When I meet for first time the true cost of American education, I get idea much better to draw line under present list of offspring and total up for ever.

"Once more my warmest thanks for plenty amiable letter.

"Maybe some day we meet again, though appalling miles of land and water between us make thought sound dreamy. Accept anyhow this fresh offering of my kind regards. May yet have safe walk down every path where duty leads you. Same being wish of

"Yours, with deep respect,

"Charlie Chan."

Duff finished reading and slowly folded the missive. Looking up, he saw Hayley staring at him, incredulous.

"Charming," said the divisional inspector. "But--er--a bit naive. You don't mean to tell me that the man who wrote that letter ran down the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce!"

"Don't be deceived by Charlie's syntax," Duff laughed. "He's a bit deeper than he sounds. Patience, intelligence, hard work--Scotland Yard has no monopoly on these. Inspector Chan happens to be an ornament to our profession, Hayley. Pity he's buried in a place like Honolulu."

"Perhaps," Hayley answered. "You're not, going, are you?" For Duff had risen.

"Yes--I'll be getting on to my diggings," the chief inspector replied. "I was rather down when I came in, but I feel better now."

He helped Duff on with his coat. "Here's hoping you won't be long between cases. Not good for you. When the telephone on your desk--what was it Chan said?--when it jangles with an important message--then, my boy, you'll be keen again."

"Yes," nodded the chief inspector. "You're quite right. Good-by, and luck at the night club."

At eight o'clock on the following morning, Inspector Duff walked briskly into his room at Scotland Yard. He was his old cheery self; his cheeks were glowing, a heritage of the days on that Yorkshire farm whence he had come to join the Metropolitan Police.

At eight-fifteen his telephone jangled suddenly. Duff stopped reading and stared at it. It rang again, sharply, insistently, like a call for help. Duff laid down his paper and picked up the instrument.

"Morning, old chap." It was Hayley's voice. "Just had a bit of news from my sergeant. Sometime during the night a man was murdered at Broome's Hotel."

"At Broome's," Duff repeated. "You don't mean at Broome's?'

"Sounds like an incredible setting for murder, I know," Hayley replied. "But none the less; it's happened. Murdered in his sleep--an American tourist from Detroit, or some queer place like that. I thought of you at once--naturally, after our chat last evening. Then, too, this is your old division. No doubt you know your way about in the ruffled atmosphere of Broome's.