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conversation overheard between this gentleman with ribbon-bedecked shirt-front and lady he met in pavilion to-night. At crucial point you suffered very blunt interruption. I am most eager that you return to subject at once.”

Fyfe rose to his feet, and stared hard at the derelict in the velvet coat. Smith looked back at him, and a speculative, cunning look flashed into his pale gray eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he said slowly. “I was interrupted, wasn’t I? But I’m used to that. Sure—sure, I was telling you that I heard them talking together. Well, there’s no need to go on with it now. I’ve nothing to add to what the gentleman has already told you.” Fyfe turned away. “He was pleading with her to come back to him—said he loved her, and all that. And she wouldn’t listen to him. I felt rather sorry for him—I’ve been in that position myself. I heard her say: ‘Oh, Bob—what’s the use?’ He went on insisting. Every now and then he looked at his watch. ‘My time’s up,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got to go. We'll thrash this out later.’ I heard the slam of the door———”

“And the woman was alone in the room—alive and well. You are sure of that?”

“Yes—the curtain was flapping—I saw her after he left. She was there alone—moving about.”

With a puzzled frown, Charlie glanced at Robert Fyfe. “You are not content with one alibi. You have now a second. I do not understand you, Mr. Fyfe.”

The actor shrugged. “I find it hard to understand myself, Inspector. A fit of temperament, perhaps. We stage people are inclined to be overly dramatic.”

“Then you withdraw your confession?”

“What else can I do?” Chan did not overlook the