went careening by, evidently in the hands of a drunken driver, and swerved almost against their fender, requiring a quick turn of Dick's hand to avoid it.
Past Waimea Canyon and the house called haunted, and then along the road as close to the beach as he could get, straining his eyes through the gloom as buildings or trees loomed between him and the sea; and then at last, standing out by itself between the road and the heavy surf which was beating up as it beats nowhere else on Oahu, he saw the dark outlines of a bungalow with a low stone wall about it.
He swerved up to the entrance and stopped his car and sat still for a moment and listened. The house was dark, and the only sound was the heavy beat and swash of the surf and a singing sound of sand as the water washed back from the steep beach. He gripped his revolver and his flashlight and jumped out of the car and went up the walk which crossed the little sandy garden where a few newly planted coconut trees attested to the fact that it was not a deserted place, but probably merely a week-end home for some Honolulu city dweller.
He stepped up onto the lanai in the darkness and listened again, but there was no near at hand sound. He tried the two doors, without turning on his light, and found both of them locked. He leaned close to
