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Charlie regarded him gravely. “You are, I believe, one of the people who suffer most from this death to-night?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It is reported that you loved Shelah Fane.”

“Reported—by whom?” The man looked angrily at Tarneverro.

“No matter,” said Chan. “You had asked her to marry you?”

“I had.”

“Then you loved her?”

“Look here—must you make a public inquisition of this?”

“So sorry. It is, I perceive, somewhat indiscreet on my part. Mr. Bradshaw has told me you were in this room at seven-forty to-night.”

“I was. I had come to dinner.”

“And to have, first of all, a private conversation with Miss Fane?”

“Yes. But the nature of that conversation is none of your business.”

Charlie smiled. “Alas! I know so much that is none of my business. You ask for her final decision in the matter of marriage. She rejects you, and you suspect Mr. Tarneverro here is responsible for the action. You tramp angrily back to hotel, seeking to make quarrel with this same Tarneverro. So, at two minutes past eight, you stand in hotel lounge, glowering. Which, dear sir, is fortunate affair for you.”

“I take it,” Jaynes said, “that you have fixed the moment of this—this murder, at two minutes after eight?”

“I have,” Chan replied.