CHAPTER I

Morning at the Crossroads

The Pacific is the loneliest of oceans, and travelers across that
rolling desert begin to feel that their ship is lost in an eternity of
sky and water. But if they are journeying from the atolls of the South
Seas to the California coast, they come quite suddenly upon a half-way
house. So those aboard the _Oceanic_ had come upon it shortly after
dawn this silent July morning. Brown misty peaks rose from the ocean
floor, incredible, unreal. But they grew more probable with each moment
of approach, until finally the watchers at the rail were thrilled to
distinguish the bright green island of Oahu, streaked with darker folds
where lurk the valley rains.

The _Oceanic_ swung about to the channel entrance. There stood Diamond
Head, like a great lion–if you want the time-worn simile–crouched to
spring. A crouching lion, yes; the figure is plausible up to that
point; but as for springing–well, there has never been the slightest
chance of that. Diamond Head is a _kamaaina_ of the islands, and has
long ago sensed the futility of acting on impulse–of acting, as a
matter of fact, at all.

A woman traveler stood by the starboard rail on the boat deck, gazing
at the curved beach of Waikiki and, up ahead, the white walls of
Honolulu half hidden in the foliage behind the Aloha Tower. A handsome
woman in her early thirties, she had been a source of unending interest
to her fellow passengers throughout that hot monotonous voyage from
Tahiti. No matter in what remote corner of the world you have been
hiding, you would have recognized her at once, for she was Shelah Fane
of the pictures, and hers was a fame equal to that of any president or
king.

“A great piece of property” film salesmen had called her for eight
years or more, but now they had begun to shake their heads. “Not so
good. She’s slipping.” Golden lads and lasses must, like
chimney-sweepers, come to dust, which is something the film stars think
about when they can not sleep of nights. Shelah had not been sleeping
well of late, and her eyes, as they rested on peaceful Tantalus with
its halo of fleecy cloud, were sad and a little wistful.

She heard a familiar step on the deck behind her and turned. A broad,
powerful, keen-looking man was smiling down at her.

“Oh–Alan,” she said. “How are you this morning?”

“A bit anxious,” he replied. He joined her at the rail. His was a face
that had never known Klieg lights and make-up; it was deeply lined and
bronzed by tropic suns. “Journey’s end, Shelah–for you at least,” he
added, laying his hand over hers. “Are you sorry?”

She hesitated a moment. “Rather sorry–yes. I shouldn’t have cared if
we had just sailed on and on.”

“Nor I.” He stared at Honolulu with the bright look of interest that
comes naturally to British eyes at sight of a new port, a new
anchorage. The ship had come to a stop at the channel entrance, and a
launch bearing the customs men and the doctor was speeding toward it.

“You haven’t forgotten?” The Britisher turned back to Shelah Fane.
“This isn’t journey’s end for me. You know I’m leaving you behind here
to-night. Sailing out at midnight on this same ship–and I must have
your answer before I go.”

She nodded. “You shall have it before you go. I promise.”

For a brief moment he studied her face. A marked change had crept over
her at the sight of land. She had come back from the little world of
the ship to the great world whose adoration she expected and thrived
on. No longer calm, languorous, at peace, her eyes were alight with a
restless flame, her small foot tapped nervously on the deck. A sudden
fear overwhelmed him, a fear that the woman he had known and worshiped
these past few weeks was slipping from him for ever.

“Why must you wait?” he cried. “Give me your answer now.”

“No, no,” she protested. “Not now. Later to-day.” She glanced over her
shoulder. “Were there reporters on the launch, I wonder?”

A tall, handsome, hatless youth with a mop of blond hair waving in the
breeze rushed up to her. His energy was a challenge to the climate.

“Hello, Miss Fane. Remember me? Met you when you went through here on
your way south. Jim Bradshaw, of the Tourist Bureau, press-agent of
beauty, contact man for Paradise. Our best aloha–and here’s a lei to
prove it.” He hung a fragrant garland about her neck, while the man she
had called Alan moved quietly away.

