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It beat fiercely on the top of the little car and blurred the windshield. Yet a mile away, at Charlie’s back, Honolulu sparkled in the midday sun.

He reached the handsome house of Wilkie Ballou, and Rita received him in the dark drawing-room. Her husband, she explained, was up-stairs dressing for his afternoon golf. In Honolulu a real golfer pays no attention to rain; it may be pouring on his street, but bright and sunny round the corner. Rita’s manner was cordial, and Chan took heart.

“I am so sorry to obtrude my obnoxious presence,” he apologized. “If you never saw me again, I feel sure you would like it well enough. But—mere matter of form—I must inflict little talk on every one present at sad affair last night.”

Rita nodded. “Poor Shelah! How are you getting on, Inspector?”

“I make splendid progress,” he informed her blithely. There was, he felt, no occasion to go into that. “Would you speak with me little while about days when you were famous Hollywood figure?”

With bored eyes, Rita looked out at the rain lashing against the window. “I certainly will,” she said.

“May I add that you broke heart of my eldest daughter, who is great film fan, when you retired from silvery sheet? No one, she moans, is ever so good as you were.”

Rita’s face brightened. “She remembers me? That’s sweet of her.”

“Your fine skill will never be forgotten anywhere,” Chan assured her, and knew that he had made a friend for life.

“How can I help you?” she inquired.