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Chan turned to Julie. “You have spoken of Miss Fane’s maid. She alone remains to be interviewed. Will you be so good as to produce her?”

Julie nodded and went out. Wu Kno-ching still lingered at the door, and now he burst into a tirade, with appropriate gestures. Charlie listened for a moment, and then shooed the old man from the room.

“Wu complains that no one eats his dinner,” he smiled. “He is great artist who lacks appreciation, and his ancient heart cracks with rage.”

“Well,” remarked Jimmy Bradshaw, “I suppose it’s an unfeeling thing to say, but I could put away a little of his handiwork.”

Chan nodded. “I have thought of that. Later, perhaps. Why not? Do the dead gain if the living starve?”

Julie returned, followed by Anna, the maid. The latter was a dark thin woman who moved gracefully.

“The name, please?” Chan inquired.

“Anna Rodderick,” she answered. There was just a trace of defiance in her tone.

“You have been with Miss Shelah Fane how long?”

“Something like a year and a half, sir.”

“I see. Before that you were perhaps employed elsewhere in Hollywood?”

“No, sir, I was not. I went with Miss Fane the day after my arrival there, and I have never been employed by any one else in the picture colony.”

“How did you happen to go to California, please?”

“I was in service in England, and a friend wrote me of the higher wages that prevailed in the States.”

“Your relations with Miss Fane—they were pleasant?”