“You’re awfully kind,” Shelah Fane told him. “Of course I remember you.
You seemed so glad to see me. You do now.”

He grinned. “I am–and besides, that’s my job. I’m the door-mat on the
threshold of Hawaii, with ‘welcome’ written all over me. Island
hospitality–I have to make sure that my advertisements all come true.
But in your case, I–well, believe me, it isn’t any strain.” He saw
that she looked expectantly beyond him. “Say, I’m sorry, but all the
newspaper men seem to be lingering in the arms of Morpheus. However,
you can’t blame them. Lulled as they are by the whisper of the soft
invigorating trade-winds in the coco-palms–I’ll finish that later.
Just tell me what’s doing, and I’ll see that it gets into the papers.
Did you complete the big South Sea picture down in Tahiti?”

“Not quite,” she answered. “We left a few sequences to be shot in
Honolulu. We can live here so much more comfortably, and the
backgrounds, you know, are every bit as beautiful—-“

“Do I know it?” the boy cried. “Ask me. Exotic flowers, blossoming
trees, verdant green hills, blue sunny skies with billowy white
clouds–the whole a dream of the unchanging tropics with the feel of
spring. How’s that? I wrote it yesterday.”

“Sounds pretty good to me,” Shelah laughed.

“You’ll be some time in Honolulu, Miss Fane?”

She nodded. “I’ve sent for my servants,” she told him. “They’ve taken a
house for me on the beach. I stifle in hotels–and then, too, people
are always staring at me. I hope it’s a large house—-“

“It is,” Bradshaw cut in. “I was out there yesterday. They’re all set
and waiting for you. I saw your butler–and your secretary, Julie
O’Neill. Speaking of that, some day I’d like to ask you where you find
secretaries like her.”

Shelah smiled. “Oh, Julie’s much more than a secretary. Sort of a
daughter–almost. Though of course that’s absurd to say, for we’re
nearly the same age.”

“Is that so?” said the boy–to himself.

“Julie’s mother was a dear friend of mine, and when she died four years
ago, I took the child in. One must do a good deed occasionally,” she
added, modestly looking down at the deck.

“Sure,” agreed Bradshaw. “If we don’t we’ll never be tapped for the Boy
Scouts. Julie was telling me how kind you’ve been—-“

“I’ve been amply repaid,” the star assured him. “Julie is a darling.”

“Isn’t she?” replied the boy heartily. “If I had my rhyming dictionary
along, I’d give you a good description of the girl right here and now.”

Shelah Fane looked at him suddenly. “But Julie got in only two days
ago—-“

“Yes–and so did I. Made a flying trip to Los Angeles, and came back on
the same boat with her. The best crossing I ever had. You
know–moonlight, silver seas, a pretty girl—-“

“I must look into this,” said Shelah Fane.

Two of the passengers joined them: a weary, disillusioned-looking man
whose costume suggested Hollywood Boulevard, and a dashing girl of
twenty. Shelah yielded to the inevitable. “Mr. Bradshaw, of the Tourist
Bureau,” she explained. “This is Miss Diana Dixon, who is in my new
picture, and Huntley Van Horn, my leading man.”

Miss Dixon lost no time. She sparkled instantly. “Honolulu is an
adorable place. I’m always so thrilled to come here–such beauty—-“

“Never mind,” cut in the star. “Mr. Bradshaw knows all that. None
better.”

“Always happy to have my ideas confirmed,” bowed the boy. “Especially
from such a charming source.” He turned to the man. “Mr. Van Horn–I’ve
seen you in the films.”

Van Horn smiled cynically. “So, I believe, have the natives of Borneo.
Has Shelah told you anything about our latest epic?”

“Very little,” Bradshaw replied. “Got a good part?”

“It always has been a good part,” Van Horn said. “I trust my rendering
of the rôle will not impair its future usefulness. If it does, many of
our leading studios will have to close. I’m a beach-comber, you see,
and I’ve sunk lower and lower—-“

“You would,” nodded the star.

