Colonel John Beetham, whom he had just seen emerging from the stateroom next to his with a last word of farewell to Li Gung.

Chan looked at his watch. It was never his habit to hurry, but he must hurry now. He sighed a great sigh that rattled the glasses in their rings, and snatched up his bag. On the saloon deck he met the purser.

“Homeward bound, Charlie?” inquired that gentleman breezily.

“So I thought,” replied Chan, “but it seems I was mistaken. At the last moment, I am rudely wrenched ashore. Yet I have ticket good only on this boat.”

“Oh, they’ll fix that up for you at the office. They all know you, Charlie.”

“Thanks for the suggestion. My trunk is already loaded. Will you kindly deliver same to my oldest son, who will call for it when you have docked at Honolulu?”

“Sure.” The “visitors ashore” call was sounding for the last time. “Don’t you linger too long on this wicked mainland, Charlie,” the purser admonished.

“One week only,” called Chan, over his shoulder. “Until the next boat. I swear it.”

On the dock, Miss Morrow seized Kirk’s arm. “Look. Coming down the gangplank. Colonel Beetham. What’s he doing here?”

“Beetham - sure enough,” said Kirk. “Shall I offer him a lift? No - he’s got a taxi. Let him go. He’s a cold proposition - I like him not.” He watched the Colonel enter a cab and ride off.

When he turned back to the Maui, two husky sailors were about to draw up the plank. Suddenly between them appeared a chubby little figure, one hand clutching a suitcase. Miss Morrow gave a cry of delight.

“It’s Chan,” Kirk said. “He’s coming ashore.”

And ashore Charlie came, while they lifted the plank at his heels. He stood before the two young people, ill at ease.

“Moment of gentle embarrassment for me,” he said. “The traveler who said good-by is back before he goes.”

“Mr. Chan,” the girl cried, “you dear! You’re going to help us, after all.”

Chan nodded. “To the extent of my very slight ability, I am with you to finish, bitter or sweet.”

On the top deck of the Maui the band began to play - Aloha, that most touching of farewells. Long streamers of bright-colored paper filled the air. The last good-bye, the final admonitions - a loud voice calling “Don’t forget to write.” Charlie Chan watched, a mist before his eyes. Slowly the boat drew away from the pier. The crowd ran along beside it, waving frantically.