Barrison’s eyes met those of Dukane for a moment, and he had a shrewd idea that the manager was telegraphing him a sort of message. He resolved to hang around as long as he could and get a word alone with Dukane after rehearsal was over. At this point John Carlton, the author, arrived. He was a dark, haggard young man, but, though looking thoroughly subdued after a fortnight under the managerial blue pencil, he quite brightened up on being introduced to Barrison. “Thankful, no end,” he muttered in a hasty aside. “Was afraid they’d cut out the whole finger-print business.” “Cut it! Why? No good?” “Too good!” sighed the discouraged playwright. He had, however, hauled a lagging sense of humor out of the ordeal, for shortly after, he went with Barrison to sit in a box in the dark auditorium, and evolved epigrams of cynic derision as he watched the rehearsal of his play. Barrison found him not half a bad fellow, and before the hot afternoon wore itself out, they had grown quite friendly. Barrison’s own part in the rehearsal was soon disposed of. After he had explained the way the police detect finger prints upon objects that seem innocent of the smallest impression, and illustrated on a page of paper, a tumbler, and the surface of the table, his work was over for the day. Mortimer promised to practice a bit, that the effect might be quite technical and expert-looking. Barrison was to come to another rehearsal in a few days and see how it looked. Then the detective found himself free to enjoy the rest of the rehearsal, such as it was. “Which won’t be much,” Carlton warned him. “This is just a running over of lines for the company, and to start Miss Merivale off. Nobody will do any acting.” “The last act ought to be the most important, I should think,” said Barrison. “Oh, well, so far as action and hullabaloo goes—shots and soldiers and that sort of thing. But it’s a one-man play, anyway, and I’ve had to make that last act a regular monologue. It’s all Mortimer. He’s A1, too, when he cares to take the trouble. Drunk now, of course, but he’s no fool. He’ll keep sober for the opening, and if the women don’t go dippy over his looks and his voice and his love-making, I miss my guess. Now, watch—this is going to be one of the exciting scenes in the play, so far as action goes. Pure melodrama, but the real thing, if I say it as shouldn’t—girl in the power of a gang of ruffians, spies and so forth. Night—dark scene, you know—a really dark scene, with all the lights out, front and back. Pitch black. Just a bit of a wait to get people jumpy, and then the shots.” Willie Coster cried out: “Hold the suspense, folks! No one move. Lights are out now.” He waited while ten could be counted; then deliberately began to strike the table with his fist. “One—two——” “Those are supposed to be shots,” explained Carlton. “Three—four—five—six——” “That’s enough!” interposed Dukane. “The women don’t like shooting, anyway.”