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“Yes?” returned Tarneverro lightly.

Charlie’s small eyes were fixed upon the other’s face with a fierce intensity. Not too soon to collect impressions, to weigh, to measure, to study.

“Miss Shelah Fane,” he said slowly, “is just now found murdered at her home.”

For hours afterward he was to speculate upon the look that crossed that dark mysterious face.

“Shelah!” Tarneverro cried. “Good God!”

“You were on your way there, perhaps?” Charlie continued.

“I—I—yes—of course———”

“Do me the honor to ride with me. I desire to ask questions.”

Val Martino hurried up. “I say, Tarneverro—are you going down the beach?”

Tarneverro told him the news. The director heard it with surprising calmness.

“Too bad,” he said evenly. He was thoughtful. “Well, there goes six months’ hard work. That picture’s ruined. I'll never find anybody to double for her—I’ve tried it———”

“Good lord, man!” cried Tarneverro angrily. “Shelah is dead, and you babble about your picture.”

“Sorry,” said Martino. “Sorry for poor Shelah. But even in the movies, the show must go on.”

“What became of that fellow Jaynes?” Tarneverro asked suddenly.

“Right after we left you, he shook me off and strolled down the beach. He was in a state of mind—well, you saw that. Wasn’t coming to the dinner—but I fancy I'd better find him and bring him down, eh?”