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work, he noted, had recently been painted white. Suddenly he rose and stepped to the small window opening on the beach. “You have not tested this sill, I believe,”he remarked.

“No—as a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Hettick answered. “I meant to, but it slipped my mind.”

Chan grinned. “Mind gets so slippery in warm climate. May I humbly suggest you do so now?”

Hettick came over and covered the sill with his lamp black. With practised hand he applied the camel's-hair brush.

Charlie and the boy crowded close. “Ah!” cried Chan. On the smooth white surface of the sill were the marks of some one’s fingers and thumb.

“These were not made by Shelah Fane?’ Charlie inquired.

“No,” answered Hettick. “Those were left by a man’s hand.”

Chan stood, deep in thought. “Recent, too. We achieve some progress now. A man’s hand. A man opened that screen, climbed up on sill. Why? To enter room, of course. When? Last night, when murder was in atmosphere. Yes, we move, we advance.” He paused. “What man?” In his coat pocket,his fingers touched the envelope containing the cigar stub. He turned with sudden decision. “One thing is certain. I must without delay obtain thumb prints of Alan Jaynes.” Smiling at Jimmy Bradshaw, he added: “Police have fine clue and promise early arrest. But if you publish one word of this, I recall matter of your laundry and put you in jail at once.”

“I won't use it, Charlie,” promised the boy. “What are you going to do now?”