CHAPTER VI

They walked up from the beach and turned to the right on a broad avenue, the name of which Wilson Hitchings had learned from his guide, that afternoon—Kalakaua Boulevard. His wrist watch showed him that the hour was 12:15, but the street was still wide awake. In the warm darkness, it reminded Wilson almost of a street in a suburban town at home. The dark had blotted out the background and left only the doubtful imprint of America. He saw that institution, the filling station, with its pumps all lighted, exactly as they were at home, and an all night lunchroom and a drugstore. America had come to those islands, leaving as definite an impression of ideas of living as England invariably left on the outposts of the British Empire. It amused Wilson to think that the lighter ideals of his own country were stronger and more in tune with the present than those of the older nation. He recalled the jazz orchestras in the Orient, each a conscientious imitation of Broadway; and the Wild West motion pictures in Tokyo, and the baseball in Japan, and the amusement parks of Shanghai. The genius of his own nation was in them all—tawdry, superficial, but somehow strong and appealing. That genius of his country made him feel at home that night and Wilson was grateful for it, because it was something he could understand.

For the rest, he was surrounded by imponderables. The only thing he knew quite definitely was that Eva Hitchings was walking beside him. They had been thrown together involuntarily by forces which he could not understand. They were walking down the street as though they were deeply interested in each other. In a sense, perhaps, they were. She was walking quickly, without speaking, and he tried to put her from his mind as much as possible. He tried to forget the warmth and the languor of the evening. She had spoken of Manchuria and he was recalling, as clearly as he could, what his uncle had said in Shanghai. That seemed a long while ago, on the first afternoon he had met Mr. Moto.

“You may not know it,” he remembered his uncle had said, “but that was a highly important call. Mr. Moto and I knew it. You heard him mention Chang Lo-Shih—that means that old Chang is meddling in Manchukuo.”

He knew that Manchukuo was the new state at Manchuria but aside from that he knew nothing very definite. There was only one other thing he was sure of. No matter who else might be meddling in Manchuria, no matter what anyone else might be doing there, he knew that his own family were well out of it. His uncle had told him as much. He knew that Hitchings Brothers was not an adventurous firm. It might have been a hundred years ago, but not at present.

“What are you thinking about?” Eva Hitchings asked him.

“About what’s brought us here,” he said.

“Then you’d better think hard and fast,” Eva Hitchings answered.

He did not reply. Although he knew that her advice was good, he was not particularly well able to follow it. He was thinking of the destiny which drew lives together. He and Eva Hitchings and Mr. Moto and the Chinese gentleman named Chang Lo-Shih whom he had seen only for a fleeting moment back in Shanghai, and the croupier and Mr. Maddock—all were drawn together in some curious, temporary relationship.

By now they had turned into a dimly lighted side street and now they were walking up a driveway.

“This is the Seaside Hotel,” said Eva Hitchings, and she stopped walking. “There is the main building and there are the cottages connected with it. This isn’t one of our best hotels. The place is managed by Japanese. Mr. Moto told me in his note that he is staying in Cottage 2A. Have you thought it might be dangerous to call on Mr. Moto?”

“No,” said Wilson, “I hadn’t. Why?”

“Well, you know best,” Eva Hitchings said. “I should be if I were you.”

“We’re going just the same,” said Wilson. “Where is the cottage?”

The main building and some of the cottages were still lit up. There were electric lights on the driveway and along the garden paths where the cottages stood, enough to show Wilson that he was in a world strange enough to him. The street outside had been primarily American but the Seaside Hotel bore the traces of Japan. There were sliding windows entirely Japanese and a pool and a Japanese garden. A girl was singing somewhere in a high falsetto voice.

“They have sukiyaki. dinners,” Eva Hitchings said. “Mostly for tourists who are interested in Japan, but a great many of the Japanese in town stay here too. We go down this walk here.… There’s Cottage Number 2A, with the royal palm in front of it. Now what are you going to do?”

“I am going to knock on the door,” Wilson Hitchings said. “I told you we were going to speak to Mr. Moto.”

There was a small detached cottage in front of them. Two steps led up to a covered porch where an electric light was burning, but the windows in the cottage itself were blank and dark.

“Come on,” said Wilson Hitchings. “What’s the matter, are you afraid?”

“No,” said Eva Hitchings. “I’m not. Are you?”

Wilson did not stop to analyze his emotions. He walked up the steps noisily and pounded on the cottage door.

“Mr. Moto,” he called. “Are you in there, Mr. Moto?”

He listened, but there was no sound inside and for just a moment the silence startled him. Then he heard a voice behind him.

“Excuse me, please,” the voice was saying, and Wilson Hitchings turned to the path by the cottage. Mr. Moto was standing on that path, just behind them. The light from the porch was full on his face. He was still in his evening clothes and he was bowing and smiling.

