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quired. “It begins to look like one of your stone walls, Charlie.”

Chan shrugged. “In which case, we circle about, seeking new path. Me, I get renewed interest in beach-comber. Why was he in pavilion room last night? More important yet, what was conversation he overheard between Shelah Fane and Robert Fyfe, for suppression of which Fyfe pays handsome sum?” He moved toward the door. “Kashimo has now played his game of hide-and-seek long time enough. I go to bestow inside small quantity of provisions, and after that I myself will do a little scouring of this town.”

“That's the talk,” his Chief cried. “You go after that beach-comber yourself. I'll eat down-town too, and come back here as soon as I’ve finished. You'll find me here any time after seven.”

Charlie went to the telephone and called his house, getting his daughter Rose on the wire. He announced that he would not be home for dinner. A sharp cry of protest answered him.

“But, Dad,—you must come home. We all want to see you.”

“Ah—at last you begin to feel keen affection for poor old father.”

“Sure. And we’re dying to hear the news.”

“Remain alive a small time longer,” he advised. “There are no news as yet.”

“Well, what have you been doing all day?” Rose wanted to know.

Chan sighed. “Maybe I should put my eleven children on this case.”

“Maybe you should,” she laughed. “A little American pep might work wonders.”