese minister wrote in the letter he sent with them. Hilary Galt was walking softly that night—but he never walked again.” The Englishman took the slippers. “By the way—I hesitate to ask it—but I’d rather you didn’t mention this matter tonight at dinner.”
“Why, of course,” remarked the girl, surprised.
“And that affair of Eve Durand. Ah—er—I fear I was a little indiscreet this noon. Now that I’m no longer at the Yard, I allow myself too much rope. You understand, Sergeant?”
Chan’s little eyes were on him with a keenness that made Sir Frederic slightly uncomfortable. “Getting immodest for a minute,” the Chinese said, “I am A 1 honor student in school of discretion.”
“I’m sure of that,” the great man smiled.
“No impulse to mention these matters would assail me, I am certain,” Chan went on. “You bright man, Sir Frederic—you know Chinese are psychic people.”
“Really?”
“Undubitably. Something has told me—”
“Ah yes—we needn’t go into that,” Sir Frederic put in hastily. “I have a moment’s business in the offices below. If you will excuse me—”
He disappeared with the slippers into his room. Miss Morrow turned in amazement to Kirk.
“What in the world did he mean? Surely Eve Durand—”
“Mr. Chan is psychic,” Kirk suggested. “Maybe he can explain it.”
Chan grinned. “Sometimes psychic feelings lead positively nowhere,” he remarked.
Paradise escorted two more guests through the outer hall into the living-room. A little, birdlike woman was on tiptoe, kissing Barry Kirk.
“Barry, you bad boy. I haven’t seen you for ages. Don’t tell me you’ve forgot your poor old grandmother.”
“I couldn’t do that,” he laughed.
“Not while I have my health and strength,” she returned. She came toward the fireplace. “How cozy you are—”
“Grandmother—this is Miss Morrow,” Kirk said. “Mrs. Dawson Kirk.”
The old lady took both the girl’s hands. “My dear, I’m happy to know you—”
“Miss Morrow is a lawyer,” Kirk added.
“Lawyer fiddlesticks,” his grandmother cried. “She couldn’t be—and look like this.”
“Just what I said,” nodded Kirk.
The old lady regarded the girl for a brief moment. “Youth and beauty,” she remarked. “If I had those, my child, I wouldn’t waste time over musty law books.” She turned toward Chan. “And this is—”
“Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police,” Kirk told her.
The old lady gave Charlie a surprisingly warm handclasp. “Know all about you,” she said. “I like you very much.”
“Flattered and overwhelmed,” gasped Chan.
“Needn’t be,” she answered.
The woman who had accompanied Mrs. Kirk stood rather neglected in the background. Kirk hurried forward to present her. She was, it seemed, Mrs. Tupper-Brock, Mrs. Kirk’s secretary and companion. Her manner was cold and distant. Chan gave her a penetrating look and then bowed low before her.
“Paradise will show you into one of the guest rooms,” said Kirk to the women. “You’ll find a pair of military brushes and every book on football Walter Camp ever wrote. If there’s anything else you want, try and get it.”
They followed the butler out. The bell rang, and going to the door himself, Kirk admitted another couple. Mr. Carrick Enderby, who was employed in the San Francisco office of Thomas Cook and Sons, was a big, slow, blond man with a monocle and nothing much behind it. All the family brilliance seemed to be monopolized by his wife, Eileen, a dark, dashing woman of thirty-five or so, who came in breezily. She joined the women, and the three men stood in the ill-at-ease silence that marks a dinner party in its initial stages.
“We’re in for a bit of fog, I fancy,” Enderby drawled.
“No doubt of it,” Kirk answered.
When the women reappeared, Mrs. Dawson Kirk came at once to Chan’s side.
“Sally Jordan of Honolulu is an old friend of mine,” she told him. “A very good friend. We’re both living beyond our time, and there’s nothing cements friendship like that. I believe you were once—er—attached—”
Chan bowed. “One of the great honors of my poor life. I was her house-boy, and memories of her kindness will survive while life hangs out.”
“Well, she told me how you repaid that kindness recently. A thousandfold, she put it.”
Chan shrugged. “My old employer has only one weakness. She exaggerates stupendously.”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” said Mrs. Kirk. “Gone out of fashion, long ago. These young people will accuse you of something terrible if you try that tune. However, I like you for it.”
A diversion at the door interrupted her. Colonel John Beetham entered the living-room. John Beetham the explorer, whose feet had stood in many dark and lonely places, who knew Tibet and Turkestan,
