But as she turned to leave the dining room with the rest, she could not help another backward glance at the brilliant figure in purple with the golden sunbeam across her golden hair, and the odd look which had just terrified her. Barrison, accustomed to noticing everything, followed her gaze, and, seeing the expression on Miss Templeton’s face, drew his lips into a noiseless whistle. For there was murder in that look; Jim Barrison had seen it before on other faces, and he knew it by sight. As for Sybil, the memory of the woman in purple haunted her all the way to the theater—the woman in purple with the black-fringed eyes full of living, blazing, elemental hate. CHAPTER III THE “TAG” The stage entrance of the Mirror Theater was on a sort of court or alley which ran at right angles from one of the side streets near Times Square. A high iron gateway which barred it except during theatrical working hours stood half open, and the little party made their way over the stone flags in the cool gloom cast by the shadow of the theater itself and the neighboring buildings—restaurants, offices, and shops. It looked really mysterious in its sudden dusk, after the midday glare of the open street. “Do you know,” said Jim Barrison, “this is the first time I have ever gone into a theater by the stage door!” “What a record!” laughed Miss Legaye. She was in excellent spirits, and inclined to flirt discreetly with the good-looking and well-mannered detective. “And so you never had a stage-door craze in all your properly conducted life! Don’t you think it’s high time you re—no, it isn’t reformed I mean, but the reverse of reformed. Anyway, you should make up for lost time, Mr. Barrison. Ah, Roberts! I suppose you thought we were never coming. Every one else here?” She was speaking to the stage doorkeeper, a thickset man of middle age, with a stolid face that lighted up somewhat as she addressed him. He did not answer, but beamed vacuously at her. She was always charming to him, and he adored her. They went on into the theater. Barrison was taken in tow by Dukane. “Hello, Willie! Mr. Barrison, this is Mr. Coster, my stage manager, and I am inclined to dislike him, he knows so much more than I do. Mr. Barrison is a detective, and has come to help us with those finger-print scenes, Willie.” “Pleased to meet you,” said Willie, absently offering a limp, damp hand. “Gov’nor, is it true you’ve canned G. T.?” “Quite true,” said Dukane cheerfully. “Let me present you to Miss Merivale. She will rehearse _Lucille_.” “Lord!” groaned Willie, who was hot and tired and disposed to waste no time on tact. “About two weeks before——” Mortimer lurched forward. “Say!” he began belligerently. “She’s my leading lady—see? Any one who doesn’t like——”