“Excuse me, please,” said Mr. Moto again. “I was waiting for someone else. This is very, very nice but I am very, very much surprised.” Mr. Moto moved forward quickly. “How nice of you both to come,” he added. He brushed by Wilson, drawing in his breath, politely, and opened the door of his cottage, switched on a light, and bowed again. “Please, do come in,” he said. “This is so very, very nice. Will you allow me to go in first?”

They followed Mr. Moto into a little sitting room, furnished with a table, a couch, and two chairs—a bare, plain enough room.

“This is so simple,” said Mr. Moto. “I am so very, very sorry, but there is whisky in the bedroom.”

“Never mind the whisky,” Wilson Hitchings said. “What were you waiting outside for, Mr. Moto?” Mr. Moto’s eyes were dark and expressionless. The gold fillings in his teeth glittered as he smiled mechanically.

“Please,” he said. “I wish to see you come in to my poor house, before I came in too. Sometimes it is so very, very necessary.”

“Do you do that sort of thing often?” Wilson asked.

“No,” said Mr. Moto. “But sometimes it is a very useful thing to do. Several times it has saved my life. Please to sit down, Miss Hitchings. The room is poor but the weather is so pleasant. Such a lovely night. Yes, such a lovely night.” Mr. Moto drew his breath through his teeth.

Eva Hitchings sat down on the couch and Wilson sat down beside her. The whole scene was becoming almost ridiculous. Now that Mr. Moto was chatting about the weather, there seemed to be no logic in it. Wilson looked at Mr. Moto and Mr. Moto looked back, bland and imperturbable.

“Well,” said Wilson, “I am glad to see you, Mr. Moto.” Mr. Moto drew in his breath again, sibilantly, politely.

“And I am glad to see you,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very glad.” Wilson leaned forward, trying to set his thoughts in order, but his thoughts seemed to break against the enigma of Mr. Moto, like waves against a rock.

“I suppose this is a little unusual,” said Wilson. “I haven’t seen much of you before. As a matter of fact, I don’t exactly know who you are and I don’t know what you are doing, but Miss Hitchings said a rather curious thing to-night. She intimated that it was I who had tried to kill you, Mr. Moto.”

Mr. Moto moved his slender hands in a quick, disparaging gesture.

“Please,” he said, “it makes so very, very little difference. So many people have tried to kill me. Please, we must all die sometime.” Wilson moved impatiently, and his voice was harsher.

“But I didn’t try to kill you,” he said, “and I would like to know why you think I should? Why should I, Mr. Moto?”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “there is nothing personal, of course.”

“Well, there is to me,” said Wilson. “Frankly, I don’t like it. Back in Shanghai, my uncle told me you were a Japanese agent; is that true?”

Mr. Moto regarded him unblinkingly, with the same, fixed nervous smile, and Eva Hitchings shrugged her shoulders, impatiently.

“Don’t be so naïve,” she said. “You’re only making yourself ridiculous.”

Wilson kept his glance on Mr. Moto. He tried to master his sense of exasperation. Of the three, he was the only one who knew nothing of what was happening and he was determined not to leave that room until he had found out something. But he had not realized the difficulty of enlisting information from a man like Mr. Moto. He could not gather from any past experience what sort of person Mr. Moto was. He could not tell whether Mr. Moto was ill at ease or not, or whether Mr. Moto’s jerky, birdlike manner was natural or assumed.

“I suppose I am making myself ridiculous,” Wilson Hitchings admitted, “because I know nothing, absolutely nothing. I don’t understand what you are talking about, Mr. Moto, or you either, Miss Hitchings.”

Eva Hitchings smiled at him through narrowing eyes. Mr. Moto rose and rubbed his hands softly together.

“It is so nice of you to say that, Mr. Hitchings,” he said, “so very, very nice. It means we will have a pleasant talk. I shall be so very glad to talk; but first please, I must be hospitable. I have some whisky in my bedroom. We shall talk over a glass of whisky. Please, do not say no. It will be so much more friendly, I think. Besides, all Americans talk business over whisky.” Mr. Moto’s voice broke into a sharp, artificial laugh. “Please, it would be no trouble. Please, I must insist.”

Mr. Moto opened a door which apparently led to an adjoining bedroom and he was back in another moment, carrying a tray on which was a whisky bottle, a soda bottle, and two glasses. Mr. Moto’s personality seemed to have changed now that he was holding a tray. He set it down on the little table with an adroit flourish that made him seem like a Japanese valet and he was quick enough to read Wilson’s thoughts.

“I’ve served whisky so often for gentlemen in America,” Mr. Moto said. “I am so very, very sorry there is no ice. Please, Miss Hitchings, you’ll excuse Mr. Hitchings and me. Will you have some soda? I know so very few American ladies drink whisky.”

