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mitted. “And a kind of rude strength—a queer combination, the esthete and the brute in one package. He wasn’t in Hollywood when Mayo was killed, but once again—perhaps we are on the wrong trail there. Martino’s been a bit of a ladies’ man—there may have been some unsuspected relationship between him and Shelah Fane. Certainly that handkerchief in his pocket had a fishy look to me. Of course he denied he owned it—who wouldn’t? But if any one placed it on Martino’s person, he was taking a tremendous and unnecessary risk. Why not throw it into the bushes—drop it on the lawn? Why attempt the difficult, the dangerous? The handkerchief, Inspector, may have been Martino’s own property. He may have gone on carrying it after the murder, quite innocent of the fact that it contained those splinters of glass. Unless”—the fortune-teller paused—“unless you have evidence that it belonged to some one else?”

Chan regarded him with sleepy eyes. “I have so little evidence,” he sighed. “Languishing in such a state, how gladly I hear you talk. Continue, please, to dispense logic and eloquence, those twin blossoms of speech. I now bring up the name of Huntley Van Horn.”

Tarneverro regarded him keenly. “Have you anything on Van Horn?”

“I regret to note that he has no alibi. Also, he was at proper place at proper time to do the deed.” Chan paused, and decided he would keep some matters to himself. “Aside from that, I have nothing of importance. Deign to state your opinion of the man.”

“Well,” said Tarneverro, “I haven’t thought much about Van Horn. He’s an odd, rather bitter sort of