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“Of course,” said Julie. “Just wait, and I’ll get her. While you’re waiting, if you don’t mind—will you sing The Song of the Islands? It’s Miss Fane’s favorite, you know.”

She left the door open and returned to the living-room. “Come on, Jimmy—we'll find Shelah. I think she’s in the pavilion.”

“Sure,” said Jimmy. They went out on the lawn.

“Couldn’t be better,” Julie cried. “For Shelah’s entrance on the party, I mean. That crowd outside serenading her as she comes in—she’ll love it.”

“Good lord,” said Bradshaw, disapproval in his voice.

“Oh, I know,” the girl answered. “It’s silly, but poor Shelah’s what she is. Her life has made her so, and she can’t change.” They went on across the soft lawn under the hau trees and the algarobas. The sweet haunting strains of The Song of the Islands came to them on the evening breeze. “Hurry,” Julie said, “Shelah must get in there before that song ends.”

She ran up the steps of the pavilion, with Bradshaw close behind. He pushed open the door of the single room. For a second he stood there, then he turned swiftly and caught the girl in his arms.

“No, no,” he cried. “Don’t go any farther.”

His tone frightened her. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around and go back,” he pleaded, but she tore away from him and ran inside.

“You'll be sorry,” he warned.

And she was sorry, it seemed, for above the voices of the serenaders and the distant whine of steel guitars, her own voice rose in a sharp cry of fright and terror.

Shelah Fane lay on the floor beside a small straight-