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gation last night, guests who expected to enjoy dinner sat down round dining table for abbreviated repast. Floor is bare beneath table, and in front of one chair—and only one—more scratches are in evidence.”

“Who sat in that chair?” the Chief demanded.

“The murderer of Shelah Fane,” Chan answered. “The name I do not yet know. But I have just now summoned to house six guests, who, with three already here, make up complete list. When all are assembled we lead them to dining-room and ask them, please, to sit where they did last night. Chair of dead hostess was at head of table, facing door to hall. Note who sits down in chair at right of hostess. Same will be person we so hotly seek.”

The Chief laughed. “Going to make a big drama out of it, eh, Charlie? Well, that’s all right with me, so long as it means success. I'll be with you pronto.”

Chan returned to the hall, mopping his brow. He caught a glimpse of the coat-tails of Jessop, hastily disappearing through the curtains of the dining-room door. With an idle step he moved along, and came finally to the lanai, where he encountered Miss Dixon.

“Living-room is again at your disposal,” he bowed.

She rose and came toward him. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked eagerly.

He shrugged. “Who in this world finds what he looks for? Success—what is it? A bubble that explodes when touched by human hand.” And he strolled off toward the beach.

At his right, as he crossed the lawn, lay the pavilion, dark and empty to-night. Close by the sea, seated together in a beach chair intended for one person only, he came upon Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw. The boy rose.