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telling him anything about Denny Mayo. She merely wanted him to read her future, to advise her as to whether a marriage with Jaynes would turn out happily. But he—he seemed to exert some mysterious power over her. Perhaps he hypnotized her. In any case, the first thing she knew, she found herself confessing the whole terrible story to the fortune-teller——”

“Stop!” cried Chan, with unaccustomed bruskness. “Ah, pardon me—one moment, please. You mean to say she told Tarneverro that she herself killed Denny Mayo?”

“Of course she did. I——”

“But Tarneverro relates different story.”

“Then he lies. Shelah confessed to him that she had killed Denny—don’t you understand—that’s why she was so frightened, why she sent for me. I was the only one she could turn to, she said. She hadn’t liked the light she saw in Tarneverro’s eyes when she made her confession. She was deathly afraid of the man. She was sure he planned to use that confession in some way that would do her infinite harm. She clung to me, pleaded for my help. But what could I do? What was there to be done?”

Fyfe sat down as though exhausted by his story. “I tried to reassure her, promised to help her all I could—but I pointed out to her that I must get back to the theater at once. She begged me to stand by, stay with her—but you know, gentlemen, the show must go on. I had never disappointed an audience in my life—I refused to do it then. I left her and returned to town.”

Again Fyfe buried his face in his hands. “If I had only stayed with her—but I didn’t. The next thing