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ing, alive and well. Smiling, and crying too. I dashed out of the pavilion———”

“It was now what time?”

“I know only too well—it was four minutes past eight. I rushed down the drive, found my car where I'd left it before the house, and motored back to town as quickly as I could. When I stepped through the window of my dressing-room, they were hammering like wild men on my door. I opened it, said I’d been having a nap, and went out with the stage manager to the wings. I was five minutes late—the stage manager showed me his watch—eight-twenty. But that wasn’t serious—I went on and played my role—and I was just coming off after the first act when some young man telephoned me the terrible news.”

He stood up. “That, Inspector Chan, is my story. My visit out here to-night may prove embarrassing for me, but I don’t regret it. I saw Shelah again—I held her in my arms—and for that privilege I stand ready to pay any price you can name. Is there anything more I can tell you?”

Chan shook his head. “For the present, no. I ask that you remain on scene a brief time. Other matters may arise later.”

“Of course,” nodded Fyfe.

The bell rang, and Charlie himself went to the door. Peering into the night, he beheld a burly dark-skinned man in the khaki uniform of the Honolulu police.

“Ah, it is Spencer,” he said. “I am very glad to have you here.”

The officer came into the hall, dragging after him a figure that, anywhere save on a tropic beach, would have been quite unbelievable.