Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/114

when we parted. We were both playing in New York—Miss Fane in a Ziegfeld revue at the New Amsterdam, and I was doing a mystery play at the Astor. She came home one night and told me she had a splendid offer to go to Hollywood for a picture—she was so excited, so keen for the idea, that I hadn’t the heart to oppose her. A week later, on an April evening, I said good-by to her at the Grand Central Station, wondering how long I could hold her love. Not very long, as it turned out. Within a year she went to Reno, and it was all quite painless—for her, I fancy. Not quite so painless for me—although I had felt it coming, that night at the station. Something had told me then that I was seeing her for the last time.”

“You no doubt appeared in Los Angeles in later years,” Chan suggested, “at moments when Miss Fane was in Hollywood?”

“Oh, yes—of course. But we never met.”

“Do you happen to recall—were you playing in Los Angeles three years ago, in June?”

Charlie was struck by the look that came into the actor’s eyes. Was it, perhaps, a look of understanding? “No,” said Fyfe firmly. “I was not.”

“You are plenty positive,” Chan commented.

“I happen to be—yes,” Fyfe replied. “Three years ago I was touring with a company that did not reach the coast.”

“It is a matter that can easily be verified,” the detective reminded him slowly.

“Certainly,” agreed Fyfe. “Go ahead and verify it.”

“Then you assert,” Chan continued, “that you have