“I’m wallowing in the depths, and quite comfortable, thank you,” went
on Van Horn, “when–if you can believe it–I’m saved. Absolutely
rehabilitated, you know, through the love of this primitive,
brown-skinned child.”

“Which child?” asked Bradshaw blankly. “Oh, you mean Miss Fane. Well,
it sounds like a great plot–but don’t tell me, don’t tell me.” He
turned to the star. “I’m glad you’re going to take a few shots in
Honolulu. That sort of thing makes us very happy at the Tourist Bureau.
I must run along–one or two other celebrities on the ship. Fellow
named Alan Jaynes–very wealthy—-“

“I was talking with him when you came up,” Shelah said.

“Thanks. I’ll go after him. Diamond mines–South Africa–he sounds
good. We’re strong for the arts in Hawaii, you know, but as for
money–well, when that appears in the harbor, then we really get out
the flags. See you all later.”

He disappeared down the deck, and the three picture people moved over
to the rail.

“Here comes Val,” said Huntley Van Horn, “looking like the man who
wrote the tropics.”

He referred to Val Martino, director of Shelah’s latest picture, who
was rapidly approaching along the deck. He was a short, stocky,
gray-haired man, dressed in a suit of immaculate white silk. Above a
flaming red tie loomed his broad heavy face. It was almost the same
shade as the tie, suggesting that Mr. Martino had never concerned
himself with such trivial matters as blood pressure and diet.

“Hello,” he said. “Well, here we are. Thank heaven, Tahiti has been
attended to. From this on, I’ll take my tropics after they’ve been
ruined by American plumbing. Was that a newspaper man you were talking
with, Shelah?”

“Not precisely. A boy from the Tourist Bureau.”

“I hope you laid it on thick about the new picture,” he continued. “You
know, we’ll need all the publicity we can get.”

“Oh, let’s forget the picture,” returned the star a bit wearily.

The _Oceanic_ was drawing slowly up to the pier, on which a
surprisingly meager crowd was waiting. Shelah Fane gazed at the group
with interest and some disappointment. She had rather hoped for a vast
throng of schoolgirls in white, bearing triumphal leis. But this had
happened when she went through before; she could not expect history to
repeat itself–and it was, too, only seven in the morning.

“There’s Julie,” she cried suddenly. “There–near the end of the pier.
See–she’s waving.” She returned Julie’s signal.

“Who’s that beside her?” Van Horn inquired. “Good lord–it looks like
Tarneverro.”

“It is Tarneverro,” Miss Dixon said.

“What’s he doing here?” the leading man wondered.

“Perhaps he’s here because I sent for him,” said Shelah Fane.

A quiet black-garbed maid stood at her side. “What is it, Anna?”

“The customs men, madam. They’re going through everything. You’d better
come. They want talking to, it seems.”

“I’ll talk to them,” said the star firmly, and followed the maid into
her suite.

“Well, what do you know about that?” Van Horn remarked. “She’s sent for
that phony fortune-teller to come all the way from Hollywood—-“

“What do you mean, phony?” cut in Miss Dixon “Tarneverro is simply
wonderful. He’s told me the most amazing things about my past–and
about my future, too. I never take a step without consulting him–and
neither does Shelah.”

Martino shook his great head impatiently. “It’s a rotten scandal,” he
cried, “the way most of you Hollywood women have gone mad over voodoo
men. Telling them all your secrets–some day one of them will publish
his memoirs, and then where will you be? A few of us try to lift the
industry to a dignified plane–but, oh, lord–what’s the use?”

“No use, my dear fellow,” said Van Horn. He looked across the
intervening stretch of water at the tall lean figure of the
fortune-teller. “Poor Shelah–there’s something rather touching in such
faith as this. I presume she wants to ask Tarneverro whether or not she
shall marry Alan Jaynes.”

“Of course she does,” Miss Dixon nodded. “She wants to know if she’ll
be happy with him. She cabled Tarneverro the day after Jaynes proposed.
Why not? Marriage is a serious step.”

