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I heard, poor Shelah was—murdered. I intended to tell the police the whole story at once, but somehow—when it came right down to it—I couldn’t. Shelah, who had always been so straight and fine, such a good pal, so generous and kind. I pictured that blot on her past, that wild thing she had done in one irresponsible moment, cabled to the ends of the earth. She was gone. To find her murderer would never bring her back. No, I thought, keep Shelah’s name unsullied. That’s your job now.

“Then this accursed beach-comber came in and started his story. I went a little mad myself. I’d always loved Shelah—I loved her still—more than ever when I saw her last night. So I made my melodramatic confession to shut off the investigation. I don’t know whether I’d have gone through with it or not—this morning when I woke up it seemed that I had carried chivalry a bit too far. Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to go through with it—Mr. Chan disproved my confession on the spot. But I had succeeded in my purpose, I had given Smith here a tip, and when he came to me to-day I was ready and willing to pay all I had to keep him quiet. I couldn’t bear the thought of Shelah disgraced before the world that had so greatly admired her.”

Charlie got up and laid his hand on the actor’s shoulder. “You have caused me much trouble, but I forgive freely, for you are gallant gentleman. Pardon me if I grow tiresome with much pounding on one point, but it is of vast importance. You are quite sure that Miss Fane told her story to Tarneverro exactly as she told it to you?”

“Absolutely,” Fyfe replied. “And if you can find