cried John Quincy. "What about that boy?"
Hallet crumpled the letter in his hand. "Kaohla? Oh, he's out of it now."
"Why?"
"That's all I can tell you. He's out of it."
"That's not enough," John Quincy said. "I demand to know—"
Hallet glared at him. "You know all you're going to," he answered angrily. "I say Kaohla's out, and that settles it. Egan killed Winterslip, and before I get through with him—"
"Permit me to say," interrupted John Quincy, "that you have the most trusting nature I ever met. Everybody's story goes with you. The Compton woman and that rat Leatherbee come in here and spin a yarn, and you bow them out. And Brade! What about Brade! In bed at one-twenty last Tuesday morning, eh? Who says so? He does. Who can prove it? His wife can. What was to prevent his stepping out on the balcony of the Reef and Palm and walking along the beach to my cousin's house? Answer me that!"
Hallet shook his head. "It's Egan. That cigarette—"
"Yes—that cigarette. Has it occurred to you that Brade may have given him those cigarettes purposely—"
"Egan did it," cut in Hallet stubbornly. "All I need now is his story; I'll get it. I have ways and means—"
"I congratulate you on your magnificent stupidity," cried John Quincy. "Good night, sir."
He walked along Bethel Street, Chan at his side.
"You are partly consumed by anger," said the Chinaman. "Humbly suggest you cool. Calm heads needed."
"But what was in that note? Why wouldn't he tell us?"
"In good time, we know. Captain honest man. Be patient."
"But we're all at sea again," protested John Quincy. "Who killed Cousin Dan? We get nowhere."
"So very true," agreed Chan. "More clues lead us into presence of immovable stone wall. We sway about, seeking still other path."
"I'll say we do," answered John Quincy. "There comes my car. Good night!"
Not until the trolley was half-way to Waikiki did he remember Mr. Saladine. Saladine crouching outside that window at the Reef and Palm. What did that mean? But Saladine was a comic figure, a lisping searcher after bridge-work in the limpid waters of Waikiki. Even so, perhaps his humble activities should be investigated.
Chapter XVI. The Return of Captain Cope
After breakfast on Sunday morning, John Quincy followed Miss Minerva to the lanai. It was a neat world that lay outside the screen, for Dan Winterslip's yard boy had been busy until a late hour the night before, sweeping the lawn with the same loving thoroughness a housewife might display on a precious Oriental rug.
Barbara had not come down to breakfast, and John Quincy had seized the opportunity to tell his aunt of Brade's return, and repeat the man's story of Dan Winterslip's theft on board the Maid of Shiloh. Now he lighted a cigarette and sat staring seriously out at the distant water.
"Cheer up," said Miss Minerva. "You look like a judge. I presume you're thinking of poor Dan."
"I am."
"Forgive and forget. None of us ever suspected Dan of being a saint."
"A saint! Far from it! He was just a plain—"
"Never mind," put in his aunt sharply. "Remember, John Quincy, man is a creature of environment. And the temptation must have been great. Picture Dan on that ship in these easy-going latitudes, wealth at his feet and not a soul in sight to claim it. Ill-gotten wealth, at that. Even you—"
"Even I," said John Quincy sternly, "would have recalled I am a Winterslip. I never dreamed I'd live to hear you offering apologies for that sort of conduct."
She laughed. "You know what they say about white women who go to the tropics. They lose first their complexion, then their teeth, and finally their moral sense." She hesitated. "I've had to visit the dentist a good deal of late," she added.
John Quincy was shocked "My advice to you is to hurry home," he said.
"When are you going?"
"Oh, soon—soon."
"That's what we all say. Returning to Boston, I suppose?"
"Of course."
"How about San Francisco?"
"Oh, that's off. I did suggest it to Agatha, but I'm certain she won't hear of it. And I'm beginning to think she'd be quite right." His aunt rose. "You'd better go to church," said John Quincy severely.
"That's just where I am going," she smiled. "By the way, Amos is coming to dinner to-night, and he'd best hear the Brade story from us, rather than in some garbled form. Barbara must hear it too. If it proves to be true, the family ought to do something for Mr. Brade."
"Oh, the family will do something for him, all right," John Quincy remarked. "Whether it wants to or not."
"Well, I'll let you tell Barbara about him," Miss Minerva promised.
"Thank you so much," replied her nephew sarcastically.
"Not at all. Are you coming to church?"
"No," he said. "I don't need it the way you do."
She left him there to face a lazy uneventful day. By five in the afternoon Waikiki was alive with its usual Sunday crowd—not the unsavory holiday throng seen on a mainland beach, but a scattering of good-looking people whose tanned straight bodies would have delighted the heart of a physical culture enthusiast. John Quincy summoned sufficient energy to don a bathing suit and plunge in.
There was something soothing in the warm touch of the water, and he was becoming more at home there every day. With long powerful strokes he drew away from the malihini breakers to dare the great rollers beyond. Surf-board riders flashed by him; now and then he had to alter his course to avoid an outrigger canoe.
On the farthest float of all he saw Carlota Egan. She sat there, a slender lovely figure vibrant with life, and awaited his coming. As he climbed up beside her and looked into her eyes he was—perhaps from his exertion in the water—a little breathless.
"I rather hoped I'd find you," he panted.
"Did you?" She smiled faintly. "I hoped it too. You see, I need a lot of cheering up."
"On a perfect day like this!"
"I'd pinned such hopes on Mr. Brade," she explained. "Perhaps you know he's back—and from what I can gather, his return hasn't meant a thing so far as dad's concerned. Not a thing."
"Well, I'm afraid it hasn't," John Quincy admitted. "But we mustn't get discouraged. As Chan puts it, we sway about, seeking a new path. You and I have a bit of swaying to do. How about Mr. Saladine?"