“No,” said Eva Hitchings. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“But you will excuse us, please,” Mr. Moto begged. “And I am so very, very sorry there is no ice, but there is whisky, ha-ha, there is whisky, and that is the main thing, is it not? Will you say how much, Mr. Hitchings, and how much soda? Up to there? Just so? And now excuse me, I shall pour a little for myself.” Mr. Moto’s hands moved swiftly and accurately from bottle to glass and then he handed a glass to Wilson, bowing. It was a beautiful bow, better than a Frenchman’s, Wilson thought. Mr. Moto lowered his head, slowly. His whole body seemed to droop in a gesture of complete, assumed submission and then his head and shoulders snapped up straight.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you very very much.” Wilson took the glass and nodded back. Mr. Moto was holding a glass also. He raised it and bowed again.

“To your very good health,” Mr. Moto said, and Wilson was aware of a note of music in his voice, as though he were intoning a religious response. “Please, I really mean it, Mr. Hitchings.” Mr. Moto’s studied courtesy was amusing. In spite of himself, Wilson Hitchings smiled and did his best to respond. “Here’s looking at you, Mr. Moto,” he said, and he raised his glass to his lips.

The rim of the glass was just touching his lips, when something occurred so unexpectedly that he could never reconstruct it. He remembered the feel of the glass on his lips and the next instant, the glass was at his feet. The glass was lying broken, its contents were running over a woven palm-leaf mat. Mr. Moto had leapt forward and struck the glass out of Wilson’s hand.

“Please,” Mr. Moto was saying. “Please, excuse. I am so very, very sorry.”

“Here—” Wilson began stupidly. “What’s the matter, Mr. Moto?”

Mr. Moto’s indrawn breath hissed obsequiously between his gold-filled teeth.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “I hope you will forgive me. Everything is so very, very clear now. I could not believe that you would mean to drink. Please, I believe you now. I believe that you know nothing, Mr. Hitchings. You are very, very honest. Yes, excuse me, please.”

Wilson Hitchings was still seated on the couch.

“Of course, I meant to drink it,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto again. “Excuse me, I have been so very, very stupid. Please, let me explain. That whisky, I left it on my bureau. I nearly always take a little before my bedtime. Excuse me; this evening, I came home to find that the whisky was poisoned with cyanide of potassium. Please, you may smell a little, if you like. The odor is so very distinctive; one has to be so careful, always. Now, I know that you know nothing, Mr. Hitchings—and I must apologize to you very, very much. Now, I can believe anything you say.”

Wilson Hitchings felt that his forehead was growing moist.

“You mean,” he said—“you mean, you thought that I had done that?”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “Not you, but I thought, perhaps, you knew who did. Please, Mr. Hitchings, I am so very, very sorry.”

Then Eva Hitchings was speaking to him and he saw that her face was pale.

“You were going to drink it,” she said, almost mechanically. “You were really going to drink it. I didn’t know about it, I swear I didn’t know.” She reached out her hand and placed it gently on his knee. “I’m awfully sorry for anything I have said,” she added. “I guess I have been an awful fool. Will you forgive me? I’d have believed anything out of a Hitchings.”

Wilson Hitchings smiled but he felt very cold inside. The significance of everything was dawning on him, slowly.

“So you take back what you said?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she answered steadily, “I take back everything.”

Wilson Hitchings sat up straighter.

“Well,” he said stiffly, “I’m glad you do. And now I’ll tell you something, and you too, Mr. Moto. The Hitchingses mean what they say. We’re pretty honest on the whole. I should have been glad to have swallowed that whole glass, if it could have helped the family.”

Mr. Moto rubbed his hands. “That is very nice,” he said. “It is so very Japanese. It is very, very nice.”

Eva Hitchings drew her hand away.

“Can’t you ever get away from your family, even for a minute?” she asked. “Don’t be such a prig! Who cares about your family?”

Mr. Moto was on his knee picking up the bits of broken glass.

“I do,” said Wilson. “I care.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Eva Hitchings. “I don’t care a button. I only know you nearly killed yourself.”

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Moto. “Please. I was watching carefully. I was watching all the time. Poison is so common sometimes, that one must be very, very careful. Now I think we had better talk quite quickly, if you please, because I think whoever fixed that whisky will be coming here and I want to know who it is so very, very much. That was why I was waiting outside when you came in to call.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or aren’t you?” Wilson asked. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Moto, but I’m getting very much confused.”

Mr. Moto was pouring some soda water over his fingers and was rubbing them dry with his handkerchief. “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I should be so pleased to tell you everything, now that everything is so very nice. You’re quite right, Mr. Hitchings, I have come here to do a little work for my country. I shall be so very pleased to tell you but I must think a moment. Someone will be coming here, coming very soon, I think. There must not be too much noise. I must speak very softly, so that I can listen. Let me listen, please.”

