that of a man like P.J. Madden? Mr. Madden, here are your pearls.”
“One moment,” cried Chan. “This Madden says he is the same who bought the necklace at San Francisco jeweler’s. Ask him, please, location of jeweler’s store.”
“On Post Street,” said Madden.
“What part Post Street? Famous building across way. What building?”
“Officer,” objected Madden, “must I submit to this from a Chinese cook? I refuse to answer. The pearls are mine—”
Victor Jordan’s eyes were open wide. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me in this. Mr. Madden, my mother told me of the time when you first saw her. You were employed then—where—in what position?”
Madden’s face purpled. “That’s my affair.”
The sheriff removed his ample hat and scratched his head. “Well, maybe I better keep this trinket for a minute,” he reflected. “Look here, John—or—er—Sergeant Chan, if that’s your name—what the devil are you driving at, anyhow?”
He turned suddenly at a cry from Madden. The man had edged his way to the array of guns on the wall, and stood there now, with one of them in his bandaged hand.
“Come on,” he cried, “I’ve had enough of this. Up with your hands—Sheriff, that means you! Gamble—get that necklace! Thorn—get the bag in my room!”
With a magnificent disregard for his own safety, Chan leaped upon him and seized the arm holding the pistol. He gave it a sharp twist, and the weapon fell to the floor.
“Only thing I am ever able to learn from Japanese,” he said. “Captain Bliss, prove yourself real policeman by
