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“Really?” The actor dropped into a chair and sat there, a striking figure in his ambassadorial costume. His manner was calm, unperturbed, and seemingly he was in the frankest of moods.

“Very interesting indeed,” Charlie continued. “I gaze at you, and I ask myself—why is he lying to me?”

Fyfe half rose from his chair. “Look here. What do you mean?”

Chan shrugged. “My dear sir—what is the use? When you visit lawn pavilions to call on ex-wives, how careless to flaunt distinctive red ribbon on chest. It might even be mistaken by excitable young women for—blood. Matter of fact—it was.”

“Oh,” said Fyfe grimly. “I see.”

“The truth—for a change,” went on Chan gently.

The actor sat for a moment with his head in his hands. Finally he looked up.

“Gladly,” he answered. “Though the truth is a bit—unusual. I hadn’t seen Shelah Fane since that night in the station—until to-night. This morning I heard she was in town. It was quite startling—what the news did to me. You did not know Miss Fane, Mr.—er—Mr.———”

“Inspector Chan,” Charlie informed him. “No, I had not the pleasure.”

“It was really that—a pleasure.” Fyfe half smiled. “She was a remarkable girl, aflame with life. I'd once been very fond of her and—I never got over it. No other woman ever meant anything to me after Shelah left. I couldn’t hold her—I don’t blame her for that—no man could hold her long. She wanted romance, excitement. Well, as I say, I learned this morning she was in town, and the news thrilled me—