Wilson Hitchings could hear nothing but the sound of the wind outside and if Mr. Moto heard more than that, it could have been nothing to disturb him.

“I think,” said Mr. Moto, softly, “it would be well to keep our voices down, for things are a little bit mixed up. Just answer me softly if you do not mind. Please tell me why you came to Honolulu when I did, Mr. Hitchings? That is what made me think wrong things. Did you know that I was coming?”

Wilson Hitchings shook his head.

“I hadn’t the least idea,” he answered; “and I don’t mind telling you my reason. I was sent here because Miss Hitchings was running Hitchings Plantation. Its name, being the same name as Hitchings Brothers, was interfering with the reputation of the firm. I was sent to try to buy Miss Hitchings out, and to have the establishment closed.”

Mr. Moto raised his eyebrows slightly and his forehead wrinkled.

“You actually wish the place closed?” he repeated. “You had no other reason to come here?”

“Absolutely none,” said Wilson. “Don’t you believe me, Mr. Moto?”

Mr. Moto rubbed his hands together and the wrinkles in his forehead deepened.

“Then there must be someone else,” he said. “Yes, there must be someone else. I thought it might be Miss Hitchings, but since she is here with you, I do not think so. It did not seem right from the first. I should have known Hitchings Brothers was too old a house, that it could not afford to take such a risk, that it would not. I am very, very sorry.”

Wilson Hitchings leaned forward, impatiently.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that you are either very glad or sorry about something, all the time. Is it possible for you to be direct? I don’t know who you are, Mr. Moto, and I don’t much care, but I would like to know what you are sorry about.”

The wrinkles left Mr. Moto’s forehead and his cheeks creased in another smile.

“I am beginning to be very, very sorry for you, Mr. Hitchings. They would be anxious to liquidate me, of course, under the circumstances; and now, if you wish to buy the place, they may wish to kill you also. It is very, very funny how things sometimes grow confused.”

It seemed to Wilson Hitchings that the room had grown hot and close. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. He was surprised that Mr. Moto’s remark had no great effect on him, rather it confirmed something which he had been suspecting.

“Who are they?” he asked.

Mr. Moto looked at him rather sharply and shrugged his shoulders.

“Certain persons who are not very nice, I’m afraid,” he said. “Excuse me; when I saw you first, I could not believe that you knew so little. You are, without knowing it, in a situation which is not very nice. I do not mind telling you frankly, and perhaps you will understand. I speak for my country, Mr. Hitchings, and I am here for it. You know of the new nation of Manchukuo, in which my own country has been so much interested?”

“Yes,” said Wilson, “everyone knows that; but it seems to me you are getting a little far away.”

“That is just it.” Mr. Moto rubbed his hands again. “This is so far away that one might not connect the two. Manchukuo is a nice country. It is very, very beautiful and I have had many pleasant times there. It is too bad that there is so much trouble in it. There are still a good many bandits in the mountains. Certain persons have been causing factions to make trouble lately. Certain Chinese and certain persons of another power. Am I being too vague, Mr. Hitchings?”

“Yes,” said Wilson. “You certainly are, Mr. Moto.”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “I shall try to be more clear. It has been known for some time that large amounts of money are being passed from China to certain insurgent leaders in the mountains. It has been my duty for some months now to try to trace the paths through which that money goes. It has been my duty to try to block those paths. It has been very, very hard. Do you understand me better, Mr. Hitchings?”

“No, I don’t,” Wilson Hitchings told him.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “I hope that you will in just a moment. The channel through which the money first passed was stopped six months ago. I do not think it will be reopened again.” Mr. Moto paused and smiled. “At least not by the same person. Fortunately such matters can be arranged very easily over there. Here it is so much more difficult. When that channel was stopped, I and my associates were much surprised to find that sums of money were still coming in. This time American dollars were appearing. We did not know from where. Then I began looking into the affairs of a Chinese gentleman, named Chang Lo-Shih. Do you remember that I mentioned him, Mr. Hitchings, in Shanghai?”

“Yes,” said Wilson. “I remember.”

“He is not a very nice gentleman,” Mr. Moto said. “He does not appreciate my country or understand its aims. He has been handling a great deal of that money.” Mr. Moto paused and sighed. “Just a little while ago, I found that this Mr. Chang has been sending large sums of money to an account in the Hitchings office here.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Wilson. “I don’t quite see the connection.”

Mr. Moto bobbed his shining black head in a polite gesture of assent.

