15. THE MAN FROM INDIA
They clattered along Kalakaua Avenue in Chan’s car. John Quincy sat alone on the rear seat; at the detective’s request he held the ohia wood box on his knees.
He rested his hands upon it. Once it had eluded him, but he had it now. His mind went back to that night in the attic two thousand miles away, the shadow against the moonlit window, the sting of a jewel cutting across his cheek. Roger’s heartfelt cry of “Poor old Dan!” Did they hold at last, in this ohia wood box, the answer to the mystery of Dan’s death?
Hallet was waiting in his room. With him was a keen-eyed, efficient looking man evidently in his late thirties.
“Hello, boys,” said the captain. “Mr. Winterslip, meet Mr. Greene, our district court prosecutor.”
Greene shook hands cordially. “I’ve been wan
