to the door. “Come in, sir,” he called, and Victor Jordan strode into the room. Chan’s eyes narrowed.
“Charlie, what is all this nonsense?” demanded Victor. “What are you doing in that melodramatic outfit?”
Chan did not answer. Madden laughed. “All over, as I told you, Charlie—if that’s your name. This is Mr. Jordan, one of the owners of those pearls you’re carrying in your money-belt”
Chan shrugged. “Mr. Jordan juggles truth,” he replied, dropping his dialect with a sigh of relief. “He has no claim on pearls. They are property of his mother, to whom I give promise I would guard them with life.”
“See here, Charlie,” cried Victor angrily, “don’t tell me I lie. I’m sick and tired of this delay down here, and I’ve come with my mother’s authority to put an end to it. If you don’t believe me, read that.”
He handed over a brief note in Madame Jordan’s old-fashioned script. Chan read it. “One only answer,” he remarked. “I must release the pearls.” He glanced toward the clock, ticking busily by the patio window. “Though I am much preferring to wait Mr. Eden’s come back—”
“Never mind Eden,” said Victor. “Produce that necklace.”
Chan bowed and turning, fumbled for a moment at his waist. The Phillimore necklace was in his hand.
Madden took it eagerly. “At last,” he said.
Gamble was staring over his shoulder. “Beautiful,” murmured the professor.
“One minute,” said Chan. “A receipt, if you will be so kind.”
