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“Good luck to you,” Fyfe answered.

“Thanks. May I trouble you—one more cigarette? You're very kind.” He moved to the door, stopped and came back. “Somehow, Chief, I don’t like to leave you. Will you do me a favor?”

The Chief laughed. “I might,” he said.

“Lock me up until morning,” the beach-comber went on. “Don’t let me go into the street with all this money on me. I might be held up, or possibly—possibly—— What I mean is, put me in a safe place overnight, and the chances of getting rid of me to-morrow will be a lot better than they look right now.”

“With pleasure,” nodded the Chief. “Come with me.”

Smith waved a hand at Charlie Chan. “Remind me in the morning, Inspector, I owe you a dime—ten cents.” He followed the Chief from the room.

Charlie turned to Fyfe. “You are now in demand at playhouse. I am deeply grateful for all you have told.”

“Mr. Chan—if you could only keep this thing about Shelah from reaching the public——”

Charlie shook his head. “I am so sorry, but I fear same can not be done. The matter has vital connection with her murder.”

“I suppose it has,” Fyfe sighed. “Well, anyhow, you’ve been mighty decent to me, and I appreciate it.”

Chan bowed him out.

Left alone, the detective stared thoughtfully into space. He was standing thus when the Chief strode again into the room. For a moment they regarded each other.

“Well,” the Chief said, “so Tarneverro’s story was