“Look here!” said Jim Barrison, losing his cast-iron, chain-held patience at last. “There are about a dozen people already who want to murder Alan Mortimer. I’m getting to want to myself! For the love of Heaven, give a poor detective a rest and don’t suggest any one else; I’m getting dizzy!” Norman stared at him and edged away. “Does that fellow drink?” he asked Carlton, a few minutes later. “I hope so,” said the author absently, rumpling his hair with one hand while he wrote on a scrap of copy paper. “Mortimer has waited until now to have the last scene lengthened. Maledictions upon him! May his next reincarnation be that of a humpbacked goat!” Crane left him still murmuring strange imprecations. Barrison went home, divided between annoyance and amusement at the promiscuous hate Mortimer had aroused. He was unquestionably the most unpopular man he had ever heard of; yet he was sometimes charming, as Barrison had already seen. Several times at rehearsal, when he deliberately had chosen to exert his power of magnetism, the detective, critical observer as he was, could not fail to note how successful he was. His charm was something radiant and irresistible, and he could project it at will, just as some women can. A singular and a dangerous man, Jim decided. Such individuals always made trouble for themselves and for others. The theater was becoming rather electric in atmosphere, and Barrison was glad to get home. But his troubles were not over yet—even for that day! Just as he was sitting down to dinner Tony Clay appeared, looking hot and unhappy. “Hello, Tony! Have you eaten?” Tony nodded in a most dispirited fashion. His friend watched him a moment, and then said kindly: “Go ahead; what’s the trouble?” The young fellow looked uncomfortable. “Nothing,” he began; “that is——Oh, hang it all! I can’t lie to you. I’m upset, Jim!” “No!” said Barrison, with a smile. “Jim,” Tony went on, rather desperately, “do you believe that there ever are occasions when it is permissible to give a client away? To a colleague, I mean. Do you?” “You just bet your life I do!” said Jim emphatically. He put down his knife and fork and eyed his young friend with kindling interest. “Go on, kid, and tell me all about it.” “Well”—poor Tony looked profoundly miserable—“you know—that is of course you don’t know—but—Miss Templeton engaged me to shadow Alan Mortimer.” “I knew that as soon as you did,” remarked Jim. Tony opened his round eyes till each of them made a complete O. “The devil you did!” he ejaculated, somewhat chagrined. “Well, she did engage me, and I shadowed away to the best of my ability. But now—Jim, I’m up against something too big for me, and I’ve brought it to you.” He looked pale and shaken, and Barrison said good-humoredly: “Go to it, Tony. I’ll help you if I can.” “Jim!” Tony Clay faced him desperately. “I think you ought to know that Miss Templeton has it in for Mortimer——” “I do know it, lad.”