Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/137

“There exist, caught in mesh of this cloth, a few thin splinters of glass. How would you explain that?”

Martino rose quickly, and with a serious face bent over the table. “I can’t explain it,” he said. “I can’t even explain how that handkerchief came to be in my pocket.”

Chan regarded him intently. “It is not your property?” he inquired.

“It certainly isn’t,” the director replied. “I carry two handkerchiefs with my evening clothes. One here”—he indicated his breast pocket above which the ends of a handkerchief were showing—“and another in my hip pocket.” He produced a second. “Certainly I'd have no use for a third. I just happened to reach into my side pocket, my hand touched this, and I used it. But I never put it there, and it isn’t mine.”

“A likely story,” Tarneverro sneered.

“My dear Tarneverro,” the director said, “when you've made as many pictures as I have, you'll realize that the truth often sounds less probable than fiction.” He picked up the little square of silk and handed it to Charlie. “By the way, there’s a laundry mark in one corner of that.”

“I know,” Chan nodded. He stood for a moment, looking at the tiny letter B done with black ink on the silk border. He glanced over at Wilkie Ballou. The planter stared back at him, and taking a handkerchief from his own pocket, casually mopped his brow.