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“Which child?” asked Bradshaw blankly. Oh, you mean Miss Fane. Well, it sounds like a great plot—but don't tell me, don't tell me. He turned to the star. “I'm glad you're going to take a few shots in Honolulu. That sort of thing makes us very happy at the Tourist Bureau. I must run along—one of two other celebrities on the ship. Fellow named Alan Jaynes—very wealthy———”

“I was taliking with him when you came up,” Shelah said.

“Thanks. I'll go after him. Diamond mines—South Africa—he sounds good. We're strong for the arts in Hawaii, you know, but as for money—well, when that appears in the harbor, then we really get out the flags. See you all later.”

He disappeared down into the deck, and the three picture people moved over to the rail.

“Here comes Val, said Huntley Van Horn, "looking like the man who wrote the tropics.”

He referred to Val Martino, director of Shelah's latest picture, who was rapidly approaching along the deck. He was a short, stocky, gray-haired man, dressed in a suit of immaculate white silk. Abover a flaming red tie loomed his broad heavy face. It was almost the same shade as the tie, suggesting that Mr. Martino had never concerned himself with such trivial matters as blood pressure and diet.

“Hello,” he said. “Well, here we are. Thank heaven, Tahiti has been attended to. From this on, I'll take my tropics after they've been ruined by American plumbing. Was that a newspaper man you were talking with, Shelah?”

“Not precisely. A boy from the Tourist Bureau.”