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“Well, where’s this fellow Smith?” demanded the Chief.

“No place, sir,” said Kashimo. “Melted like ice.”

“Melted, hell! You go out again, and don’t come back without him.”

“Look everywhere,” Kashimo complained. “All funny joints, up-stair, in cellar. Comb town. No Smith.”

Charlie went over and patted him on the back. “If at first you have drawn blank, resume the job,” he advised. He took a slip of paper from a desk and began to write. “I give you list of unsavory places,” he explained. “Maybe you overlook some. Perhaps, after all, I have better knowledge of city’s wickedness than honored member of Young Men’s Buddhist Association like yourself.”

He handed his list to the Japanese, who took it and left, followed by Charlie’s kindly encouragement.

Poor Kashimo,” Chan remarked. “When there is no oil in the lamp, the wick is wasted. In dealing with such a one, friendly words bring best results. Now I go forth to wallow some more in bafflement.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” his Chief called after him.

Charlie set out for the Moana Valley home of the Ballous. The business district disappeared behind him, and he traveled a street lined with great houses set on rolling lawns. Above his head flamed flowering trees, now in the last weeks of their splendor. He sped past Punahou Academy, and as he penetrated farther into the valley, he left the zone of sunshine for one of darkness. Black clouds hung over the mountains ahead and suddenly, borne on the wind, came a wild gust of rain.