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“By the way,” Tarneverro remarked, “have you made an inspection of Miss Fane’s bedroom?”

“Not yet,” Chan answered. “So much to do, and only you and I to do it. I have sent Kashimo, our Japanese sleuth hound, on an errand, from which he will doubtless return in course of week or two. As for myself———” He was walking across a rug, and paused. “As for myself———” he repeated. He rubbed his thin-soled shoe back and forth over a spot in the rug. “As for myself,” he added a third time, “I have plenty good business here.”

He stooped and threw back the rug. There on the polished floor lay the big envelope that had been snatched from his hand earlier in the evening. One corner was missing, but otherwise the letter was intact.

“Fortunate that Miss Fane preferred such thick note-paper,” Charlie said. He picked up the envelope. “I fear I can not offer my unknown friend warm congratulations on his originality this time. But he was very hurried gentleman when this matter engaged his attention—I must remember that.”

Tarneverro came close, his dark eyes gleaming. “By gad—Shelah’s letter. And addressed to me, I believe?”

“I remind you again that the police are in charge,” Chan said.

“They were in charge before,” Tarneverro answered.

“Ah, yes. But history will not repeat just yet.” Charlie removed the note from the envelope, and read. He shrugged his shoulders, and passed the missive to the fortune-teller. “Once I was right,” he remarked.

Tarneverro looked down at the huge sprawling