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walls of the Grand glowed with a new splendor in the moonlight. “When you telephoned me,” Chan added, “I was about to begin serious operation on a small fish. One taste I had was excellent. Alas! little fish and I will never meet again.”

“A shame to spoil your dinner,” Bradshaw replied.

“I will be content if your news does not also spoil my reputation,” Charlie told him. “How am I going to emerge from the affair? In shining garments of success, or in sackcloth with ashes?”

“I called up the morning paper,” the boy told him. “Used to work there, you know. They were short of men at the moment, and I landed the job of covering the story so far. Got to go back now and write it. I'll say that the police haven’t a notion just at present—is that correct?”

Charlie barely avoided a collision with the curb. “Have you no better understanding of your task than that? Say nothing of the sort. Police have many ciues and expect early arrest.”

“But that’s the same old bunk, Charlie. And judging from your talk, it isn’t true in this case.”

“Seldom true in any case,” Chan reminded him. “You should know that.”

“Well, I'll say it—to please you, Charlie. By the way, did I hear Tarneverro intimate he was working with you?”

“Yes—he fancies himself as bright assistant.”

“He may be bright all right—but are you keen for his help?”

Charlie shrugged. “The bird chooses the tree, not the tree the bird,” he remarked.

“Well, Tarneverro’s a queer bird, all right. He gives me a funny sensation when I look at him.” They