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“I wish I knew,” Van Horn replied. “Last night, when I heard you asking everybody about three years ago last June, in Hollywood, I sensed that you thought his death involved in this somehow. I’m curious to know the connection.”

“That, no doubt,” said Charlie, “is why you haste to library early this morning to do hot reading about Mayo case?”

Van Horn smiled. “Oh—so you found me among my books, eh? Well, Inspector, as my press-agent will tell you, I’m of rather a studious type. There’s nothing I like better than to curl up in a corner with a good book—real literature, mind you——”

Charlie raised a protesting hand. “The wise man, knowing he is under suspicion,” he remarked, “does not stoop to tie his shoe in a melon patch.”

Van Horn nodded. “An old Chinese saw, eh? Not bad either.”

“You will,” said Chan sternly, “before we leave these chairs, tell me the reason for your visit to library this morning.”

Van Horn did not reply. He sat for a moment with a frown on his handsome face. Then he turned with sudden decision.

“You've been frank with me, Inspector. I’ll be the same with you. Though when you’ve heard my reason for that visit, I fear you'll be more puzzled than ever.” He took from his pocket an envelope bearing the crest of the Grand Hotel, and drew out a single sheet of note-paper. “Will you please read that?”

Chan took the paper. It bore a brief note, type- written and unsigned. He read: