"Am I to understand that I'm under arrest?" flared Brade.
"The idea is preposterous," Chan assured him. "But the captain waits eager for statement from you. You will walk this way, I am sure. A moment's pardon. I introduce my fine friend, Mr. John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston."
At mention of the name, Brade turned and regarded John Quincy with deep interest. "Very good," he said. "I'll go with you."
They went out to the street, Brade carrying a small hand-bag. The flurry of arrival was dying fast. Honolulu would shortly return to its accustomed evening calm.
When they reached the police station, Hallet and the prosecutor seemed in high good humor. Kaohla sat in a corner, hopeless and defeated; John Quincy saw at a glance that the boy's secret was his no longer.
"Introducing Mr. Brade," said Chan.
"Ah," cried Hallet, "we're glad to see you, Mr. Brade. We'd been getting pretty worried about you."
"Really, sir," said Brade, "I am completely at a loss—"
"Sit down," ordered Hallet. The man sank into a chair. He too had a hopeless, defeated air. No one can appear more humble and beaten than a British civil servant, and this man had known thirty-six years of baking under the Indian sun, looked down on by the military, respected by none. Not only his mustache but his whole figure drooped "in saddened mood." Yet now and then, John Quincy noted, he flashed into life, a moment of self-assertion and defiance.
"Where have you been, Mr. Brade?" Hallet inquired.