A titter arose from some spectators nearby, who seemed to be enjoying the little man’s discomfiture. He flounced away, with the policeman stolidly following. The Inspector, muttering, “Jackass!” turned to Velie. “Take Panzer with you to the box-office and see if you can find complete tickets for these numbers.” He bent over the last row and the row before it, scribbling the numbers LL30 Left, LL28 Left, LL26 Left, KK32 Left, KK30 Left, KK28 Left, and KK26 Left on the back of an old envelope. He handed the memorandum to Velie, who went away. Ellery, who had been leaning idly against the rear wall of the last row, watching his father, the audience, and occasionally restudying the geography of the theatre, murmured in the Inspector’s ear: “I was just reflecting on the unusual fact that with such a popular bit of dramatic trash as ‘Gunplay,’ seven seats in the direct vicinity of the murdered man’s seat should remain empty during the performance.” “When did you begin to wonder, my son?” said Queen, and while Ellery absently tapped the floor with his stick, barked, “Piggott!” The detective stepped forward. “Get the usherette who was on this aisle and the outside doorman—that middle-aged fellow on the sidewalk—and bring ’em here.” As Piggott walked off, a disheveled young man appeared by Queen’s side, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “Well, Flint?” asked Queen instantly. “I’ve been over this floor like a scrub-woman, Inspector. If you’re looking for a hat in this section of the theatre, it’s mighty well hidden.” “All right, Flint, stand by.” The detective trudged off. Ellery said slowly, “Didn’t really think your young Diogenes would find the tophat, did you, dad?” The Inspector grunted. He walked down the aisle and proceeded to lean over person after person, questioning each in low tones. All heads turned in his direction as he went from row to row, interrogating the occupants of the two aisle-seats successively. As he walked back in Ellery’s direction, his face expressionless, the policeman whom he had sent out with the piece of string, saluted him. “What size, officer?” asked the Inspector. “The clerk in the hat store said it was exactly 7⅛,” answered the bluecoat. Inspector Queen nodded, dismissing him. Velie strode up, with Panzer trailing worriedly behind. Ellery leaned forward with an air of keen absorption to catch Velie’s words. Queen grew tense, the light of a great interest on his face. “Well, Thomas,” he said, “what did you find in the box-office?” “Just this, Inspector,” reported Velie unemotionally. “The seven tickets for which you gave me the numbers are not in the ticket-rack. They were sold from the box-office window, at what date Mr. Panzer has no way of knowing.” “The tickets might have been turned over to an agency, you know, Velie,” remarked Ellery. “I verified that, Mr. Queen,” answered Velie. “Those tickets were not assigned to any agency. There are definite records to prove it.”