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and walked slowly to his car. Emerging from the drive, he narrowly escaped collision with a trolley. “Wake up, there!” shouted the motorman in rage, and then, recognizing a member of the Honolulu police force, sought to pretend he’d never said it. Charlie waved to him and drove on.

The detective was lost in a maze of doubt and uncertainty. The matter of the emerald ring was clear at last—but still he was far from his goal. One point in Julie’s story interested him deeply. It had been Denny Mayo’s picture that he had sought to put together the previous night.

Up to now he had thought himself balked in that purpose by some one who did not wish him to know the identity of the man over whose portrait Shelah had wept so bitterly. But might the motive not have been the same that prompted the destruction of the pictures at the library? The same person, undoubtedly, had been busy in both instances, and that person was bitterly determined that Inspector Chan should not look upon the likeness of Denny Mayo. Why?

Charlie resolved to go back and relive this case from the beginning. But in a moment he stopped. Too much of a task for this drowsy afternoon. “Much better I do not think at all,” he muttered. “I will cease all activity and put tired brain in receptive state. Maybe subconscious mind sees chance and leaps on job during my own absence.”

In such a state of suspended mental effort he turned his car into the drive of the Grand Hotel and, parking it, walked idly toward the entrance. A stiff breeze was blowing through the lobby, which was practically deserted at this hour of the day.