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rode on in silence for a time. “Anyhow, one thing’s certain,” the boy said at last.

“Is that really so?” Chan inquired. “Name it, please. I seem to have overlooked it in my haste.”

“I mean—Julie had nothing to do with this affair.”

Charlie grinned in the dark. “I have recollections myself,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Being young—and muddled by love. Since I am now the father of eleven children, it is necessarily some time since I went about with head in clouds and warmly beating heart. But memories remain.”

“Oh, nonsense,” protested Bradshaw. “I’m looking at this thing coldly—as a rank outsider.”

“Then I humbly suggest you have old Hawaii moon overhauled at once,” commented Chan. “For it must be losing magic power you write about so glowingly.”

He drew up before the newspaper office, the sound of his brakes grating noisily in the deserted street. On the lower floor of the building one lonely light burned dimly, but the up-stairs windows were bright yellow with activity. There men sat sorting the cable news that was flowing in from the far corners of the world, from Europe, Asia, the mainland—brief bits of information thought worthy of transmission to this small island dreaming in the midst of the great Pacific.

Jimmy Bradshaw moved as though to alight, then paused. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Charlie. “I don’t suppose I can have it now, can I?” he inquired.

“You can not,” Chan replied firmly.

“What are you talking about?” asked the boy innocently.

“Same thing you are,” Charlie grinned.