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“Who said it was blackmail?” demanded Fyfe.

“I say so. Mr. Fyfe, I could place you beneath arrest——”

“Isn’t my alibi satisfactory?”

“Quite. But you hamper my work. For the last time—what was it Smith, the beach-comber, heard your ex-wife say to you?”

The stage manager came to the footlights, and called.

“I’m so sorry,” said Fyfe, “but I’m keeping the company. I really must go along——”

Chan shrugged. “The inquiry is young, as yet. Before I am through, I will know, Mr. Fyfe.”

“Drop in any time,” said Fyfe blandly, holding out his hand. “Too bad I must leave you now, but an actor’s life, you know——”

Chan gravely shook hands, and the actor hurried up the aisle. As he returned to the bright street, Charlie wore a puzzled frown. He knew that behind Fyfe’s suave manner there lurked something of vital importance—something that might, indeed, solve his problem. Yet he would never get it from Fyfe. The beach-comber—ah, perhaps. He made a mental note of the beach-comber.

Climbing back into his flivver, Chan drove over to King Street and turned in the direction of Waikiki. As he passed the public library, set well back from the street amid great trees, he was tempted to stop. It occurred to him that he ought to read, in a Los Angeles paper, the story of Denny Mayo’s murder. Buried in the yellowed columns describing that spectacular moment in the movie colony’s history, he might discover a line that would at once put him on the true scent in his search for Shelah Fane’s assailant.