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Charlie went up to the room occupied by Alan Jaynes. The Britisher admitted him, yawning as he did so. He was in dressing-gown and slippers, and his bed was somewhat disheveled.

“Come in, Inspector. I’ve just been having forty winks. Good lord—what a sleepy country this is!”

“For the malihini—the newcomer—yes,” Chan smiled. “We old-timers learn to disregard the summons. Otherwise we would get nowhere.”

“You are getting somewhere, then?” Jaynes asked eagerly.

“Would not want to say that, but we are traveling at good pace—for Hawaii,” responded Charlie. “Mr. Jaynes, I have come to you in spirit of most open frankness. I am about to toss cards down flat on table.”

“Good,” Jaynes said heartily.

“This morning you told me you had never been in pavilion, never even loitered in neighborhood of place?”

“Certainly I did. It’s the truth.”

Charlie took out an envelope, and emptied on to a table the stub of a small cigar. “How, then, would you explain the fact that this is found just outside window of room in which Shelah Fane met sudden death?”

Jaynes looked for a long moment at this shabby bit of evidence. ‘‘Well, I'll be damned,” he remarked. He turned to Chan, an angry light in his eyes. “Sit down,” he said. “I can explain it, and I will.”

“Happy to hear you say that,” Chan told him.

“This morning, when I was in my bath,” the Britisher began, “about eight o’clock, it must have been, some one knocked on my door. I thought it was the house-boy, and I called to him to come in. I heard the door open, and then the sound of footsteps. I