it. His son stepped into the room, debonair and smiling. At sight of him, as so often happens in such a situation, the anxious father’s worry gave way to a deep rage.
“You’re a hell of a business man,” he cried.
“Now, father—no compliments,” laughed Bob Eden. “And me wandering all over San Francisco in your service.”
“I suppose so. That’s about what you would be doing, when it was your job to meet Mr. Chan at the dock.”
“Just a moment, dad.” Bob Eden removed a glistening rain coat. “Hello, Victor. Madame Jordan. And this, I imagine, is Mr. Chan.”
“So sorry to miss meeting at dock,” murmured Chan. “All my fault, I am sure—”
“Nonsense,” cried the jeweler. “His fault, as usual. When, in heaven’s name, are you going to show a sense of responsibility?”
“Now, dad. And a sense of responsibility is just what I’ve only this minute stopped showing nothing else but.”
“Good lord—what language is that? You didn’t meet Mr. Chan, did you?”
“Well, in a way, I didn’t—”
“In a way? In a way!”
“Precisely. It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it if you’ll stop interrupting with these unwarranted attacks on my character. I’ll sit down, if I may. I’ve been about a bit, and I’m tired.”
He lighted a cigarette. “When I came out of the club about five to go to the dock, there was nothing in sight but a battered old taxi that had seen better days. I jumped in. When I got down on the Embarcadero I noticed
