"Permit me to say," interrupted John Quincy, "that you have the most trusting nature I ever met. Everybody's story goes with you. The Compton woman and that rat Leatherbee come in here and spin a yarn, and you bow them out. And Brade! What about Brade! In bed at one-twenty last Tuesday morning, eh? Who says so? He does. Who can prove it? His wife can. What was to prevent his stepping out on the balcony of the Reef and Palm and walking along the beach to my cousin's house? Answer me that!"
Hallet shook his head. "It's Egan. That cigarette—"
"Yes—that cigarette. Has it occurred to you that Brade may have given him those cigarettes purposely—"
"Egan did it," cut in Hallet stubbornly. "All I need now is his story; I'll get it. I have ways and means—"
"I congratulate you on your magnificent stupidity," cried John Quincy. "Good night, sir."
He walked along Bethel Street, Chan at his side.
"You are partly consumed by anger," said the Chinaman. "Humbly suggest you cool. Calm heads needed."
"But what was in that note? Why wouldn't he tell us?"
"In good time, we know. Captain honest man. Be patient."
"But we're all at sea again," protested John Quincy. "Who killed Cousin Dan? We get nowhere."