rumors of what Dan Winterslip had done on the Maid of Shiloh. It occurred to me that Williams and Winterslip were probably the same man. But no one seemed to be prosecuting the case, the general feeling was that it was blood money anyhow, that Tom Brade had not come by it honestly himself. So I said nothing.
"Twelve years later I came to Hawaii, and Dan Winterslip was pointed out to me. He was Williams, right enough. And he knew me, too. But I'm not a black-mailer—I've been in some tight places, Arthur, but I've always played fair—so I let the matter drop. For more than twenty years nothing happened.
"Then, a few months ago, my family located me at last, and Arthur here wrote me that he was coming to Honolulu and would look me up. I'd always felt that I'd not done the right thing by my girl—that she was not taking the place in the world to which she was entitled. I wanted her to visit my old mother and get a bit of English training. I wrote to Arthur and it was arranged. But I couldn't let her go as a charity child—I couldn't admit I'd failed and was unable to do anything for her—I said I'd pay her way. And I—I didn't have a cent.
"And then Brade came. It seemed providential. I might have sold my information to him, but when I talked with him I found he had very little money, and I felt that Winterslip would beat him in the end. No, Winterslip was my man—Winterslip with his rotten wealth. I don't know just what happened—I was quite mad, I fancy—the world owed me that, I figured, just for my girl, not for me. I called Winterslip up and made an appointment for that Monday night.
"But somehow—the standards of a lifetime—it's difficult to change. The moment I had called him, I regretted it. I tried to slip out of it—I told myself there must be some other way—perhaps I could sell the Reef and Palm—anyhow, I called him again and said I wasn't coming. But he insisted, and I went.
"I didn't have to tell him what I wanted. He knew. He had a check ready for me—a check for five thousand dollars. It was Cary's happiness, her chance. I took it, and came away—but I was ashamed. I'm not trying to excuse my action; however, I don't believe I would ever have cashed it. When Cary found it in my desk and brought it to me, I tore it up. That's all." He turned his tired eyes toward his daughter. "I did it for you, Cary, but I didn't want you to know." She went over and put her arm about his shoulder, and stood smiling down at him through her tears.
"If you'd told us that in the first place," said Greene, "you could have saved everybody a lot of trouble, yourself included."
Cope stood up. "Well, Mr. Prosecutor, there you are. You're not going to hold him now?"
Greene rose briskly. "No. I'll arrange for his release at once." He and Egan went out together, then Hallet and Cope. John Quincy held out his hand to Carlota Egan—for by that name he thought of her still.
"I'm mighty glad for you," he said.
"You'll come and see me soon?" she asked. "You'll find a very different girl. More like the one you met on the Oakland ferry."
"She was very charming," John Quincy replied. "But then, she was bound to be—she had your eyes." He suddenly remembered Agatha Parker. "However, you've got your father now," he added. "You won't need me."
She looked up at him and smiled. "I wonder," she said, and went out.
John Quincy turned to Chan. "Well, that's that," he remarked. "Where are we now?"
"Speaking personally for myself," grinned Chan, "I am static in same place as usual. Never did have fondly feeling for Egan theory."
"But Hallet did," John Quincy answered. "A black morning for him."
In the small anteroom they encountered the Captain of Detectives. He appeared disgruntled.
"We were just remarking," said John Quincy pleasantly, "that there goes your little old Egan theory. What have you left?"
"Oh, I've got plenty," growled Hallet.
"Yes, you have. One by one your clues have gone up in smoke. The page from the guest book, the brooch, the torn newspaper, the ohia wood box, and now Egan and the Corsican cigarette."
"Oh, Egan isn't out of it. We may not be able to hold him, but I'm not forgetting Mr. Egan."
"Nonsense," smiled John Quincy. "I asked what you had left. A little button from a glove—useless. The glove was destroyed long ago. A wrist watch with an illuminated dial and a damaged numeral two—"
Chan's amber eyes narrowed. "Essential clue," he murmured. "Remember how I said it."
Hallet banged his fist on a table. "That's it—the wrist watch! If the person who wore it knows any one saw it, it's probably where we'll never find it now. But we've kept it pretty dark—perhaps he doesn't know. That's our only chance." He turned to Chan. "I've combed these islands once hunting that watch," he cried, "now I'm going to start all over again. The jewelry stores, the pawn shops, every nook and corner. You go out, Charlie, and start the ball rolling."
Chan moved with alacrity despite his weight. "I will give it one powerful push," he promised, and disappeared.
"Well, good luck," said John Quincy, moving on.
Hallet grunted. "You tell that aunt of yours I'm pretty sore," he remarked. He was not in the mood for elegance of diction.
John Quincy's opportunity to deliver the message did not come at lunch, for Miss Minerva remained with Barbara in the city. After dinner that evening he led his aunt out to sit on the bench under the hau tree.
"By the way," he said, "Captain Hallet is very much annoyed with you."
"I'm very much annoyed with Captain Hallet," she replied, "so that makes us even. What's his particular grievance now?"
"He believes you knew all the time the name of the man who dropped that Corsican cigarette."
She was silent for a moment. "Not all the time," she said at length. "What has happened?"
John Quincy sketched briefly the events of the morning at the police station. When he had finished he looked at her inquiringly.
"In the first excitement I didn't remember, or I should have spoken," she explained. "It was several days before the thing came to me. I saw it clearly then—Arthur—Captain Cope—tossing that cigarette aside as we reentered the house. But I said nothing about it."
"Why?"
"Well, I thought it would be a good test for the police. Let them discover it for themselves."
"That's a pretty weak explanation," remarked John Quincy severely. "You've been responsible for a lot of wasted time."
"It—it wasn't my only reason," said Miss Minerva softly.
"Oh—I'm glad to hear that. Go on."
"Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to link up that call of Captain Cope's with—a murder mystery."
Another silence. And suddenly—he was never dense—John Quincy understood.
"He told me you were very beautiful in the 'eighties," said the boy gently. "The captain, I mean. When I met him in that San Francisco club."
Miss Minerva laid her own hand on the boy's. When she spoke her voice, which he had always thought firm and sharp,
