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inches above the floor. The plug, wrenched from its place, lay before him, its two protruding prongs mute evidence that its removal had been a simple matter. It had only been necessary to step on the cord anywhere along its length, move the foot a short distance away from the wall, and the thing was done. Simple, yes, but a bit of quick thinking on some one’s part. Charlie restored the plug, and the lamp flashed on again.

He came back to the center of the room. “We waste no time in fruitless search for letter now,” he remarked. “I propose instead to fix in my mind our little group of characters, and perhaps learn from their lips just what they were engaged in doing at two minutes past eight to-night.” He stood gazing at them thoughtfully. “I have some hesitation where to begin. Mr. Ballou, yours is familiar face, so I will start in your vicinity. Will you kindly state position in this house of yourself and Mrs. Ballou?”

The millionaire looked at him with all the arrogance of the white man who has lived for a long time among what he considers inferior races. “Why should I do that?” he inquired carelessly.

“Murder has been committed,” replied Charlie sternly. “I recognize your high position on this island, but you are not above question. Will you deign to reply, please?”

“We came here as dinner guests,” Ballou said. “We are—we were—old friends of Miss Fane.”

“You knew her in Hollywood?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Ballou was, before her marriage to you, herself actress on famous silver screen?”

“What if she was?” flared Ballou.