“With brief steps we advance,” put in Chan. “Humbly suggest you read the epistle.”
“Well, it’s addressed to Sir Frederic, care of Cook’s, San Francisco,” said Flannery. He read:
“Dear Sir Frederic: I was very glad to get your letter from Shanghai and to know that you are near the end of a long trail. It is indeed surprising news to me that the murder of Hilary Galt and the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar are, in your final analysis, linked together. I know you always contended they were, but much as I admire your talents, I felt sure you were mistaken. I can only apologize most humbly. It is a matter of regret to me that you did not tell me more; what you wrote roused my interest to a high pitch. Believe me, I shall be eager to hear the end of this strange case.
“By the way, Inspector Rupert Duff will be in the States on another matter at about the time you reach San Francisco. You know Duff, of course. A good man. If you should require his help, you have only to wire him at the Hotel Waldorf, New York.
“With all good wishes for a happy outcome to your investigation,
Flannery stopped reading and looked at the others. “Well, there you are,” he said. “The Galt affair and Eve Durand are mixed up together. Of course that ain’t exactly news—I’ve known it right along. What I want to find out now is, why did Paradise try to keep this information from us? What’s his stake in the affair? I could arrest him at once, but I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll shut up like a clam and that will end it. He doesn’t know we’re wise to him, so I’m going to put this letter back where we found it and give him a little more rope. The Sergeant here has agreed to keep an eye on him, and I rely on you, too, Mr. Kirk, to see that he doesn’t get away.”
“Don’t worry,” said Kirk. “I don’t want to lose him.”
Flannery rose. “Sir Frederic’s mail isn’t coming here any more?” he inquired of Miss Morrow.
“No, of course not. I arranged to have it sent to my office. There’s been nothing of interest—purely personal matters.”
“I must put this letter back, and then I’ll have to run along,” the Captain said. He went into the passageway.
“Well,” remarked Kirk, “Paradise hangs on a little longer. I see your handiwork there, Sergeant, and you have my warmest thanks.”
“For a brief time, at least,” Chan said. “You will perceive I am no person’s fool. I do not arrange arrest of butler in house where I am guest. I protect him, and I would do same for the cook.”
Flannery returned. “I got to get back to the station,” he announced. “Mr. Kirk, thanks for your—er—hospitality.”
Miss Morrow looked up at him. “You are going to wire to New York for Inspector Duff?” she asked.
“I am not,” the Captain said.
“But he might be of great help—”
“Nix,” cut in Flannery stubbornly. “I got about all the help I can stand on this case now. Get him here and have him under foot? No, sir—I’m going to find out first who killed Sir Frederic. After that, they can all come. Don’t you say so, Sergeant?”
Chan nodded. “You are wise man. The ship with too many steersmen never reaches port.”
XI
The Muddy Water Clears
Flannery departed, and Miss Morrow picked up her coat. Reluctantly Kirk held it for her. “Must you go?” he protested.
“Back to the office—yes,” she said. “I’ve oceans of work. The district attorney keeps asking me for results in this investigation, and so far all I have been able to report is further mysteries. I wonder if I’ll ever have anything else.”
“It was my hope,” remarked Chan, “that today we take a seven-league step forward. But it is fated otherwise. Not before Monday now.”
“Monday,” repeated the girl. “What do you mean, Mr. Chan?”
“I mean I experience great yearning to bring Miss Gloria Garland to this building again. I have what my cousin Willie Chan, a vulgar speaker, calls a hunch. But this morning when I call Miss Garland on the telephone I learn that she is absent in Del Monte, and will not return until Sunday night.”
“Miss Garland? What has she to do with it?”
“Remains to be observed. She may have much, or nothing. Depends on the authentic value of my hunch. Monday will tell.”
“But Monday,” sighed Miss Morrow. “This is only Thursday.”
Chan also sighed. “I too resent that with bitter feelings. Do not forget that I have sworn to be on boat departing Wednesday. My little son demands me.”
“Patience,” laughed Barry Kirk. “The doctor must take his own medicine.”
“I know,” shrugged Chan. “I am taking same in plenty large doses. Mostly when I talk of patience, I am forcing it on others. Speaking for myself in this event, I do not much enjoy the flavor.”
“You said nothing about your hunch to Captain Flannery,” Miss Morrow remarked.
Chan smiled. “Can you speak of the ocean to a well frog, or of ice to a summer insect? The good Captain would sneer—until I prove to him I am exceedingly correct. I am praying to do that on Monday.”
“In the meantime, we watch and wait,” said Miss Morrow.
“You wait, and I will watch,” suggested Chan.
Kirk accompanied Miss Morrow to the door. “Au revoir,” he said. “And whatever you do, don’t lose that lemon pie recipe.”
“You needn’t keep hinting,” she replied. “I won’t forget.”
Upon Kirk’s return, Charlie regarded him keenly. “A most attracting young woman,” he remarked.
“Charming,” agreed Kirk.
“What a deep pity,” Chan continued, “that she squanders glowing youth in a man’s pursuit. She should be at mothering work.”
Kirk laughed. “You tell her,” he suggested.
On Friday, Bill Rankin called Chan on the telephone. He had been through the Globe’s files for the year 1913,
