Deth—Deth—I can't thay it."
"In business there?" inquired John Quincy nonchalantly.
"Yeth. Wholethale grothery buthineth," answered Mr. Saladine, slowly but not very successfully.
John Quincy turned away to hide a smile. "Shall we go along?" he said to the girl. "Good luck to you, sir." He dove off, and as they swam toward the shore, he reflected that they were on a false trail there—a trail as spurious as the teeth. That little business man was too conventional a figure to have any connection with the murder of Dan Winterslip. He kept these thoughts to himself, however.
Half-way to the beach, they encountered an enormous figure floating languidly on the water. Just beyond the great stomach John Quincy perceived the serene face of Charlie Chan.
"Hello, Charlie," he cried. "It's a small ocean, after all! Got your Ford with you?"
Chan righted himself and grinned. "Little pleasant recreation," he explained. "Forget detective worries out here floating idle like leaf on stream."
"Please float ashore," suggested John Quincy. "I have something to tell you."
"Only too happy," agreed Chan.
He followed them in and they sat, an odd trio, on the white sand. John Quincy told the detective about Saladine's activities outside the window the night before, and repeated the conversation he had just had with the middle westerner. "Of course, the man seems almost too foolish to mean anything," he added.
Chan shook his head. "Begging most humble pardon," he said, "that are wrong attitude completely. Detective business made up of unsignificant trifles. One after other our clues go burst in our countenance. Wise to pursue matter of Mr. Saladine."
"What do you suggest?" John Quincy asked.
"To-night I visit city for night work to drive off my piled tasks," Chan replied. "After evening meal, suggest you join with me at cable office. We despatch message to postmaster of this Des Moines, inquiring what are present locality of Mr. Saladine, expert in wholeselling provisions. Your name will be signed to message, much better than police meddling."
"All right," John Quincy agreed, "I'll meet you there at eight-thirty."
Carlota Egan rose. "I must get back to the Reef and Palm. You've no idea all I have to do—"
John Quincy stood beside her. "If I can help, you know—"
"I know," she smiled. "I'm thinking of making you assistant manager. They'd be so proud of you—in Boston."
She moved off toward the water for her homeward swim, and John Quincy dropped down beside Chan. The Chinaman's little amber eyes followed the girl. "Endeavoring to make English language my slave," he said, "I pursue poetry. Who were the great poet who said—'She walks in beauty like the night?'"
"Why, that was—er—who was it?" remarked John Quincy helpfully.
"Name is slippery," went on Chan. "But no matter. Lines pop into brain whenever I see this Miss Egan. Beauty like the night, Hawaiian night maybe, lovely as purest jade. Most especially on this beach. Spot of heart-breaking charm, this beach."
"Surely is," agreed John Quincy, amused at Chan's obviously sentimental mood.
"Here on gleaming sand I first regard my future wife," continued Chan. "Slender as the bamboo is slender, beautiful as blossom of the plum—"
"Your wife," repeated John Quincy. The idea was a new one.
"Yes, indeed." Chan rose. "Recalls I must hasten home where she attends the children who are now, by actual count, nine in number." He looked down at John Quincy thoughtfully. "Are you well-fitted with the armor of preparation?" he said. "Consider. Some night the moon has splendor in this neighborhood, the cocoa-palms bow lowly and turn away their heads so they do not see. And the white man kisses without intending to do so."
"Oh, don't worry about me," John Quincy laughed; "I'm from Boston, and immune."
"Immune," repeated Chan. "Ah, yes, I grasp meaning. In my home I have idol brought from China with insides of solid stone. He would think he is—immune. But even so I would not entrust him on this beach. As my cousin Willie Chan say with vulgarity, see you later."
John Quincy sat for a time on the sand, then rose and strolled toward home. His path lay close to the lanai of Arlene Compton's cottage, and he was surprised to hear his name called from behind the screen. He stepped to the door and looked in. The woman was sitting there alone.
"Come in a minute, Mr. Winterslip," she said.
John Quincy hesitated. He did not care to make any social calls on this lady, but he did not have it in him to be rude. He went inside and sat down gingerly, poised for flight. "Got to hurry back for dinner," he explained.
"Dinner? You'll want a cocktail."
"No, thanks. I'm—I'm on the wagon."
"You'll find it hard to stick out here," she said a little bitterly. "I won't keep you long. I just want to know—are those boneheads down at the station getting anywhere, or ain't they?"
"The police," smiled John Quincy. "They seem to be making progress. But it's slow. It's very slow."
"I'll tell the world it's slow. And I got to stick here till they pin it on somebody. Pleasant outlook, ain't it?"
"Is Mr. Leatherbee still with you?" inquired John Quincy.
"What do you mean is he still with me?" she flared.
"Pardon me. Is he still in town?"
"Of course he's in town. They won't let him go, either. But I ain't worrying about him. I got troubles of my own. I want to go home." She nodded toward a newspaper on the table. "I just got hold of an old Variety and seen about a show opening in Atlantic City. A lot of the gang is in it, working like dogs, rehearsing night and day, worrying themselves sick over how long the thing will last. Gee, don't I envy them. I was near to bawling when you came along."
"You'll get back all right," comforted John Quincy.
"Say—if I ever do! I'll stop everybody I meet on Broadway and promise never to leave 'em again." John Quincy rose. "You tell that guy Hallet to get a move on," she urged.
"I'll tell him," he agreed.
"And drop in to see me now and then," she added wistfully. "Us easterners ought to stick together out here."
"That's right, we should," John Quincy answered. "Good-by."
As he walked along the beach, he thought of her with pity. The story she and Leatherbee had told might be entirely false; even so, she was a human and appealing figure and her homesickness touched his heart.
Later that evening when John Quincy came down-stairs faultlessly attired for dinner, he encountered Amos Winterslip in the living-room. Cousin Amos's lean face was whiter than ever; his manner listless. He had been robbed of his hate; his evenings beneath the algaroba tree had lost their savor; life was devoid of spice.
Dinner was not a particularly jolly affair. Barbara seemed intent on knowing now the details of the search the police were conducting,
