John Quincy was directed to a telephone booth, and his keen Bostonian mind required Nipponese aid in mastering the dial system favored by the Honolulu telephone company. At length he got the police station. Chan was out, but the answering voice promised that he would be told to get in touch with Mr. Winterslip immediately on his return.
"How much do I owe you?" inquired John Quincy of the clerk.
"Not a penny," said a voice, and he turned to find Carlota Egan at his elbow. He smiled. This was more like it.
"But I say—you know—I've used your telephone—"
"It's free," she said. "Too many things are free out here. That's why we don't get rich. It was so kind of you to come again."
"Not at all," he protested. He looked about the room. "Your father—"
She glanced at the clerk, and led the way out to the lanai at the side. They went to the far end of it, where they could see the light on Diamond Head, and the silvery waters of the Pacific sweeping in to disappear at last beneath the old Reef and Palm.
"I'm afraid poor dad's having a bad time of it," she said, and her voice broke slightly. "I haven't been able to see him. They're holding him down there—as a witness, I believe. There was some talk of bail, but I didn't listen. We haven't any money—at least, I didn't think we had."
"You didn't think—" he began, puzzled.
She produced a small bit of paper, and put it in his hand. "I want to ask your advice. I've been cleaning up dad's office, and just before you came I ran across that in his desk."