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to its place, closed the trunk and locked it. “Mr. Murdock, that will end business here.”

They returned to the lobby, where the house detective left them. Chan accompanied the Chief out to the drive.

“What did you mean about the ring, Charlie,” asked the latter.

“Little story which I have been perhaps too reluctant to repeat,” smiled Chan. “Why? Perhaps because it concerns most distasteful moment of my long career. You will recall that last night, in house down the beach, I stood in middle of floor with letter written by Shelah Fane held firmly in my hand. Suddenly light goes out. I am most rudely struck in the face—struck and cut on the cheek, proving the assailant wore a ring. Lights go on, and the letter is gone.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the Chief impatiently.

“Immediately I make a survey—of the men in the room, who wears ring? Ballou and Van Horn—yes. Others do not. Mr. Tarneverro, for example, does not. Yet yesterday morning, when I visited him in room, I noted that ring I have called to your attention, on his finger. What is more, when we rode down to Shelah Fane’s house after news of murder, I perceived the diamond gleaming in the dark. I saw it again when he helps me make investigation in pavilion. Yet when lights flash on after theft of letter, ring is no longer in evidence. What would be your reaction to that, Mr. Chief?”

“I should say,” the Chief returned, “that Tarneverro struck that blow in the dark.”

Charlie was thoughtfully rubbing his check. “Oddly enough,” he remarked, “such was my own reaction.”