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who must pass it along to you? No, she would have awaited her opportunity and then delivered it to you with her own hand. I do not reprove you, but I believe you attach undue importance to that probably innocent epistle.”

“Well, the murderer certainly thought it important. You can’t deny that.”

“Murderer was in state of high excitement and took unnecessary risk. If he takes few more like that, we are at trail’s end.”

Tarneverro, with a gesture, dismissed the matter. “Well, and what have you discovered from all your questions?” He glanced at Chan’s notes.

“Not much. You perceived that I was curious to learn who was in Hollywood three years ago last month. Assuming that the story is true—the story you say Shelah Fane told you this morning———”

“Why shouldn’t it be true? Does a woman make a confession like that as a joke?”

“Never,” answered Chan, somewhat sharply for him. “And for that reason I am remarking I assume it to be true. It is, then, important to locate our many suspects in June three years ago. I have written here the names of all who were in Hollywood at that time, and consequently may have slain Denny Mayo. They are Wilkie Ballou, Rita his wife, Huntley Van Horn. And—ah, yes—Jessop, the butler. I regret that, overwhelmed by account of bloody shirt, I neglected to make inquiries of Miss Dixon.”

“She has been in Hollywood six years,” the fortune-teller informed him. “I know from what she has told me during the readings I have given her.”

“One more.” Charlie wrote down the name. “I