LITMIR.BIZ

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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?"

      "I've been thinking about Mr. Saladine. But I can't get excited about him, somehow. He's so ridiculous."

      "We mustn't pass him up on that account," admonished John Quincy. "I caught a glimpse of his purple bathing suit on the first float. Come on—we'll just casually drop in on him. I'll race you there."

      She smiled again, and leaped to her feet. For a second she stood poised, then dived in a way that John Quincy could never hope to emulate. He slipped off in pursuit, and though he put forth every effort, she reached Saladine's side five seconds before he did.

      "Hello, Mr. Saladine," she said. "This is Mr. Winterslip, of Boston."

      "Ah, yeth," responded Mr. Saladine, gloomily. "Mr. Winterthlip." He regarded the young man with interest.

      "Any luck, sir?" inquired John Quincy sympathetically.

      "Oh—you heard about my accthident?"

      "I did, sir, and I'm sorry."

      "I am, too," said Mr. Saladine feelingly. "Not a thrath of them tho far. And I muth go home in a few dath."

      "I believe Miss Egan said you lived in Des Moines?"

      "Yeth. 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

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