Martino shrugged. “If she’d only ask me, I’d read her future quick
enough. She’s nearly through in pictures, and she ought to know it. Her
contract expires in six months, and I happen to know–in strict
confidence, you understand–it won’t be renewed. I can see her taking a
long journey by water then–going abroad to make a picture–the
beginning of the end. She’d better grab this diamond king quick before
he changes his mind. But no–she’s fooling round with a back-parlor
crystal-gazer. However, that’s like you people. You won’t grow up.” He
walked away.

The formalities of the port were quickly ended, and the _Oceanic_
docked. Shelah Fane was the first down the plank, to be received by the
eager arms of her secretary. Julie was young, impetuous, unspoiled; her
joy was genuine.

“The house is all ready, Shelah. It’s a knockout. Jessop is there, and
we’ve found a Chinese cook who’s a magician. The car’s waiting.”

“Really, dear?”

The star looked up into the dark deep-set eyes of the man at Julie’s
side. “Tarneverro–what a relief to see you here. But I knew I could
depend on you.”

“Always,” said the fortune-teller gravely.

What the crowd lacked in numbers, it made up in noise and confusion.
Anna, the maid, was overwhelmed with boxes and bags, and seeing this,
Tarneverro went to help her. There was no condescension in his manner;
he treated her with the same courtly grace he would have shown the star.

Alan Jaynes and Bradshaw appeared on the scene. The latter went over to
greet Julie with as much warmth as though he had just arrived after a
long hard voyage from some distant port. Jaynes stepped quickly to
Shelah’s side.

“I shall be damnably anxious,” he said. “This afternoon–may I come
then?”

“Of course,” she nodded. “Oh–this is Julie–you’ve heard about her.
Julie, please tell him the number of our house. We’re just beyond the
Grand Hotel, on Kalakaua Avenue.”

Julie told him, and he turned back to Shelah. “I shan’t keep you—-“
he began.

“Just a moment,” said the star. “I want to introduce an old friend from
Hollywood. Tarneverro–will you come here, please?”

The fortune-teller handed a couple of bags to Shelah’s chauffeur, and
came at once. Jaynes looked at him with some surprise.

“Tarneverro–I want you to meet Alan Jaynes,” the star said.

They shook hands. “Glad to know you,” remarked the Britisher. As he
gazed into the other man’s face, he experienced a sudden sensation of
deep dislike. Here was power; not the power of muscle, which he had
himself and could understand; but something more subtle, something
uncanny, inexplicable and oddly disturbing. “Sorry, but I must dash
along now,” he added.

He disappeared into the crowd, and Julie led them to the waiting car.
Tarneverro, it appeared, was stopping at the Grand, and Shelah offered
to drop him there.

Presently they were bowling along through Honolulu’s streets, under a
flaming blue sky. The town was waking to another leisurely day. Men of
many races languidly bestirred themselves; at the corner of King Street
a boy offered the morning paper, and a fat brown-skinned policeman
lazily turned a stop-go sign to let them pass. Shelah Fane, like all
passengers newly descended from a ship at this port, felt rather
dazzled by the brightness and the color.

“Oh, I shall enjoy this,” she cried. “I’ve never stayed here longer
than one day before. What a relief to be out of the South Seas.”

“But they’re romantic, aren’t they?” Julie asked.

“The illusions of youth,” the star shrugged. “I shan’t destroy them.
Only don’t mention Tahiti to me again as long as I live.”

“Not quite like the books,” Tarneverro nodded. He sat, mysterious even
in that bright world, at Shelah’s side. “I discovered that for myself,
long ago. You’re staying here for some time, I take it?”

“A month, I hope,” the star answered. “A couple of weeks still to go on
the picture, and then, I trust, a fortnight’s rest. I want it badly,
Tarneverro. I’m tired–tired.”

“You need not tell me that,” he said. “I have eyes.”

