Leaving Mrs. O’Ferrell deeply mystified by this cryptic statement, he returned to the big living-room. Most of the guests were there, and in the center of the room stood Don Holt, the sheriff. Beside him was a man who would have been a figure of distinction in any company, tall, erect, with snow-white hair. Chan’s heart was touched as he noted the sightless eyes.
“Morning, Mr. Chan,” cried Don Holt. “Great day, ain’t it? I brought my Dad along—want you to know him. Father—Inspector Chan, of Honolulu.”
Chan took the groping hand in his. “To meet an old-time sheriff of the mining camps,” he said. “An honor I have always longed for, but never dreamed should encounter.”
“Old-time is right, Inspector,” replied Sam Holt, with a grim smile. “And the old times—they don’t come back. I sure am gl
