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“Why, it’s good old Charlie,” he cried. “Honolulu’s noted sleuth. How are you, and what’s the news?”

“News seems to be that spell of Waikiki Beach is still intact,” Chan answered. “I am so sorry to interrupt this touching scene.”

Bradshaw held out his hand. “Shake, Charlie. You're the first to hear about it. I’m going to be married. And oh, yes,—Julie is too.”

“Plenty good news,” returned Chan heartily. “May you have half the happiness I wish you—the full amount would be impossible.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Chan,” Julie said.

“You're a great old scout,” Bradshaw remarked. “I’ll miss you. I’ll miss this beach, too——”

“What is that? You leave Honolulu?”

“Oh—sure.”

“You depart from this lovely spot, about which you have written one million words——”

“I’ve got to, Charlie. Have you ever stopped to think about the effect of all this languid beauty on a young man’s character? Devastating, that’s what it is. On this crescent beach, fanned by the warm breath of the south, and so on—what happens to him? He droops, he stagnates, he crumbles. No more coco-palms for me. Redwoods, Charlie. Do you know about the redwoods? They brace you up. They’re my trees hereafter. A big lumber and sap man from the West—that’s going to me my rôle.”

Chan grinned. “You have failed to win Miss Julie to your views on Hawaii?”

“It looks that way. Sold it to fifty thousand tourists, but not to the girl I love. That’s life, I suppose.”