“Please,” he said, “that is what I am looking for. That is what I am hoping to find: the exact connection. Perhaps you do not understand. These matters are so misleading, so intricate, so very, very difficult. In your own great country, Mr. Hitchings, perhaps you have read of the investigations into the bank accounts of gangsters and unworthy politicians. It is so very, very interesting the way a clever man can cover the trail of money. Sometimes it seems to be thrown like water upon the desert sand. It evaporates and, yet somewhere it condenses back again into money. As I say, I am looking for the connection. I and my associates have been looking for it very, very hard. Now here is one thing we have noticed. We have noticed American dollars in many sections of the nation of Manchukuo. They drift into the banks for exchange, a little here and there. This has struck us as being a little odd. There is no reason, of course, why a Chinese in Shanghai should not have banking connections here. Mr. Chang is a businessman and there are many Chinese businessmen in Honolulu. It is such an interesting city. Now, let me tell you something else.”

“I wish you would,” said Wilson.

“We have found,” said Mr. Moto, slowly and softly, “that this money which Mr. Chang is sending here is being employed for a purpose which is a little unusual. It represents the capital of a gambling syndicate. A representative of this gambling syndicate has been drawing upon it for gambling purposes at Hitchings Plantation. I hope I am being clearer now, Mr. Hitchings. We know through our sources of information that American money comes to Manchuria through Japan from vessels which have touched at this port. I do not need to go into the details or the methods. They would not be very interesting. But what is very interesting to me is that Mr. Chang has been sending money here. It goes to Hitchings Plantation. Where does it go from there? That is what I should like so very much to know?”

“If that’s all you know,” Wilson Hitchings said, “it seems to me you’re only guessing, Mr. Moto. It seems to me you’re only shooting in the dark.”

Mr. Moto bobbed his head and smiled.

“Ha-ha,” he said, “that is a very nice joke, shooting in the dark. So much has to be done by guessing, Mr. Hitchings, the way things are to-day. I guess and guess and then sometimes I guess right, and can you think how I know?”

“How?” asked Wilson. “By your native intuition?”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “There is something more than that. I am sure that I am right; very, very sure, when someone starts shooting at me in the dark. Please, do you remember? Someone did to-night when I called at Miss Hitchings’ lovely place. Did someone, Miss Hitchings?”

Eva Hitchings did not answer but she nodded. Mr. Moto’s expressionless eyes were on her and Wilson watched their glances meet and saw her look away.

“Don’t you think that is a rather dangerous way of finding out things?” Wilson Hitchings inquired.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “So many things I do are dangerous. Besides, if I found out what I wish, I should be very, very pleased to die. If I do not find out, I am afraid that I must kill myself, so that all is very much the same.”

“You don’t look like a fanatic,” Wilson Hitchings said.

“I am not,” said Mr. Moto. “The day before you arrived, Mr. Hitchings, for I traveled very fast to get here, I called on the lady who is with you. She asked me to come back to-night. She said that she would tell me something that would interest me. She said that she did not like your family, Mr. Hitchings.”

“That’s true, I don’t,” Eva Hitchings said.

“You were present at the interview to-night,” Mr. Moto continued, “and now I think you can understand my line of thought. You arrived quite suddenly, Mr. Hitchings. Mr. Chang had an account at Hitchings Brothers here. His money was used at that very nice gambling table and I was shot at in the dark. Please excuse me for suspecting you, Mr. Hitchings. Perhaps you will agree that it was natural. Hitchings Brothers and Hitchings Plantation seemed quite the same to me and very, very clever. Now I know that I was wrong. Nevertheless, the only thing I need to know now, I am very, very sure, is how Mr. Chang’s money disappears at Hitchings Plantation and appears in Manchukuo.

“It has been a very clever and a very unusual device, that way of passing money, and a difficult method to trace. That is its great advantage. Please, may I make myself clearer? Usually in such cases, a sum of money is passed from one person to another. The person who receives it may be identified eventually by suitable police methods, but here it is like water thrown on sand. These funds disappear across the table to a number of different persons or to the house. I do not quite know how the method is worked. It is not perhaps important, but there is one thing of which I am now very sure. The money which is lost from Mr. Chang’s account is collected all together and is given to a single individual who comes here at intervals and takes it away. I believe he is coming quite soon. When I find who that person is, the whole plan will break down. A few simple words over the cable to suitable authorities will make it possible to have him stopped. The person who finally takes the money—his identity is all that I wish to know.”

Mr. Moto paused and rubbed his hands.

“Please,” he said, “Miss Hitchings, will you tell me now what you were going to say to-night?”

Eva Hitchings clasped her hands together in her lap and sat up straight, then she shook her head.

“I think you know enough already, Mr. Moto,” she answered. Her voice was cool and hard. “And I think you’re so clever that I don’t need to tell you anything. I was almost taken in by your trick about the whisky. I think you’ll be able to manage Mr. Hitchings very well by yourself and perhaps I had better leave you, so that you won’t be embarrassed. I think I’ll be going now.”

