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getting myself a good alibi, I suppose, but I’m not so clever as Mr. Tarneverro here.” He gave the fortune-teller an unfriendly look. “So I just sat alone—the scene looked rather good to me. I wished I could get it into a picture—the purple starry sky, the yellow lamps along the water-front, the black hulk of Diamond Head. A picture in color—we'll have ’em that way before long. I amused myself thinking up a possible story—you can’t depend on authors for anything. Presently I looked at my watch. It was eight-twenty-five, so I went to my room to brush up and get my hat. When I came down I met you and Tarneverro here, and heard the news of Miss Fane’s murder.”

Charlie stood looking thoughtfully at the director. Suddenly he was pushed aside as Tarneverro strode forward.

“That’s a nasty scratch on your forehead, Martino,” the fortune-teller cried.

Startled, the director put his hand to his brow, and on one finger, as he took it away, he noted a trace of red.

“By jove,” he said, “that’s odd.”

“You'd better turn over to Inspector Chan the handkerchief you just replaced in your pocket.”

“What handkerchief?” Martino produced the one which he had recently passed across his forehead. “Oh, this!”

“I will take it, please,” said Charlie. He spread the white square of silk on a table and brought out his magnifying-glass. For a moment he studied the center of the square, then ran his fingers lightly across it. He looked up.

“A queer thing, Mr. Martino,” he remarked.