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tion. “Not many things remain buried through investigation such as we are making,” he remarked gently.

“Evidently not.” Tarneverro hesitated. “I presume you are wondering why I didn’t tell you this myself?”

Chan shrugged. “Undoubtedly you possessed good reason.”

“Several reasons,” the fortune-teller assured him. “For one thing, I didn’t believe that such knowledge would help you in any way in solving the case.”

“Which is sound thinking,” Chan agreed readily. “Still—I must confess slight hurt in my heart. Frankness between friends is like warm sun after rain. The friendship grows.”

Tarneverro nodded and sat down. “I suppose there’s a great deal in what you say. I’m rather sorry I kept the relationship to myself, and I apologize most humbly. If it’s not too late, Inspector, I will give you the whole story now——”

“Not at all too late,” Chan beamed.

“Denny Mayo was my brother, Inspector, my youngest brother. The relationship between us was more like that of father and son. I was intensely fond of him. I watched over him, helped his career, took pride in it. When he was brutally murdered, the shock was a terrible one for me. So you can easily under- stand why I say”—his voice trembled with sudden passion—“that to avenge his death has been for three years my chief aim—indeed my only aim. If the person who killed Shelah Fane is the same man or woman who murdered Denny—then, by heaven, I can not rest until justice is done.”