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glance that passed between the immaculate actor and the battered beach-comber. “Others have withdrawn it for me. I did not kill Shelah—that’s quite true. But I thought it would be better if———”

“If what?”

“Nothing.”

“You thought it would be better if my investigation went no further.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Something came out in that conversation with your ex-wife which you feared this man had overheard. Something you want suppressed.”

“You have a keen imagination, Inspector.”

“Also, I have a custom to discover facts which some people want to hide. Your move has been to this moment successful—but you and I have not finished with each other, Mr. Fyfe.”

“I am at your service at any time, sir.”

“Thank you so much, but I hope the next time we meet your service will be of more value to my humble self.” He looked at Smith. “As for you, though I am desolated by acute pain to make so rude a remark, I believe you mix plenty falsehood with your truth.”

The beach-comber shrugged. “There you go—judging a man by his clothes again.”

“Not by your clothes, which are silent, but by your tongue, which speaks,” Charlie told him. “Mr. Spencer, will you kindly take this man to station house and make record of his finger-prints.”

“So many attentions,” Smith put in. “I only hope they don’t turn my head.”

“After which,” Chan continued, “you may release him—for time being.”

“All right, Charlie,” Spencer said.