For a moment Wilson Hitchings found it difficult to speak.

“Don’t you believe me?” he said. “Don’t you believe me at all?”

Eva Hitchings’ glance was cold and self-possessed. She pushed a strand of hair from her forehead, folded her hands again.

“If you really want to know what I think,” she said, “I think you’re the smoothest liar since Ananias. I think you can tell Mr. Moto exactly what’s happening to that money, and I rather think that Mr. Moto knows that you can tell him. I still believe what I told you on the beach, Mr. Hitchings. You never meant to touch that drink on the table—did you?”

For the first time that day Wilson Hitchings realized that he was very tired. He felt a weariness which numbed his ability to reason and it placed him beyond surprise and beyond incredulity.

“I don’t exactly understand you,” he said.

Eva Hitchings shrugged her bare, brown shoulders.

“I’ve noticed that you don’t understand anything,” she remarked. “You’re quite attractive when you are naïve. I imagine Mr. Moto understands you. I don’t think you’ve fooled either of us.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you very much.” He seemed about to continue, and then he stopped and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Be quiet, please,” he whispered. “Do not say a word, please. Sit just as you are. Someone is coming up the path.”

Then Wilson knew that Mr. Moto must have been listening all the time and that his ears were very keen. For several seconds Wilson could hear nothing except that soft, ceaseless, tropical trade wind which seemed to form a background to all life, and then he heard a footstep; a quick, decisive footstep. The sound made him move uneasily.

“Quiet,” hissed Mr. Moto. “Quiet, please!” There was an insistence in Mr. Moto’s whisper which made him absolutely still and Eva Hitchings’ face made him even quieter. Her face was a little pale. Her lips were half-parted and her self-confidence and irony were gone with the sound of the footsteps. They were coming nearer. They stopped and Wilson knew that someone was pausing before the window of the cottage. Then there was another sound. Whoever it was outside was walking up the porch steps directly to the door.

The back of Wilson’s neck was cold and his mouth was dry, and if he had tried, he could not have moved just then. Mr. Moto was standing on the palm mat in the center of the room, still with a faint mechanical smile. Softly but deliberately, Mr. Moto thrust his right hand into the side pocket of his coat. The steps had stopped by the door and again there was not a sound except for the wind. Then there was a rapping on the door. The sound seemed very loud in the stillness of the room but Mr. Moto did not move or speak. Then the knob of the door turned and the door was opened briskly.

Wilson could not have said what he expected to see, but the actual sight was a complete anticlimax. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in a light linen suit and wearing a panama hat that had a band of feathers around it, a peculiar product of the islands which Wilson had already noticed. A thin, oldish man, with a close-cropped mustache and a lean, tan face.… Wilson remembered the droop of the mouth, half good-natured, half querulous, and the benign, rather lazy cast of the eyes. It was Mr. Wilkie, the Office Manager of Hitchings Brothers, standing in the door. Mr. Wilkie stood for a moment, quite motionless, as though the light confused him.

“Excuse me,” he said quickly. “I was looking for—” and then he saw Eva Hitchings. It was plain that he had not noticed her at first, because his voice changed.

“Why, Eva,” said Mr. Wilkie—“so there you are, you little hide-and-seek. I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Eva Hitchings stood up and she laughed a quick, nervous laugh of complete relief.

“Why, Uncle Joe,” she said, “you didn’t need to look. I don’t need a caretaker!” She rose and walked toward him, still laughing, and Mr. Wilkie placed his arm around her shoulders.

“Oh, yes, you do,” he said. “At least I think you do. Good evening, Mr. Hitchings. Eva always seems like a little girl to me, like my own little girl. I still get worried when she’s out alone at night. They told me that she’d taken you home, Mr. Hitchings, and when she did not come back, well, I thought that I might as well go and find her. Of course nothing can happen to anyone on these Islands, not since King Kamehameha lay down the law that women and children were safe wherever they went; but there is a time for girls to go to bed, even nowadays. I saw Eva’s car by the hotel and walked over to the beach, then one of the boys over at the filling station told me that they had seen Eva coming here, and one of the boys at the Seaside had seen her walk this way. And I knew that Eva was at her old tricks again, forgetting what time it was, forgetting that it was after one o’clock; so the old man has come to take her home. I am sure that Mr. Hitchings understands.”

“Certainly,” said Wilson. “I was just about to take her back myself, Mr. Wilkie. We just stopped in to call on Mr. Moto. My uncle introduced me to him in Shanghai.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Moto. “It has been so very nice and it is so nice of you to come, sir. May I not offer you a glass of whisky, Mr.—Mr.…?”

“Mr. Wilkie,” said Wilson. “Excuse me; this is Mr. Wilkie, Mr. Moto, the Manager of Hitchings Brothers’ Branch.”

