Earl Derr Biggers: Complete 11 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

young Hawaiian, about twenty, I should say. Tall and slim. If you go to the door, you may catch a glimpse of him."

      Hallet hurried over and glanced out into the garden. In a second he returned. "Humph," he said. "I know him. Did he say he'd come again?"

      "He did."

      Hallet considered. "I've changed my mind," he announced. "I won't question Mrs. Brade, after all. For the present, I don't want her to know we're looking for her husband. I'll trust you to fix that up with your clerk," he added to the girl. She nodded. "Lucky we left things as we found them in nineteen," he went on. "Unless she misses that letter and the cigarettes, which isn't likely, we're all right. Now, Miss Egan, we three will go into your father's office there behind the desk, and leave the door open. When Mrs. Brade comes in, I want you to question her about her husband's absence. Get all you can out of her. I'll be listening."

      "I understand," the girl said.

      Hallet, Chan and John Quincy went into Jim Egan's sanctum. "You found nothing else in the room?" the latter inquired of the Chinaman.

      Chan shook his head. "Even so, fates are in smiling mood. What we have now are plentiful."

      "Sh!" warned Hallet.

      "Mrs. Brade, a young man was just here inquiring, for your husband." It was Carlota Egan's voice.

      "Really?" The accent was unmistakably British.

      "He wanted to know where he could find him. We couldn't say."

      "No—of course not."

      "Your husband has left town, Mrs. Brade?"

      "Yes. I fancy he has."

      "You know when he will return, perhaps?"

      "I really couldn't say. Is the mail in?"

      "Not yet. We expect it about one."

      "Thank you so much."

      "Go to the door," Hallet directed John Quincy.

      "She's gone to her room," announced the boy.

      The three of them emerged from Egan's office.

      "Oh, Captain," said the girl, "I'm afraid I wasn't very successful."

      "That's all right," replied Hallet. "I didn't think you would be." The clerk was again at his post behind the desk. Hallet turned to him. "Look here," he said. "I understand some one was here a minute ago asking for Brade. It was Dick Kaohla, wasn't it?"

      "Yes-s," answered the Jap.

      "Had he been here before to see Brade?"

      "Yes-s. Sunday night. Mr. Brade and him have long talk on the beach."

      Hallet nodded grimly. "Come on, Charlie," he said. "We've got our work cut out for us. Wherever Brade is, we must find him."

      John Quincy stepped forward. "Pardon me, Captain," he remarked. "But if you don't mind—just who is Dick Kaohla?"

      Hallet hesitated. "Kaohla's father—he's dead now—was a sort of confidential servant to Dan Winterslip. The boy's just plain no good. And oh, yes—he's the grandson of that woman who's over at your place now. Kamaikui—is that her name?"

      Chapter XIV. What Kaohla Carried

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      Several days slipped by so rapidly John Quincy scarcely noted their passing. Dan Winterslip was sleeping now under the royal palms of the lovely island where he had been born. Sun and moon shone brightly in turn on his last dwelling place, but those who sought the person he had encountered that Monday night on his lanai were still groping in the dark.

      Hallet had kept his word, he was combing the Islands for Brade. But Brade was nowhere. Ships paused at the crossroads and sailed again; the name of Thomas Macan Brade was on no sailing list. Through far settlements that were called villages but were nothing save clusters of Japanese huts, in lonely coves where the surf moaned dismally, over pineapple and sugar plantations, the emissaries of Hallet pursued their quest. Their efforts came to nothing.

      John Quincy drifted idly with the days. He knew now the glamour of Waikiki waters; he had felt their warm embrace. Every afternoon he experimented with a board in the malihini surf, and he was eager for the moment when he could dare the big rollers farther out. Boston seemed like a tale that is told, State Street and Beacon memories of another more active existence now abandoned. No longer was he at a loss to understand his aunt's reluctance to depart these friendly shores.

      Early Friday afternoon Miss Minerva found him reading a book on the lanai. Something in the nonchalance of his manner irritated her. She had always been for action, and the urge was on her even in Hawaii.

      "Have you seen Mr. Chan lately?" she inquired.

      "Talked with him this morning. They're doing their best to find Brade."

      "Humph," sniffed Miss Minerva. "Their best is none too good. I'd like to have a few Boston detectives on this case."

      "Oh, give them time," yawned John Quincy.

      "They've had three days," she snapped. "Time enough. Brade never left this island of Oahu, that's certain. And when you consider that you can drive across it in a motor in two hours, and around it in about six, Mr. Hallet's brilliance does not impress. I'll have to end by solving this thing myself."

      John Quincy laughed. "Yes, maybe you will."

      "Well, I've given them the two best clues they have. If they'd keep their eyes open the way I do—"

      "Charlie's eyes are open," protested John Quincy.

      "Think so? They look pretty sleepy to me."

      Barbara appeared on the lanai, dressed for a drive. Her eyes were somewhat happier; a bit of color had come back to her cheeks. "What are you reading, John Quincy?" she asked.

      He held up the book. " The City by the Golden Gate," he told her.

      "Oh, really? If you're interested, I believe dad had quite a library on San Francisco. I remember there was a history of the stock exchange—he wanted me to read it, but I couldn't."

      "You missed a good one," John Quincy informed her. "I finished it this morning. I've read five other books on San Francisco since I came."

      His aunt stared at him. "What for?" she asked.

      "Well—" He hesitated. "I've taken sort of a fancy to the town. I don't know—sometimes I think I'd rather like to live there."

      Miss Minerva smiled grimly. "And they sent you out to take me back to Boston," she remarked.

      "Boston's all right," said her nephew hastily. "It's Winterslip headquarters—but its hold has never been strong enough to prevent an occasional Winterslip from hitting the trail. You know, when I came into San Francisco harbor, I had the oddest feeling." He told them about it. "And the more I saw of the city, the better I liked it. There's a snap and sparkle in the air, and the people seem to know how to get the most out of life."

      Barbara smiled on him approvingly. "Follow that impulse, John Quincy," she advised.

      "Maybe I will. All this reminds me—I must write a letter." He rose and left the lanai.

      "Does he really intend to desert Boston?" Barbara asked.

      Miss Minerva shook her head. "Just a moment's madness," she explained. "I'm glad he's going through it—he'll be more human in the future. But as for leaving Boston! John Quincy! As well expect Bunker Hill Monument to emigrate to England."

      In his room up-stairs, however, John Quincy's madness was persisting. He had never completed that letter to Agatha Parker, but he now plunged into his task with enthusiasm. San Francisco was his topic, and he wrote well. He pictured the city in words that glowed with life, and he wondered—just a suggestion—how she'd like