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“What’s all this about Denny Mayo?” he demanded.

“Mr. Chan was simply asking me if I knew him,” Rita explained.

“Mr. Chan should mind his own business,” her husband growled. He walked over and faced Charlie. “Denny Mayo,” he said, “is dead and buried.”

Chan shrugged. “I am so sorry, but he does not stay buried.”

“He stays that way as far as my wife and I are concerned,” Ballou answered, and there was a certain dignity about him as he said it.

For a moment Chan looked sleepily into the hostile eyes of the millionaire. “Your alibi for the night of Mayo’s murder,” he ventured, “seems to have enjoyed a fine success.”

Ballou flushed. “Why not? It was the truth.”

“So naturally, it prevailed.” Chan moved toward the door. “I am sorry if I have disturbed you——”

“You haven’t disturbed me in the least,” Ballou snapped. “Just what did you expect to find here, anyhow?”

“I thought I might chance upon photograph of Denny Mayo.”

“And why should you want his photograph?”

“Some unknown person objects to my looking at it.”

“Is that so?” said Ballou. “Well, you won’t find Mayo’s picture here. Or anything else that will interest you, for that matter. Good day, Inspector; and I must ask you not to call again.”

Charlie shrugged. “I travel where duty takes me. Would much prefer to loll in station house—but can