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Jaynes tossed his cigar into an ash-tray with a gesture of deep relief. “Thank God for that. Have you any more questions?”

“You saw Miss Fane for final time when you left this room at about fifteen minutes before eight?”

“That was the last time I saw her—yes.”

“Then you did not return here between eight-five and eight-thirty-five?”

“I did not.”

“Have you ever been in Hollywood, Mr. Jaynes?”

The Britisher laughed bitterly. “I have not—and I’m not likely to go there.”

“That is all, sir,” Chan nodded.

“Thank you. I'll say good-by. I happen to be sailing on the Oceanic at midnight.”

Charlie looked at him in sudden surprise. “You are leaving Hawaii to-night?”

“I am.”

The detective shrugged. “I am so sorry to disappoint you. The matter is impossible.”

“Why should it be?” Jaynes demanded.

“You are somewhat deeply involved in this affair.”

“But you say you've fixed the moment of the murder—and at that moment I was standing in your presence. It’s a perfect alibi.”

“Perfect alibis have way of turning imperfect without warning,” Charlie informed him. “I regret that I can not allow you to sail. The Oceanic will be carefully watched, and no one connected with this affair will be permitted to leave the island aboard her. Or on any other ship, for the present.”

An angry flush spread over the Britisher’s face. “On what grounds do you keep me here?”