He had, indeed, eyes; eyes that were cold and piercing and rather
disquieting. The car sped on past the old royal palace and the
judiciary building, and turned off into Kalakaua Avenue.

“It was so good of you to come over here,” Shelah told him.

“Not at all,” he replied evenly. “I started the day after I got your
cable. I was due for a vacation–my work, you know, is not precisely
restful. Then, too, you said you needed me. That was enough. That will
always be–enough.”

Julie began to chatter about the islands: she mentioned the warm
caressing waters of Waikiki, the thrill of haunting native music in the
purple night, the foreign pageant of the streets.

“All of which,” smiled Shelah, “sounds very much to me like James
Bradshaw in one of his more lyric moods.”

Julie laughed. “Yes, I guess I was quoting Jimmy. Did you meet him,
Shelah?”

“I met him,” the star nodded.

“He’s really very nice,” Julie assured her. “Especially when he isn’t
talking shop.”

The pink walls of the Grand Hotel appeared at that moment through a
network of majestic palms, and Shelah directed the chauffeur to turn in
at the gates.

“I must talk with you very soon,” she said to Tarneverro. “I have so
much to ask you. You see—-“

He raised a slim white hand. “Don’t tell me, please,” he smiled. “Let
me tell you.”

She glanced at him, a little startled. “Oh–of course. I need your
advice, Tarneverro. You must help me again, as you have helped me so
often in the past.”

He nodded gravely. “I shall try. With what success–who knows? Come to
my apartment at eleven o’clock–it is number nineteen, on the first
floor. There is a short flight of stairs leading to my corridor just at
the left of the hotel desk as you enter. I shall expect you.”

“Yes, yes.” Her voice was trembling. “I must settle this thing to-day.
I’ll be there.”

Tarneverro bowed from the hotel steps, and as the car drove off Shelah
was conscious of Julie’s frank young eyes fixed on her with a
disapproval that was almost contempt.

The head bell-man touched Tarneverro’s sleeve. “Excuse. There is a man
who waits to see you. This one.”

The fortune-teller turned to perceive a bulky Chinese who approached
him with an amazingly light step. The ivory face was wearing a somewhat
stupid expression; the black eyes were veiled and sleepy-looking. Not a
very intelligent Chinese, Tarneverro thought, wondering vaguely what
this visit presaged.

The Oriental placed one hand on his broad chest, and achieved a grand
bow despite his waist-line.

“A thousand pardons,” he remarked. “Have I the undisputable honor to
address Tarneverro the Great?”

“I am Tarneverro,” answered the other bruskly. “What can I do for you?”

“Permit that I introduce myself,” continued the Chinese, “unworthy of
your notice though I am. The name is Harry Wing, and I am humble
business man of this island. Do I extend my remarks too far when I say
I wish to see you alone?”

Tarneverro shrugged. “What for?”

“The matter is of pressing urgency. If I might suggest–your room—-“

The fortune-teller gazed for a moment into that placid mask of a face,
behind which life seemed nonexistent. He capitulated. “Come along,” he
said. Obtaining his key at the desk, he led the way.

Once inside the door of number nineteen, he turned to confront his odd
visitor, who had followed on noiseless feet. The curtains of the
sitting-room were drawn back as far as they would go, and the place was
flooded with light. With his customary forethought, Tarneverro had
selected an apartment on the mountain side of the hotel, and a restless
cool wind from the Koolau Range swept in at the window and stirred the
papers lying on a desk.

The countenance of the Chinese was still without expression, even under
the piercing scrutiny the fortune-teller now gave it.

“Well?” said Tarneverro.

“You are the famous Tarneverro,” began Harry Wing in a respectful
singsong. “Among Hollywood people you have vast reputation as one who
lifts dark veils and peers into uncertain future. Black as lacquer that
future may be to ordinary eyes, but to yours, they say, it is clear as
glass. Permit me to add this reputation pursues you even to Hawaii,
dogging like shadow at your heels. The rumor of your mystic skill
floods the street.”

“Yes?” put in Tarneverro shortly. “What of it?”

