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The clerk hesitated, and then took up a telephone. In a moment he turned to the beach-comber. “Be down right away,” he announced.

Boldly Smith dropped into a chair and waited. Fyfe appeared almost at once; evidently he had not slept late to-day. There was a worried look in his eyes. He came over to the beach-comber. “You wanted to see me?” he said. “I’m on my way to the theater. Come along.”

He left his key at the desk and strode toward the door, Smith struggling to keep up with him. They walked in silence. Finally the actor turned.

“Why be so indiscreet?” he inquired. “You could have telephoned me and I’d have met you.”

Smith shrugged. “Telephoning costs money,” he replied. “And I haven’t much money—yet.”

There was a world of meaning in that last word. Fyfe led the way from the more modern quarter of the city into the Oriental district. They moved on past shops crammed with silks, linens, embroideries, jade and porcelains. Bales and baskets filled with the food-stuffs of the Orient encroached upon the sidewalk.

“I take it you expect to have money soon?” Fyfe said at last.

Smith smiled. “Why not? Last night I did you a favor. Oh—I’m nobody’s fool. I know why you made that fake confession. You were afraid I was going to repeat what I heard when I was standing outside that window. Weren’t you?”

“Just what did you overhear?”

“Enough, believe me. I heard that woman—the woman somebody killed later on—I heard her tell you that she——”