Madden nodded, and sat at his desk. “I got one ready this afternoon. Just have to sign it.” He laid the pearls on the blotter, and took a typewritten sheet from the top drawer. Slowly he wrote his name. “Mr. Jordan,” he was saying, “I’m deeply grateful to you for coming down here and ending this. Now that it’s settled, I’m leaving at once—” He offered the receipt to Chan.
A strange look had come into the usually impassive eyes of Charlie Chan. He reached out toward the sheet of paper offered him, then with the speed of a tiger, he snatched for the pearls. Madden snatched, too, but he was a little late. The necklace disappeared into Chan’s voluminous sleeve.
“What’s this?” bellowed Madden, on his feet. “Why, you crazy—”
“Hush,” said Chan. “I will retain the pearls.”
“You will, will you?” Madden whipped out a pistol. “We’ll see about that—”
There was a loud report, and a flash of fire—but it did not come from Madden’s gun. It came from the silken sleeve of Charlie Chan. Madden’s weapon clattered to the floor, and there was blood on his hand.
“Do not stoop!” warned Chan, and his voice was suddenly high and shrill. “Postman has been on such long walk, but now at last he has reached journey’s end. Do not stoop, or I put bullet in somewhat valuable head!”
“Charlie—are you mad?” cried Victor.
“Not very,” smiled Chan. “Kindly favor me by backing away, Mr. Madden.” He picked up the pistol from the floor—Bill Hart’s present, it seemed to be. “Very nice gun, I use it now.” Swinging Madden round, he searched him, then placed a chair in the center of the room. “Be
