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know exact moment of tragedy. That is indeed something.”

“Two minutes after eight,” Tarneverro said. “At that moment, Jaynes, Martino, Van Horn, you and I were in the lounge of the hotel. Remember—Van Horn looked at his watch, remarked it was eight o’clock, and said he was starting down here.”

“Of course,” Chan nodded. “The alibis arrive in one huge flock.” He pointed to the orchids, crushed on the floor. “Further evidence of the struggle. Bouquet was torn off, trampled under foot.”

“All of which looks a bit like jealousy,” responded Tarneverro, frowning. “Can we be wrong about the motive, after all? No—it might be anger, too.”

Charlie was crawling about the rug. “Peculiar thing,” he remarked. “Flowers were fastened by pin—you may note the shoulder-strap is torn—but no pin is here now.” He examined the orchids, and made a thorough search of the floor, while Tarneverro watched him. “It is true,” he added, standing up, “the pin which fastened flowers is strangely missing.”

He stepped to an old mahogany dressing-table, a handsome piece in its day, but now banished to the beach house. The table had a glass top, and leaning over, he studied this with a microscope he had taken from his pocket. “One more point,” he said. “This corner here has lately received fierce nick. What can that mean?”

Tarneverro had picked up an expensive gold mesh bag that was lying on the table, and was studying the contents. “No use,” he said. “The usual compact, and a few dollars. For a moment I had a crazy thought that perhaps Shelah had already written down for me