Mr. Moto bowed.

“I am so honored,” he said, “so very, very honored. I have been to call on Mr. Wilkie, but twice he was out. Please, will you not have some whisky, Mr. Wilkie?”

“No, thank you,” Mr. Wilkie said. “Some other time, but not to-night. I’ve just come to take my little girl away. If you are ready, Eva?”

“All right, Uncle Joe,” said Eva. “Good night, Mr. Moto. Good night, Mr. Hitchings.”

Mr. Moto stood at his doorway, watching the two walk down the path—for a longer time, it seemed to Wilson, than was necessary. Then Mr. Moto closed the door gently and looked at Wilson Hitchings. His face was tranquil and passive, and he was not smiling. He had withdrawn his right hand from his pocket and was rubbing both his hands together gently, in a curious half-submissive gesture.

Wilson walked to the tray with the whisky bottle.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll have a drink now, if you don’t mind?”

Mr. Moto did not move but he spoke very gently.

“First,” he said, “I think you had better smell that whisky carefully, Mr. Hitchings, and then if you are tired of life, pour yourself a little in the glass. Everything will be over reasonably quickly, although the effect of cyanide is not as rapid as is usually supposed. It depends on the condition of the individual and when he has eaten. Nevertheless it is a very, very deadly poison—but you are an educated man; I do not need to tell you that.”

“Then you weren’t fooling me?” Wilson Hitchings asked—“The way she said?”

“No,” said Mr. Moto. “That would be what you call in your country a cheap trick. I am not cheap, Mr. Hitchings, at least not very often, I hope.

“No. Mr. Hitchings, please, I have meant what I said to you and I have believed exactly what you said. You know nothing about this matter and I am very, very glad that it is so. Will you permit me, if I give you now my humble but best advice?”

Mr. Moto walked closer to Wilson Hitchings.

“I have believed you, Mr. Hitchings,” he said, “but I am very, very sorry that I do not believe the young lady. I am so sorry to say that I do not think she is very nice. I should be very careful of her, Mr. Hitchings. I should not see her again.”

Wilson Hitchings was surprised at his own answer. He was indignant without knowing that he would be.

“You’re wrong there,” he said, earnestly. “I’ll guarantee you that Miss Hitchings has nothing to do with this, absolutely nothing. There’s no doubt there is a bad element in that place of hers, because I have seen some of them myself. I suppose a bad crowd gets into every such establishment; but it isn’t Miss Hitchings’ fault. She accused me of being mixed up in this. She would hardly do that, if she were involved.”

“Why not?” said Mr. Moto gently. “Please, will you answer me why not?”

Wilson scowled and was surprised. He found Mr. Moto’s question hard to answer.

“Well, she wouldn’t,” he said. “She’s honest, Mr. Moto.”

Mr. Moto blinked and for the first time it seemed to Wilson Hitchings that there was genuine amusement in Mr. Moto’s smile.

“Excuse me,” he said, “please, excuse me, Mr. Hitchings, if I say something which is not very, very nice. Please, I have been to very many places in both Europe and America during the course of my work and my education. I have seen many types of people and there is one thing I have observed about your great country, Mr. Hitchings. You do not treat women very realistically. You think they are all very nice, because they are women. You think Miss Hitchings is very nice. Why? Because you think she is beautiful. You like her wide violet eyes. You enjoy the flame color in her hair and no doubt the way she swings herself when she walks. Excuse me, please. I come from a race with a tradition which is very, very different. Excuse me, I do not think Miss Hitchings is beautiful at all. Please, that is why I can see her more clearly than you do, Mr. Hitchings. A beautiful woman is so very, very confusing to a man. He desires her. Excuse me for my rudeness, but you desire Miss Hitchings.”

“I don’t,” said Wilson Hitchings, quickly. “I don’t, at all. I am only trying to be fair.”

“I hope so much that you will excuse me, please, when I make myself so very rude as to contradict, because I do it to be nice. She interests you, Mr. Hitchings, very, very much; and she knows it—women always know. She is playing with you, Mr. Hitchings. She is clever to put the blame on you because she thinks I may be deceived by it. Believe me, I am not deceived. She is in company which is not very nice. No one in that company can be nice.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Wilson interrupted. “Miss Hitchings is a distant relative of mine. She’s had a hard time. Her father lost his money.”

Mr. Moto shrugged his shoulders.

“Please,” he said. “Please, stop, Mr. Hitchings. All such persons have an interesting history which is very, very sad. The life of everyone, I think, is very, very sad; but misfortune must not interfere with logic. It is fortunate for you, I think, that she came here with you to-night, because I can help you very much. You have come only to close the Hitchings Plantation. Honolulu is so very, very beautiful. There are so very many things to do. Amuse yourself, please, after this. Bathe in the warm seas. See the other pretty girls. Listen to the lovely music. Sit in the sun and think, but not about this affair, Mr. Hitchings. You are out of it, now. I think, when I am through, that Miss Hitchings will be very, very glad to close her establishment. And now that matters have gone as far as this, they will move very, very quickly. Please, you need not give it another thought. You only have to wait.”

