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handwriting of one who was generous of note-paper as of all things. He frowned at what he saw.

“Dear Tarneverro:

“Please forget what I told you this morning. I must have been mad—mad. I intend to forget it—and so must you—oh, Tarneverro, promise me you will. Pretend that I never said it. I shall refuse poor Alan to-night—it will break my heart—but I'll do it. I am going on alone—perhaps in the end I may even find a little happiness. I want it so much.

“Poor Shelah!” The fortune-teller stood for a moment, staring at the letter. “She hadn’t the courage to go through with it—I might have known. A pitiful letter—I don’t believe I would have insisted, after all.” He crushed the paper in his hand fiercely. “The murderer of Denny Mayo was safe—she wasn’t going to tell on him—he killed her for nothing. She’s gone, and she might be here. By heaven—I’ll get him if it’s the last act of my life!”

Chan smiled. “I have a similar ambition, though I trust the accomplishment will not finish off my existence.” His Japanese assistant came stealthily into the room. “Ah, Kashimo, have you enjoyed pleasant week-end up-stair?”

“Pretty hard job, but I got him,” Kashimo announced proudly. “Found in jar under potted plant.”

Chan reached out his hand. To his surprise Kashimo proffered, not the photograph Charlie expected, but a handful of torn bits of glazed paper and of heavy green cardboard. Some one had ripped the