A remarkably pretty young woman - that much was obvious even in the dim light on the twentieth floor. One of those greatly preferred blonds, with a slender figure trim in a green dress of some knitted material. Not precisely tall, but -

What was this? The young woman was weeping. Silently, without fuss, but indubitably weeping. Tears not alone of grief, but, if Rankin was any judge, of anger and exasperation, too. With a startled glance at the reporter, she hastily crossed the hall and disappeared through a door that bore the sign “Calcutta Importers, Inc.”

Bill Rankin pushed on into Barry Kirk’s office. He entered a sort of reception-room, but a door beyond stood open, and the newspaper man went confidently forward. In the second room, Sir Frederic Bruce, former head of the C.I.D., sat at a big, flat-topped desk. He swung around, and his gray eyes were stern and dangerous.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

“I must apologize for intruding on you again, Sir Frederic,” Bill Rankin began. “But - I - er - may I sit down?”

“Certainly.” The great detective slowly gathered up some papers on the desk.

“The fact is -” Rankin’s confidence was ebbing. An inner voice told him that this was not the genial gentleman of the afternoon interview in the bungalow upstairs. Not the gracious visitor to San Francisco, but Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard, unbending, cold and awe-inspiring. “The fact is,” continued the reporter lamely, “an idea has struck me.”

“Really?” Those eyes - they looked right through you.

“What you told us this afternoon, Sir Frederic - Your opinion of the value of scientific devices in the detection of crime, as against luck and hard work -” Rankin paused. He seemed unable to finish his sentences. “I was reminded, when I came to write my story, that oddly enough I had heard that same opinion only a few days ago.”

“Yes? Well, I made no claim to originality.” Sir Frederic threw his papers into a drawer.

“Oh, I haven’t come to complain about it,” smiled Rankin, regaining a trace of his jaunty spirit. “Under ordinary conditions, it wouldn’t mean anything, but I heard your ideas from the lips of a rather unusual man, Sir Frederic. A humble worker in your own field, a detective who has evolved his theories far from Scotland Yard. I heard them from Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police.”

Sir Frederic’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Really? Then I must applaud the judgment of Sergeant Chan - whoever he may be.”

“Chan is a detective who has done some good work in the islands. He happens to be in San Francisco at the moment, on his way home. Came to the mainland on a simple errand, which developed into quite a case before he had finished with it. I believe he acquitted himself with credit. He’s not very impressive to look at, but -“

Sir Frederic interrupted. “A Chinese, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The great man nodded. “And why not? A Chinese should make an excellent detective. The patience of the East, you know.”

“Precisely,” agreed Bill Rankin. “He’s got that. And modesty -“

Sir Frederic shook his head. “Not such a valuable asset, modesty.