Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/280

THEY sat in silence, and the minutes dragged by. Smith’s pale gray eyes stared hopelessly into the future, a future where he walked for ever, broke and forlorn, along a curving beach. Lighting a big cigar, the Chief picked up the evening paper. Charlie Chan took the diamond bar pin from his pocket and studied it, deep in thought.

Ten minutes passed, and then Robert Fyfe entered the room. He came in as though he were stepping on to a stage: suave, smiling, sure of himself. But as his gaze fell upon Smith the smile faded suddenly, and a frown replaced it.

“Good evening,” the actor said. “I can give you about twenty minutes, Mr. Chan, and then I must run. It wouldn’t do to be late at the theater again to-night.”

“Twenty minutes will be ample plenty,” nodded Charlie. “Mr. Smith and yourself have met before. Over here sits my Chief.”

Fyfe bowed. “Ah, yes. I take it you have called me here for some important reason, Inspector?”

“Seems important to us,’ Chan answered. “I will squander no words. Last night you hold famous conversation with ex-wife in beach pavilion. The true contents of that talk have not yet been revealed. First