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“Come, come,” cried the Chief. “Get on with it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. I just wanted to point out how beautiful she was—a woman like that ought to be allowed at least one—shot.”

Chan stood up. “What is your meaning now?”

“I mean she’d taken it, anyhow. She was telling Mr. Fyfe all about it—how three years ago, in Hollywood, she killed a man——”

With a groan Fyfe sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

“Killed what man?” the Chief demanded.

“Ah, yes—the name.” Smith hesitated. “Denny, I think she called him. Yes, that was it—Denny Mayo.”

There was a moment’s tense silence, and then Fyfe leaped to his feet. “Let me tell this,” he cried. “It will sound dreadful, if he tells it. Let me explain about Shelah—she was emotional, impetuous. I'll try to make you understand——”

“I don’t care who tells it,” said the Chief. “But I want it told, and quick.”

Fyfe turned to Chan. “You heard, Inspector, how she called me at the theater—a distracted, pitiful call—and said she must see me at once. I answered that I’d come after the show, but she said no, that might be too late. If I’d ever loved her, I must come at once. She had something to tell me, she wanted my advice, she was desperate. So—I went.

“I met her on the lawn; she seemed overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. We went to the pavilion and she burst at once into her story. Some years after our divorce, she told me, she met this Denny Mayo—she fell madly in love with him—I could picture it. I