Then they were in a taxicab, making for the Third Street tunnel.

Then Jean stared heavy-eyed at the dripping palms along the boulevard which led away from the smoke of the city and into Hollywood, snuggled against the misty hills.

"Letter-in-the-chaps!" her tired brain repeated it still.
Then she was in the apartment shared with Muriel Gay and her mother.
These two were over at the studio, the landlady told her when she let them in, and Jean was glad that they were gone.
She knelt, still in her hat and coat and with her gloves on, and fitted her trunk key into the lock.

And there she stopped.

What if the letter were not in the chaps, after all?
What if it were but a trivial note, concerning a matter long since forgotten; a trivial note that had not the remotest bearing upon the murder?
"Letter-in-the-chaps!" The phrase returned with a mocking note and beat insistently through her brain.