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“I will extend myself to the utmost,” smiled Chan. “Though, to look at me, many might remark that I had already done so.”

Jaynes laughed. “Don’t let that thought deter you,” he said. “You'll do your best, I know. By the way, I’m afraid I was a bit rude to you last night—but I was very anxious to get away. For many reasons—not only my business in the States—but this whole terrible affair—I wanted to be out of it. I still do. You understand?”

“I understand,” nodded Chan gravely. His left hand, in the side pocket of his coat, touched a certain envelope. “I will say good morning,” he added.

He stood watching the Britisher cross the terrace and stroll toward the sea. Sensing some one at his back, he turned just in time. An old bent Chinese who continually paraded the lounge in his native costume, armed with a brush and dust-pan, was reaching out for the glasses.

“Haie!” Chan seized the withered hand. “Do not touch, or the wrath of the seven watchful gods descends upon you.” He took out his handkerchief and tenderly wrapped it round the glass from which Jaynes had drunk. “I am removing this, and the affair does not concern you.”

But evidently the old man thought it did concern him, for he followed Charlie to the desk. There Chan encountered one of the managers. “I should like to purchase this object,” he said, revealing what the handkerchief held. “Kindly name price.”

The manager laughed. “Oh, that’s all right. Take it along. What are you doing, Charlie? Collecting finger-prints from our harmless guests?”