“I am, as I say, business man of small importance to everybody but
myself. Now I begin to speak to you frankly that opportunity arouses
itself in my path. I can amalgamate my business up together with that
of my cousin from a north province. Future looks bright, but qualms
assail me. Will the merge have success? Is my cousin honorable as
cousin of mine should naturally be? Can I trust him? In fewer words, I
desire dark veil lifted, and you are man to do the business. I stand
ready to make generous payment for this lifting.”

Tarneverro’s eyes narrowed, and for a long time he stood staring at
this unexpected customer for his wares. The Chinese waited motionless
as a Buddha, with his hands in his trousers pockets, his coat thrown
back. The fortune-teller’s glance rested for a moment at a point just
below the fountain-pen pocket on his visitor’s waistcoat.

“Impossible,” he said, with sudden decision. “I am here on a vacation,
not to practise my profession.”

“But rumor remarks,” objected the other, “that you have already done
work with crystal—-“

“For one or two of the hotel managers–as a friendly gesture,”
Tarneverro cut in. “I received no fee of any sort. I will not do this
kind of thing for the general public.”

Harry Wing shrugged. “The matter then becomes sad disappointment for
me,” he answered.

A grim smile spread over the seer’s dark face. “Sit down,” he said. “I
have spent some time in China, and I understand how great is the
interest of your people in fortune-tellers. So for a moment, while you
were telling me why you came, I thought you were speaking the truth.”

The visitor frowned. “I am now rapidly failing to understand you.”

Still smiling, Tarneverro dropped into a chair facing the Oriental.
“Yes, Mr.–ah–er–Wing, I believe you said–momentarily I was
deceived. And then a certain little gift of mine came to my aid. You
have been kind enough to speak of my success. I have succeeded–why?
Because I happen to be psychic, Mr. Wing—-“

“Chinese people are psychic, too.”

“Just a moment. As I stood there listening to you, a psychic wave swept
over me. I had a feeling–a feeling of–what? Of stern men who sit in
police stations and are sworn to enforce the laws. Of detectives
pursuing evil-doers, landing them at last–and then, a court of
justice, so-called, a learned judge. That, my friend, is the feeling I
had. Rather amazing, don’t you think?”

His visitor’s expression had lost suddenly all its stupidity. The
little black eyes snapped with admiration.

“Amazing smart act on your part, yes. But as for me, I do not think it
was psychic feeling. A moment ago I beheld your eyes resting with
fierce understanding on locality of my own waistcoat from which
detective badge was recently removed. The pin has left indelible marks.
You are number one detective yourself, and I congratulate you.”

Tarneverro threw back his head and laughed. “_Touché!_” he cried. “So
you are a detective, Mr.–er—-“

“The name is Chan,” said the bulky Chinese, grinning broadly.
“Inspector Chan, of the Honolulu police–former times Sergeant, but
there has been upheaval in local police department, and I am rewarded
far beyond my humble merits. Trap which has just failed so flatly, I
add in justice to me personally, was not my idea. I informed Chief it
would not work unless you happened to be extreme dull-wit. Since you
turn out clever beyond expectation, it did not. No bitter feelings. I
pause only to call attention to local ordinance which says men like you
must not practise dark arts in this town without obtaining permission.
A word being spoken to the wise, I rise to accomplish my exit.”

Tarneverro also stood up. “I am not going to practise among your
townspeople,” he announced. He had dropped the tense air of mystery
which he evoked for the benefit of film stars, and seemed quite human
and not unlikable. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. As
for my own detective prowess, I may say in confidence that it is rather
useful in my work.”

“Must be so,” returned Chan. “But such skill as yours should be at
service of public. Frequently in Los Angeles murder mystery leaps into
print and never gets solved. I study them all with fiery interest. The
Taylor case–what an amazing happening was there–_haie_, it is still
mystery. And case of Denny Mayo, famous actor of handsome countenance,
dead in his home at night. How many years–three and more–and Denny
Mayo is still unavenged by Los Angeles police.”

