“More likely memories of last night,” Chan answered.
When the meal was finished, Kirk announced that he was going down to the office to attend to a few letters. Chan rose quickly.
“I will accompany, if I may,” he said. “I must produce letter of explanation for my wife, hoping it will yet catch outgoing boat. It will be substitute for me—a smaller substitute.” He sighed.
“That’s right,” Kirk remembered. “You were going out on the tide today, weren’t you? It’s a shame you can’t.”
“What will little Barry think of me?”
“Oh, he’s probably sensible, like his namesake. He’ll want you to stay where duty lies. And how proud he’ll be—in the future—over your success in running down the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce.”
“Still have some running to do,” Chan admitted. “One more week—I give myself that. Then, whatever has happened, I shift mainland dust off my shoes and go. I swear it, and this time I am firm like well-known Gibraltar rock.”
“A week,” repeated Kirk. “Oh, that will be ample. You’ll be sitting pretty then.”
“On deck of boat bound for Honolulu,” Chan said firmly. “Quoting local conversation, you bet I will.”
They went below, and Kirk seated himself at the big desk. Kinsey was out; “collecting rents,” Kirk explained. Chan accepted paper and an envelope and took his place at the stenographer’s desk by the wall.
But his mind did not seem to be on the letter he was writing. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Kirk’s movements carefully. In a moment he rose and came over to Kirk’s desk. “Pen enjoys stubborn spasm,” he explained. “The ink will not gush. Who calls it fountain pen?”
“There are pens in here,” Kirk said, leaning over to open a lower drawer. Chan’s keen eyes were on the papers atop the desk. Noted for his courtesy, his actions were odd. He appeared to be spying on his host.
Charlie accepted a pen and returned to his writing. Still he watched Kirk from the corner of his eye.
The young man finished his letter and started another. When he had completed the second, he stamped them both. Simultaneously Chan sealed his own letter, stamped it, and rose quickly to his feet. He held out his long, thin hand.
“Permit me,” he said, “that I deposit our mail in the hallway chute.”
“Why—thank you,” Kirk replied, giving him the letters.
When Charlie returned, Kirk was on his feet, consulting his watch. “Want to hear Mrs. Tupper-Brock’s life story?” he inquired.
The detective shook his head. “Thanking you all the same, I will not interpolate myself. Miss Morrow is competent for work. Already, I have several times squirmed about in the position of fifth, unnecessary wheel. This once I will loiter elsewhere.”
“Suit yourself,” Kirk answered carelessly. He took up his hat and coat and disappeared.
When Chan went upstairs by the inner route, he found Bill Rankin waiting for him in the living-room of the bungalow. The reporter looked at him with amusement.
“Good morning,” he said. “I presume you’re sailing this noon?”
Chan frowned. “Missing boats is now a regular habit for me,” he replied. “I can not go. Too many dark clouds shade the scene.”
“I knew it,” smiled Rankin. “Before you go you’ve got to give me a story that will thrill the town. I was sure I could depend on you. A great little people, the Chinese.”
“Thanks for advertising my unassuming race,” Chan said.
“Now, to get down to business,” Rankin continued. “I’ve brought you a little present this bright morning.”
“You are pretty good.”
“I’m a clever boy,” Rankin admitted. “You know, your rather foggy remarks about Colonel John Beetham have set me thinking. And when I think—get out from under. I have read the Colonel’s Life, from cover to cover. I imagine I need not tell you that on May fourth, nineteen hundred and thirteen, Beetham set out on an eight months’ journey from Peshawar to Tehran, by way of Afghanistan and the Kavir desert of Persia?”
“I too have upearthed that,” nodded Chan.
“I thought you had. But did you know that he had written a book—a separate book—about that little jaunt? A bit of a holiday, he called it. Not real exploring, but just his way of going home.”
Chan was interested. “I have been unaware of that volume,” he replied.
“It isn’t as well known as his other books,” went on Rankin. “Out of print now. The Land Beyond the Khyber, he called it. I tried every book store in town, and finally picked up a copy over in Berkeley.”
He produced a volume bound in deep purple. “It’s the little present I mentioned,” he added.
Chan took it eagerly. “Who shall say? This may be of some value. I am in your debt and sinking all the time.”
“Well, I don’t know about its value. Maybe you can find something I have overlooked. I’ve been through it carefully, but I haven’t found a thing.”
Chan opened the book. “Interesting item flashes up immediately,” he said. “Unlike Colonel Beetham’s other books, this has dedication.” Slowly he read the inscription on the dedicatory page: “To one who will remember, and understand.”
“I noticed that,” Rankin told him. “It begins to look as though the Colonel has his tender moments, doesn’t it? To one who will remember and understand. A boyhood sweetheart, probably. One who will remember the time he kissed her under the lilacs at the gate, and understand that he goes on his daring trips with her image in his heart.”
Chan was deep in thought. “Possible,” he muttered.
“You know, these Englishmen aren’t as hard-boiled as they seem,” Rankin continued. “I knew a British aviator in the war—a tough baby, he ate nails for breakfast. Yet he always carried a sprig of heather on his plane—the memento of an old love-affair. A sentimentalist at heart. Perhaps
