"That protects you and it protects me," Perry Mason said. "It shows exactly what you're instructed to do. Above all, be sure that you don't lie. Don't say that your name is Hazel Fenwick. Don't say that your name is Hazel Basset. Never admit that you're anyone except Thelma Bevins. Simply say that you're expecting the papers and will accept service of them. Do you understand that?"

"I think I do," she said. "And I get three hundred dollars when it's over with?"

"That's right."

She leaned across the desk and gave Perry Mason her hand.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll make a good job of it."

The telephone rang and Della Street, lifting the receiver and listening, glanced at Perry Mason.

"Paul Drake, Chief," she said.

Mason said, "Run Miss Bevins out through that side door, Della. I don't want Paul Drake to see her. She can go around and come in the office from the other entrance. Tell Drake to come in. I'll hold him here until you get finished with Miss Bevins. Then take her down to the plane and see her aboard. Just as soon as you hit Reno, Miss Bevins, get that apartment. You'll be there for less than a week, so rent it by the week. Wire me the address of the apartment. Don't sign the telegram. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and Della Street piloted her through the side door. A few moments later she appeared and ushered Paul Drake into the office.

"Thought I'd look in to see if things were coming all right," Drake said.

Mason nodded, and said, "They're okay, Paul."

"You contacted Stephen Chalmers all right?"

"Yes. I'm going to file his divorce action today."

"I got those pictures you wanted," Drake said. "I'll have the prints for you sometime tomorrow."

"Have any trouble?" Mason asked.

"Not a bit. We got everyone in the house, with one exception."

"Why the exception?"

"Colemar," the detective said. "He was last on the list and he smelled a rat. You see, Perry, I wanted to save you that fifty bucks. I didn't see any reason for having a newspaper photographer do the job. I got one of my men to pose as a reporter from the Journal. It got by okay until we came to Colemar. Seems that Colemar is going to be a witness. He'd just come from the D.A.'s office. He called them on the phone and asked if they wanted him to pose. Seems like they've warned him not to do or say anything unless he asks them…"

"What did the D.A.'s office say?" Mason asked. "Did they smell a rat?"

"Evidently they did because Colemar hung up the telephone and then called the Journal and asked for the city editor's desk. That checkmated my man. He grabbed his camera and beat it. Can you get along without Colemar, Perry?"

"I think I can," Mason said, "if you're sure he's going to be a witness for the prosecution."

"Sure he is," the detective asserted. "He's been spilling something to them. They'd evidently told him not to do anything until he'd called them."

Mason nodded slowly and asked, "How about those other pictures, Paul? Do they show anything peculiar about the facial expressions?"

"Nothing I can find," the detective said. "Look them over for yourself. Overton apparently tried to keep any expression whatever from showing on his face. Edith Brite had her lips compressed in a grim line. Dick Basset looks as though he were posing for a portrait, but the photographer told me he had a lot of trouble getting Dick to keep his eyes on the camera. Dick kept letting his gaze wander down to a spot on the floor. Does that mean anything?"

"It may," Mason said, "but probably it doesn't. I'll have to study the picture. How about this Brite woman…?"

Drake interrupted him in a low voice, saying, "Listen, Perry, this may be serious as hell. You heard about young McLane?"

Mason nodded and said, "Yes, I heard some rumors. How do the police figure it, Paul? Was it murder or suicide?"

"I don't know. They're keeping it pretty close. But I'm wondering about that eye he was holding, Perry. You remember I got you a bunch of eyes. I'd feel a lot better if I saw that bunch of eyes again."

"Why?"

"I'd just like to make certain they're all there."

Mason shrugged his shoulders. "Those eyes, Paul, are all gone."

"Where?"

"Never mind where."

"Suppose they trace me through the wholesaler…"

"I told you," Mason interrupted, "not to leave a back trail."

"Sometimes a man can't help it."

"Then," the lawyer said, "it's just too bad."

"Look here, Perry. You said you'd keep me out of jail."

"You're not in yet, are you?"

The detective shivered and said, "I have a hunch I'm going to be."

Mason said slowly, "Paul, I think we'd better rush this case to trial. The district attorney wants to hold the preliminary examination day after tomorrow. I'm going to consent to it."

The detective puckered his forehead in a worried frown. "Look here, Perry, we're in this thing together."

"Get your suitcase packed, Paul," the lawyer interrupted; "you're taking the next plane to Reno."

"To get away from this eye business?" Drake asked.

"No, to serve papers on Hazel Fenwick, sometimes known as Hazel Chalmers, also known as Hazel Basset."

Drake gave a low whistle and said, "So, you did know where she was!"

Mason lit a cigarette. "You make too damn many comments, Paul," he said.

Drake started for the door.

"I'm packing my suitcase, Perry, but just remember one thing—you promised to keep me out of jail."

Mason waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal and rang for Della Street. She entered the room just as the detective was leaving. Mason waited until the door closed, and then said, "Take a divorce complaint, Della. The ground will be desertion. The defendant will be described as Hazel Chalmers, also known as Hazel Fenwick, and sometimes known as Mrs. Richard Basset."

The secretary stared at him in openmouthed surprise.

"Why," she said, "if you file the action that way, every newspaper in town will pounce on it. They follow the divorce actions as routine news."

Mason nodded. "I'm sending Paul Drake on to Reno by the evening plane," he said. "Get that girl started at once. When she wires us the address of her apartment, we'll wire Drake to serve papers on her there."

Della Street, watching him curiously, said, "A lot of the newspaper boys know that Paul Drake serves most of our papers."

Mason nodded his head slowly. "If," he said, "I can make the proper buildup on this thing, I can get away with it, but everything depends on the buildup. Go ahead and knock out that divorce complaint, then see that it gets filed."

Judge Kenneth D. Winters, the judge of the lower court, who was acting as a committing magistrate, fully appreciated the spotlight of publicity which had been focused upon him.

"This," he said, "is the time fixed for the preliminary hearing of Peter Brunold and Sylvia Basset, jointly charged with the murder of one Hartley Basset. Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed with the preliminary hearing?"

"Ready," said Perry Mason.

District Attorney Burger nodded.

Newspaper reporters squared themselves over their notebooks and settled down to business. The case was virtually unique, in that the district attorney himself was conducting a preliminary hearing, and every newspaper man in the room knew that there were events in the making.

"James Overton," said District Attorney Burger, "will you please come forward and be sworn."

Overton held up his right hand, stood staring over the courtroom, dark saturnine, sardonic, yet, withal with an air of polished poise about him which seemed in some way, to set him apart from the others.

"Your name is James Overton and you were employed as a chauffeur for Hartley Basset?" Burger asked, as Overton, having been sworn, took the witness stand.