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“An overcoat, sir?” Jessop’s white eyebrows went up.

“Yes. With dinner costume, you understand.”

“No, sir,” replied Jessop firmly. “No such gaucherie of dress was evident, Constable.”

Chan smiled. “Kindly look about the room. Do you recall admitting any visitor with exception of those now visible to your view?”

“No, sir,” returned Jessop, surveying the party.

“Thank you. When did you last see Miss Fane?”

“It was in this room, at about twenty minutes after seven, when I brought her a box of flowers. I heard her voice after that, but I did not see her.”

“Please detail your activities from hour of twenty minutes past seven onward,” Chan requested.

“I was engaged with my duties, sir, in the dining-room and the kitchen. I may add that it has been a rather trying evening, in my department. The Chinese cook has exhibited all the worst qualities of a heathen race—I’m sure I beg your pardon.”

“A heathen race,” repeated Charlie gravely, “that was busy inventing the art of printing at moment when gentlemen in Great Britain were still beating one another over head with spiked clubs. Pray excuse this brief reference to history. The cook has been in uproar?”

“Yes, Constable. He has proved himself sorely deficient in that patience for which his people have long been noted. Then, too, the—er—the bootlegger, to use one of your—or their—American phrases, has been unforgivably late.”

“Ah—you already possess bootlegger?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Fane was a temperate woman her-