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“Were other striking personalities present in reading-room during the morning?” Charlie inquired.

The girl thought. Yes—she remembered one. A rather peculiar-looking man—she recalled especially his eyes. Chan urged her to a further description, and was left in no doubt as to whom she referred.

“Did you perceive him examining newspaper file left by actor?”

“No, I didn’t. He came in soon after Mr. Van Horn left, and stayed all morning, reading various papers and magazines. He seemed to be trying to pass the time.”

“When did he leave?”

“I don’t know. He was still here when I went out to Iunch.”

“Ah, yes,” Chan nodded. “He would be.”

“You think he cut the book?”

“I have no proof, and never will have, I fear. But I am sure he mutilated the volume.”

“I’d like to see him in jail,” said the girl warmly.

Charlie shrugged. “We have tastes in common. Thank you so much for significant information.”

He drove quickly to the police station. The Chief, alone in his room, was gruffly talking over the telephone. “No—no—nothing yet.” He slammed the receiver on to its hook. “Good lord, Charlie, they're hounding me to death. The whole world wants to know who killed Shelah Fane. The morning paper’s had over a hundred cables. Well, what about the library?—Wait a minute.”

The telephone was ringing again. The Chief’s replies were none too gentle.

“That was Spencer,” he announced, hanging up.