“And never will be,” added the fortune-teller. “No, Inspector, that is
not in my line. I find it safer to dwell on the future and soft-pedal
Hollywood’s past.”

“In such course, wisdom may abide,” agreed Chan. “None the less, how
happily I would welcome your aid if some such worrisome puzzle stared
into my face. I will say good-by, Mr. Tarneverro. Memory of your
cleverness will linger in my poor mind for long time to come.”

He slipped quietly out, and Tarneverro glanced at his watch. With a
leisurely air, he placed a small table in the middle of the room, and
taking from a bureau drawer a gleaming crystal, stood it thereon. Then
he stepped to the window and drew the curtains part way across,
shutting out a goodly portion of the bright light outside. Glancing
about the darkened room, he shrugged his shoulders. Not such an
impressive stage-setting as his studio in Los Angeles, but it would
have to serve. Sitting down by the window, he took out of his pocket a
bulky letter and, slitting the flap of the envelope, began to read. The
curtains, caught in the fierce grip of the trade-wind, swirled about
his head.

At eleven o’clock Shelah Fane knocked on the door, and he ushered her
into his sitting-room. She was gowned in white and appeared younger
than she had at the dock, but her eyes were clouded with worry.
Tarneverro’s manner was professional now; he was cold, remote,
unsympathetic. He seated her at the table behind the crystal; then,
drawing the curtains all the way, plunged the room into almost complete
darkness.

“Tarneverro–you must tell me what to do,” she began. He sat down
opposite her.

“Wait,” he commanded. He looked fixedly into the crystal. “I see you
standing at the rail on the boat deck of a steamer, under a brilliant
moon. You are wearing a dinner gown–it is gold and matches your hair.
There is a scarf of the same color about your shoulders. A man is
standing at your side; he points, and offers you a pair of glasses. You
raise them to your eyes–you catch the last faint glimmer of the lights
along the front at Papeete, the port from which you sailed a few brief
hours ago.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Shelah Fane. “Oh, Tarneverro–how do you know—-“

“The man turns. I can see him only dimly, but I recognize him. To-day,
on the pier–Alan Jaynes–was that his name? He has asked you a
question–marriage, perhaps–but you shake your head. Reluctantly. You
want to say yes–yet you don’t. You put him off. Why? I feel you love
this man.”

“I do,” the star cried. “Oh, Tarneverro–I really do. I knew him first
at Papeete–only a week–but in a place like that—-The first night
out–it was just as you say–he proposed to me. I haven’t given him my
answer yet. I want to say yes–to have a little happiness now–I’ve
earned it, I think. But I—I’m afraid—-“

He lifted his piercing eyes from the crystal. “You’re afraid. Something
in your past–you fear it will return to haunt you—-“

“No, no,” the woman cried.

“Something that happened long ago.”

“No, no–it isn’t true.”

“You can not deceive me. How long ago? I can not quite determine, and
it is necessary that I know.”

The trade-wind mumbled at the curtains. Shelah Fane’s eyes wandered
helplessly about the darkened room, then came back to Tarneverro’s.

“How long ago?” the man demanded again.

She sighed. “Three years ago last month,” she said in a voice so low he
had to strain to hear.

He was silent for a moment, his mind racing like an engine. June–three
years ago. He gazed fixedly into the crystal; his lips moved. “Denny
Mayo,” he said softly. “Something about Denny Mayo. Ah, yes–I see it
now.”

The wind tore the curtains apart, and a wide strip of dazzling light
fell across Shelah Fane’s face. Her eyes were staring, frightened.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she moaned.

“What about Denny Mayo?” Tarneverro went on relentlessly. “Shall I tell
you–or will you tell me?”

She pointed to the window. “A balcony. There’s a balcony out there.”

As one who humors a child, he rose and looked outside. He came back to
the table. “Yes, there’s a balcony–but no one is on it.”

He sat down again, and his bold commanding eyes sought hers. She was
trapped, and helpless.

“Now!” said Tarneverro the Great.