The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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he could—it was pitifully meager. I promised I would try to take up the threads of this old mystery when I reached India."
"And you did?" Rankin inquired.
"I tried—but, my dear fellow, have you ever seen Peshawar? When I reached there the hopelessness of my quest struck me, as Mr. Chan might say, with an unbearable force. The Paris of the Pathans, they call it, and its filthy alleys teem with every race in the East. It isn't a city, it's a caravansary, and its population is constantly shifting. The English garrison is changed frequently, and I could find scarcely any one who was there in the time of Eve Durand.
"As I say, Peshawar appalled me. Anything could happen there. A wicked town—its sins are the sins of opium and hemp and jealousy and intrigue, of battle, murder and sudden death, of gambling and strange intoxications, the lust of revenge. Who can explain the deviltry that gets into men's blood in certain latitudes? I walked the Street of the Story Tellers and wondered in vain over the story of Eve Durand. What a place to bring a woman like that, delicately reared, young, inexperienced."
"You learned nothing?" inquired Barry Kirk.
"What could you expect?" Sir Frederic dropped a small lump of sugar into his coffee. "Fifteen years since that little picnic party rode back to Peshawar, back to the compound of the lonely garrison, leading behind them the riderless pony of Eve Durand. And fifteen years, I may tell you, make a very heavy curtain on India's frontier."
Again Bill Rankin turned to Charlie Chan. "What do you say, Sergeant?" he asked.
Chan considered. "The town named Peshawar stands with great proximity to the Khyber Pass, leading into wilds of Afghanistan," he said.
Sir Frederic nodded. "It does. But every foot of the pass is guarded night and day by British troops, and no European is permitted to leave by that route, save under very special conditions. No, Eve Durand could never have left India by way of the Khyber Pass. The thing would have been impossible. Grant the impossible, and she could not have lived a day among the wild hill men over the border."
Chan gravely regarded the man from Scotland Yard. "It is not to be amazed at," he said, "that you have felt such deep interest. Speaking humbly for myself, I desire with unlimited yearning to look behind that curtain of which you speak."
"That is the curse of our business, Sergeant," Sir Frederic replied. "No matter what our record of successes, there must always remain those curtains behind which we long with unlimited yearning to look—and never do."
Barry Kirk paid the check, and they rose from the table. In the lobby, during the course of the good-bye, the party broke up momentarily into two groups. Rankin, Kirk and the girl went to the door, and after a hurried expression of thanks, the reporter dashed out to the street.
"Mr. Kirk—it was wonderful," Miss Morrow said. "Why are all Englishmen so fascinating? Tell me that."
"Oh—are they?" He shrugged. "You tell me. You girls always fall for them, I notice."
"Well—they have an air about them. An atmosphere. They're not provincial, like a Rotarian who wants to tell you about the water-works. He took us traveling, didn't he? London and Peshawar—I could listen to him for hours. Sorry I have to run."
"Wait. You can do something for me."
"After what you've done for me," she smiled, "anything you ask."
"Good. This Chinese—Chan—he strikes me as a gentleman, and a mighty interesting one. I believe he would go big at my dinner to-night. I'd like to ask him, but that would throw my table out of gear. I need another woman. How about it? Will old man Blackstone let you off for the evening?"
"He might."
"Just a small party—my grandmother, and some people Sir Frederic has asked me to invite. And since you find Englishmen so fascinating, there'll be Colonel John Beetham, the famous Asiatic explorer. He's going to show us some movies he took in Tibet—which is the first intimation I've had that anything ever moved in Tibet."
"That will be splendid. I've seen Colonel Beetham's picture in the papers."
"I know—the women are all crazy about him, too. Even poor grandmother— she's thinking of putting up money for his next expedition to the Gobi Desert. You'll come then? Seven thirty."
"I'd love to—but it does seem presumptuous. After what you said about lawyers—"
"Yes—that was careless of me. I'll have to live it down. Give me a chance. My bungalow—you know where it is—"
She laughed. "Thanks. I'll come. Good-by—until tonight."
Meanwhile Sir Frederic Bruce had led Charlie Chan to a sofa in the lobby. "I was eager to meet you, Sergeant," he said, "for many reasons. Tell me, are you familiar with San Francisco's Chinatown?"
"I have slight acquaintance with same," Chan admitted. "My cousin, Chan Kee Lim, is an honored resident of Waverly Place."
"Have you, by any chance, heard of a Chinese down there—a stranger, a tourist—named Li Gung?"
"No doubt there are many so named. I do not know the one you bring up."
"This man is a guest of relatives on Jackson Street. You could do me a great service, Sergeant."
"It would remain," said Chan, "a golden item on the scroll of memory."
"Li Gung has certain information and I want it. I have tried to interview him myself, but naturally with no success."
"Light begins to dawn."
"If you could strike up an acquaintance with him—get into his confidence—"
"Humbly asking pardon, I do not spy on my own race with no good reason."
"The reasons in this case are excellent."
"Only a fool could doubt it. But what you hint would demand a considerable interval of time. My humble affairs have rightly no interest for you, so you have properly overlooked my situation. To-morrow at noon I hasten to my home."
"You could stay over a week. I would make it greatly worth your while."
A stubborn look came into the little eyes. "One path only is worth my while now. The path to my home on Punchbowl Hill."
"I mean I would pay—"
"Again asking pardon—I have food, I have clothes which cover even the vast area I possess. Beyond that, what is money?"
"Very good. It was only a suggestion."
"I am desolated by acute pain," replied Chan. "But I must refuse."
Barry Kirk joined them. "Mr. Chan, I'm going to ask you to do something for me," he began.
Chan sought to keep concern from his face, and succeeded. But what next, he wondered. "I am eagerly at attention," he said. "You are my host."
"I've just invited Miss Morrow to dinner to-night and I need another man. Will you come?"
"Your requests are high honors, which only an ungrate would refuse. But I am now already in your debt. More is going to embarrass me."
"Never mind that. I'll expect you at seven thirty—my bungalow on the Kirk Building."
"Splendid," said Sir Frederic. "We'll have another talk then, Sergeant. My requests are not precisely honors, but I may yet persuade you."
"The Chinese are funny people," remarked Chan. "They say no, no is what they mean. They say yes, and they are glued to same. With regard to dinner, I say yes, greatly pleased."
"Good," said Barry Kirk.
"Where's that reporter?" Sir Frederic asked.
"He hurried away," Kirk explained. "Anxious to get to his story, I imagine."
"What story?" asked the Englishman blankly.
"Why—the story of our luncheon. Your meeting with Sergeant Chan."
A startled expression