“Were you there all the time?” barked the Inspector. “Yes, sir.” “Now then. Do you remember anybody _coming in_ during the second act?” “We-e-ll.... Jessie Lynch, the orangeade boy, came in right after the act started.” “Anybody else?” There was silence as the old man made a frenzied effort at concentration. After a moment he looked helplessly from one face to another, eyes despairing. Then he mumbled, “I don’t remember, sir.” The Inspector regarded him irritably. The old man seemed sincere in his nervous way. He was perspiring and frequently looked sidewise at Panzer, as if he sensed that his defection of memory would cost him his position. “I’m awfully sorry, sir,” the doorman repeated. “Awfully sorry. There might’ve been some one, but my memory ain’t as good as it used to be when I was younger. I—I just can’t seem to recall.” Ellery’s cool voice cut in on the old man’s thick accents. “How long have you been a doorman?” The old man’s bewildered eyes shifted to this new inquisitor. “Nigh onto ten years, sir. I wasn’t always a doorman. Only when I got old and couldn’t do nothin’ else—” “I understand,” said Ellery kindly. He hesitated a moment, then added inflexibly, “A man who has been a doorman for as many years as you have might forget something about the first act. But people do not often come into a theatre during the second act. Surely if you think hard enough you can answer positively, one way or the other?” The response came painfully. “I—I don’t remember, sir. I could say no one did, but that mightn’t be the truth. I just can’t answer.” “All right.” The Inspector put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Forget it. Perhaps we’re asking too much. That’s all for the time being.” The doorman shuffled away with the pitiful alacrity of old age. Doyle clumped toward the group, a tall handsome man dressed in rough tweeds in his wake, traces of stage make-up streaking his face. “This is Mr. Peale, Inspector. He’s the leading man of the show,” reported Doyle. Queen smiled at the actor, offering his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Peale. Perhaps you can help us out with a little information.” “Glad to be of service, Inspector,” replied Peale, in a rich baritone. He glanced at the back of the Medical Examiner, who was busy over the dead man; then looked away with repugnance. “I suppose you were on the stage at the time the hue-and-cry went up in this unfortunate affair?” pursued the Inspector. “Oh, yes. In fact, the entire cast was. What is it you would like to know?” “Could you definitely place the time that you noticed something wrong in the audience?” “Yes, I can. We had just about ten minutes before the end of the act. It was at the climax of the play, and my rôle demands the discharge of a pistol. I remember we had some discussion during rehearsals of this point in the play, and that is how I can be so sure of the time.”