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had been brought over from the mainland at the time of the reorganization to strengthen the force, and he had never been very cordial to Charlie, whom he had replaced in the role of finger-print expert.

“Good morning, Mr. Hettick,” Chan said politely. “Have you had successful time of it?”

“Not very,” the man replied. “Plenty of prints, but mostly those of the murdered woman. All the others can be accounted for, I guess. Come inside, and I’ll show you——”

“One little moment,” interrupted Charlie. “First I take careless stroll about outside of place.”

Followed by Bradshaw, he made his way through some bushes at the side of the cottage, and came out on the public beach that bounded the grounds on the west. Beneath the single pavilion window which opened on that beach—the one under which Smith had stood the previous night—he paused.

A great many footprints were there now, and those of the beach-comber barely distinguishable. Charlie stooped down and carefully sifted the sand. With a little cry of satisfaction, he stood erect again.

“Important discovery,” he announced.

Bradshaw came nearer. He saw in Charlie’s palm the remains of a small cigar, the size of a cigarette.

“Trampled into the sand,” Charlie added. “I would never have expected to find this here.”

“Why—I know only one man who smokes these,” the boy cried. “I saw him—last night——”

“You are quite correct,” Chan beamed. “One man, and who would believe he could act so careless? I am consumed with wonder. When did Mr. Alan Jaynes stand outside this window—and why?”