are working on them. Nothing to report at present. It's sickening. Well, sit down, Charlie. Oh—Mr. Winterslip—good evening. I didn't recognize you at first."
"How are you," said John Quincy. He and Chan also found packing-cases. There was a penetrating odor of sugar in the air. Through a wide opening in the pier-shed they gazed along the water-front and out upon the moonlit harbor. A rather exotic and intriguing scene, John Quincy reflected, and he said as much.
"Think so?" answered Mayberry. "Well, I don't. To me it's just like Seattle or Galveston or any of those stereotyped ports. But you see—I knew it when—"
"I think you mentioned that before," John Quincy smiled.
"I'm likely to mention it at any moment. As far as I'm concerned, the harbor of Honolulu has lost its romance. Once this was the most picturesque water-front in the world, my boy. And now look at the damned thing!" The reporter relighted his pipe. "Charlie can tell you—he remembers. The old ramshackle, low-lying wharves. Old Naval Row with its sailing ships. The wooden-hulled steamers with a mast or two—not too proud to use God's good winds occasionally. The bright little row-boats, the Aloha, the Manu, the Emma. Eh, Chan?"
"All extinct," agreed Chan.
"You wouldn't see a Rotary Club gang like this on a pier in those days," Mayberry continued. "Just Hawaiian stevedores with leis on their hats and ukuleles in their hands. Fishermen with their nets, and maybe a breezy old-time purser—a glad-hander and not a mere machine." He puffed a moment in sad silence. "Those were the days, Mr. Winterslip, the days of Hawaii's isolation, and her charm. The cable and the radio hadn't linked us up with the so-called civilization of the mainland. Every boat that came in we'd scamper over it, hunting a newspaper with the very latest news of the outside world. Remember those steamer days, Charlie, when everybody went down to the wharf in the good old hacks of yesteryear, when the women wore holokus and lauhala hats, and Berger was there with his band, and maybe a prince or two—"
"And the nights," suggested Charlie.
"Yeah, old-timer, I was coming to the nights. The soft nights when the serenaders drifted about the harbor in row-boats, and the lanterns speared long paths on the water—"
He seemed about to weep. John Quincy's mind went back to books he had read in his boyhood.
"And occasionally," he said, "I presume somebody went aboard a ship against his will?"
"I'll say he did," replied Mr. Mayberry, brightening at the thought. "Why, it was only in the 'nineties I was sitting one night on a dock a few yards down, when I saw a scuffle near the landing, and one of my best friends shouted to me: 'Good-by, Pete!' I was up and off in a minute, and I got him away from them—I was younger in those days. He was a good fellow, a sailorman, and he wasn't intending to take the journey that bunch had planned for him. They'd got him into a saloon and drugged him, but he pulled out of it just in time—oh, well, those days are gone for ever now. Just like Galveston or Seattle. Yes, sir, this harbor of Honolulu has lost its romance."
The little Inter-Island boat was drawing up to the pier, and they watched it come. As the gangplank went down, Chan rose.
"Who you expecting, Charlie?" asked Mayberry.
"We grope about," said Chan. "Maybe on this boat are Mr. Brade."
"Brade!" Mayberry leaped to his feet.
"Not so sure," warned Chan. "Only a matter we suppose. If correct, humbly suggest you follow to the station. You might capture news."
John Quincy and Chan moved up to the gangplank as the passengers descended. There were not many aboard. A few Island business men, a scattering of tourists, a party of Japanese in western clothes, ceremoniously received by friends ashore—a quaint little group all bowing from the waist. John Quincy was watching them with interest when Chan touched his arm.
A tall stooped Englishman was coming down the plank. Thomas Macan Brade would have been easily spotted in any crowd. His mustache was patterned after that of the Earl of Pawtucket, and to make identification even simpler, he wore a white pith helmet. Pith helmets are not necessary under the kindly skies of Hawaii; this was evidently a relic of Indian days.
Chan stepped forward. "Mr. Brade?"
The man had a tired look in his eyes. He started nervously. "Y—yes," he hesitated.
"I am Detective-Sergeant Chan, Honolulu police. You will do me the great honor to accompany me to the station, if you please."
Brade stared at him, then shook his head. "It's quite impossible," he said.
"Pardon me, please," answered Chan. "It are unevitable."
"I—I have just returned from a journey," protested the man. "My wife may be worried regarding me. I must have a talk with her, and after that—"
"Regret," purred Chan, "are scorching me. But duty remains duty. Chief's words are law. Humbly suggest we squander valuable time."
"Am I to understand that I'm under arrest?" flared Brade.
"The idea is preposterous," Chan assured him. "But the captain waits eager for statement from you. You will walk this way, I am sure. A moment's pardon. I introduce my fine friend, Mr. John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston."
At mention of the name, Brade turned and regarded John Quincy with deep interest. "Very good," he said. "I'll go with you."
They went out to the street, Brade carrying a small hand-bag. The flurry of arrival was dying fast. Honolulu would shortly return to its accustomed evening calm.
When they reached the police station, Hallet and the prosecutor seemed in high good humor. Kaohla sat in a corner, hopeless and defeated; John Quincy saw at a glance that the boy's secret was his no longer.
"Introducing Mr. Brade," said Chan.
"Ah," cried Hallet, "we're glad to see you, Mr. Brade. We'd been getting pretty worried about you."
"Really, sir," said Brade, "I am completely at a loss—"
"Sit down," ordered Hallet. The man sank into a chair. He too had a hopeless, defeated air. No one can appear more humble and beaten than a British civil servant, and this man had known thirty-six years of baking under the Indian sun, looked down on by the military, respected by none. Not only his mustache but his whole figure drooped "in saddened mood." Yet now and then, John Quincy noted, he flashed into life, a moment of self-assertion and defiance.
"Where have you been, Mr. Brade?" Hallet inquired.
"I have visited one of the other islands. Maui."
"You went last Tuesday morning?"
"Yes. On the same steamer that brought me back."
"Your name was not on the sailing list," Hallet said.
"No. I went under another name. I had—reasons."
"Indeed?"
The flash of life. "Just why am I here, sir?" He turned to the prosecutor. "Perhaps you will tell me that?"
Greene nodded toward the detective. "Captain Hallet will enlighten you," he said.
"You