Mr. Moto lighted a cigarette.

“Yes,” he said. “This is my business. You only have to wait.”

In spite of his small size, Mr. Moto looked grimly adequate and Wilson Hitchings could understand his logic. What he could not understand was his own reluctance to agree. Although he knew that Mr. Moto was right, he knew that he could not leave things as they were. He tried to think it was a sense of responsibility which prompted him, but he knew it was not that. It had something to do with the grim finality of Mr. Moto’s voice. He did not want to leave Eva Hitchings to Mr. Moto. He wanted to attend to Eva Hitchings himself. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to speak to her again, and it was utterly unthinkable that he should not be allowed to do it.

“You’re wrong, Mr. Moto,” he said. “I’m in this as much as you.”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “I do not understand.”

“I am out here to represent my family,” Wilson said. “I was sent here to deal with Miss Hitchings, and I am going to.”

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “It is dangerous. There is no need.”

“Never mind,” said Wilson Hitchings. “I am going to. You needn’t worry about me, Mr. Moto.”

“I shall be sorry for you,” said Mr. Moto. “Very, very sorry. What are you going to do?”

“To-morrow morning,” Wilson said, “I am going to speak to Mr. Wilkie.”

“I should not do that,” said Mr. Moto. “It will do no good.”

“Well, I am going to,” Wilson Hitchings said.

“Please, may I give you a present? You will need it very much, I think.” Mr. Moto’s hand moved to his pocket. He was holding out an automatic pistol.

“Nonsense,” said Wilson. “I won’t need that. No, thank you. Good night, Mr. Moto.”

“You are sure you will not take it?” Mr. Moto said. “You may need it even before you get to your hotel. Good night, Mr. Hitchings. I am so very, very sorry.”

It was after two in the morning when Wilson Hitchings reached his room in his hotel and locked the door very carefully behind him. Once he was inside his room, where all his personal belongings lay methodically and neatly according to his habit, nearly everything which had happened that day assumed grotesque proportions. The wind and the sound of the surf on the reef had dropped to a lazy reassuring murmur and he could feel around him nothing but security. It was the old security in which he had been bred and reared, where nothing happened which was unusual—nothing which was not the result of balanced thought and plan. Viewed in that perspective, the entire day and night seemed to move beyond his mental grasp as something to be discounted, as something which had not actually occurred; and now his mind was busy proving that many things meant nothing. The impressions which were crowded on him were too numerous to be assimilated and his mind was tossing half of those impressions into discard. The internal struggles in the former province of Manchuria were too far beyond him to disturb him any more than the threats that Mr. Moto made of personal danger. He could believe it was complete exaggeration now that he was alone. The faces and the voices which he had heard, now that he was trying to get to sleep, had become as unconvincing as those of actors in a badly directed play. There was only one face of the entire gallery which remained with him as evidence of actual experience.

He could not, although he tried deliberately, push Eva Hitchings from his mind. She was so entirely different from anything he imagined that his thoughts dwelt on her speculatively. He could still hear the irony of her voice. He could recall the way the light glittered in her hair. He could remember a dozen half-graceful, half-careless gestures: the way she had pulled petulantly at the shoulder strap of that red dress with white flowers, the contemptuous ease with which she had driven her car, the way her eyes had met his squarely, more like a man’s eyes than a woman’s. Hers was the only face in that gallery which stood out distinctly and which had nothing furtive about it, nothing deceitful, and nothing ugly. And he knew why she was distinct to him and he knew that his conviction was not induced by sentiment as Mr. Moto had said. It was because she did not belong with those others, because she had an integrity which all those others lacked. She had been completely frank with him on her likes and dislikes. She did not belong there. She was entirely alone. There had been moments, too, when he believed she was afraid; and in a sense he felt responsible for that isolation of hers because, in a way, it was the fault of his own family. He knew that he could not leave her and keep his conscience clear, without giving her another chance to get away from the situation in which she was placed. He was convinced that his intuition was right, that she was in some sort of trouble.

He closed his eyes and he could hear the music at Hitchings Plantation. Then the music died out and he seemed to be back in that dark-paneled room with the green rays of the gaming table beneath its hard white light. He could hear the clinking of the counters and the soft whirr of the wheel and the oily-faced croupier was saying: “Rien ne va plus.”

He knew that the wheel was crooked. There was not much doubt that one of the men beside it could manipulate it, so that the house could either win or lose. That was the last thing he remembered thinking before he fell asleep.