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He took the heavy shoe from Anna’s hand, turned it over, and with his penknife slit the rubber heel. A little half-inch length of gold pin lay exposed, and with a gesture of triumph he lifted it out and held it up.

“You are all witnesses,” he reminded them. He turned to Anna. “As for you, I fear you have been grossly careless. When you stamped those orchids under foot, you failed to note this telltale evidence of your act. Ah, well—but for such brief moments of neglect, we would get nowhere in this business.” He gave his attention to the shoe. “I note braces built along the sides,” he continued. “Meant to protect weak ankle, I think. You have had an accident, madam?”

“My—my ankle was broken—long ago,” she replied, in a voice barely audible.

“Broken?” cried Charlie quickly. “When? How? Was it dancing on the stage you broke that ankle? Ah, yes—it was. Madam—I think you were once the wife of Denny Mayo.”

The woman took a little step toward him. Her eyes were hard and defiant, but her usually dark face was white as Waikiki’s sands.