The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

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      "Of course. But it is a great pity. A friend of mine, an American gentleman who goes on a long, hazardous journey, required his services. The recompense would have been of generous amount."

      Li shook his head. "The matter would have held no interest for Gung. He is otherwise occupied."

      "Ah, yes. He still remains in the employ of Colonel John Beetham?"

      "No doubt he does."

      "Still, the reward in this other matter would have been great. But it may be that he is very loyal to Colonel Beetham. A loyalty cemented through many years. I am trying to figure, but I can not. How long is it your honorable cousin is in Colonel Beetham's service?"

      "Long enough to cement loyalty as you say," returned Li, non-commitally.

      "Fifteen years, perhaps?" hazarded Chan.

      "It might be."

      "Or even longer?"

      "As to that, I do not know."

      Chan nodded. "When you know, to know that you know, and when you do not know, to know that you do not know—that is true knowledge, as the master said." He moved his foot, and a spasm of pain spread over his fat face. "A great man, Colonel Beetham. A most remarkable man. Li Gung has been fortunate. With Colonel Beetham he has seen Tibet, Persia—even India. He has told you, perhaps, of his visits to India with Colonel Beetham?"

      In the slanting eyes of the host a stubborn expression was evident. "He says little, my cousin," Henry Li remarked.

      "Which point of character no doubt increases his value to a man like the Colonel," suggested Chan. "I am very sorry he has gone. While I would no doubt have failed, owing to his feeling of loyalty for his present employer, I would nevertheless have liked to try. I promised my friend—"

      The outer door opened, and the active little boy scout burst into the room. After him came a serious, prematurely bearded young American with a small black case.

      "I have brought a physician," cried Willie Li triumphantly.

      Chan gave the ambitious boy a savage look.

      "An accident, eh?" said the doctor briskly. "Well—which one of you—"

      Henry Li nodded toward Chan. "This gentleman's ankle," he said.

      The white man went at once to Chan's side. "Let's have a look at it."

      "It is nothing," Chan protested. "Nothing at all."

      He held out his foot, and the doctor ripped off shoe and stocking. He made a quick examination with his fingers, turned the foot this way and that, and studied it thoughtfully for a moment. Then he stood up.

      "What are you trying to do—kid me?" he said with disgust. "Nothing wrong there."

      "I remarked the injury was of the slightest," Chan said.

      He looked at Henry Li. An expression of complete understanding lighted the basket merchant's face.

      "Five dollars, please," said the doctor sternly.

      Chan produced his purse, and counted out the money. With an effort he refrained from looking in the boy's direction.

      The white man left abruptly. Chan drew on his stocking, slipped into his shoe, and stood up. His dignity requiring that he still maintain the fiction, he limped elaborately.

      "These white devil doctors," he remarked glumly. "All they know is five dollars, please."

      Henry Li was looking at him keenly. "I recall," he said, "there was one other who came to ask questions about Li Gung. An Englishman—a large man. They are clever and cool, the English, like a thief amid the fire. Was it not his death I read about in the morning paper?"

      "I know nothing of the matter," responded Chan stiffly.

      "Of course." Henry Li followed to the door. "If you will accept advice offered in humble spirit," he added, "you will walk softly. What a pity if you encountered a really serious accident."

      Mumbling a good-by, Chan went out. By the door he passed young Willie Li who was grinning broadly. The event had come to an unexpected ending, but none the less the lad was happy. He was a boy scout, and he had done his good turn for the day.

      Chan returned to the street, thoroughly upset. Rarely had any of his little deceptions ended so disastrously. His usefulness on the trail of Li Gung was no doubt over for all time. He consigned all boy scouts to limbo with one muttered imprecation.

      Entering a drug store, he purchased a quantity of lamp black and a camel's hair brush. Then he went on to the Kirk Building. The night watchman took him up to the bungalow, and he let himself in with a key Kirk had given him. The place was dark and silent. He switched on the lights, and made a round of the rooms. No one seemed to be about.

      He unlocked the compartment in Kirk's desk, and carefully removed the sheet of paper that had arrived in the envelope from Scotland Yard. With satisfaction he noted the paper was of a cheap variety, highly glazed. Along the lines where it had been folded, some one's fingers must have pressed hard.

      Seated at the desk, with a floor lamp glowing brightly at his side, he cautiously sprinkled the black powder in the most likely place. Then he carefully dusted it with his brush. He was rewarded by the outline of a massive thumb—the thumb of a big man. He considered. Carrick Enderby was a big man. He was employed at Cook's. In some way he must procure impressions of Enderby's thumb.

      He returned the paper to the compartment, and with it the tools of his investigation. Turning over ways and means in his mind, he sat down in a comfortable chair, took up Colonel John Beetham's story of his life, and began to read.

      About an hour later Paradise came in from outside. He was absent for a moment in the pantry. Then, entering the living-room with his inevitable silver platter, he removed a few letters and laid them on Kirk's desk.

      "The last mail is in, sir," he announced. "There is, I believe, a picture post-card for you."

      He carried card and tray negligently at his side, as though to express his contempt for picture post-cards. Chan looked up in surprise; he had telephoned the hotel to forward any mail to him here, and this was quick work. Paradise offered the tray, and Chan daintily took up the card.

      It was from his youngest girl, designed to catch him just before he left. "Hurry home, honorable father," she wrote. "We miss you all the time. There is Kona weather here now, and we have ninety degrees of climate every day. Wishing to see you soon. Your loving daughter, Anna."

      Chan turned over the card. He saw a picture of Waikiki, the surf boards riding the waves, Diamond Head beyond. He sighed with homesickness, and sat for a long moment immobile in his chair.

      But as Paradise left the room, the little detective leaped nimbly to his feet and returned to the desk. For Paradise had glued the post-card to his tray with one large, moist thumb, a thumb which had fortunately rested on the light blue of Hawaii's lovely sky.

      Quickly Chan applied lamp black and brush. Then he removed the blank paper from the compartment and with the aid of a reading glass, studied the impressions.

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