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comber, with a canvas on his knees. He looked up, startled.

“Oh,” he said. “So it’s you?”

Chan regarded him sleepily. “Where you been all day?”

Smith indicated the canvas. “The evidence is right here, Inspector. I’ve been sitting in my palatial studio painting that courtyard outside. Glad you dropped in—it’s been a bit dull since I finished.” He leaned back in his chair and critically surveyed his work. “Come and look at this, Inspector. Do you know, I believe I’ve got something into it—a certain miasmic quality. Did you ever realize before that flowers can look mean and sinister?, Well, they can—in the courtyard of the Nippon Hotel.”

Chan glanced at the painting and nodded. “Yes, plenty good, but I have no time to be critic now. Get your hat and come with me.”

“Where are we going—to dinner? I know a place on the Boulevard St.-Germain——”

“We go to the station house,” Charlie replied.

“Wherever you say,’ nodded Smith, and putting aside the canvas, picked up his hat.

They crossed Aala Park to King Street. Chan regarded the derelict with an almost affectionate gaze. Before he and Smith parted company again, the beach-comber was going to tell him much—enough, perhaps, to solve his problem and put an end to all his worries.

The Chief was alone in the detectives’ room. At sight of Charlie’s companion, he brightened visibly. “Ah, you got him. I thought you would.”

“What’s it all about?” Smith asked jauntily. “I’m flattered, of course, by all these attentions, but——”