It was young Norman Crane, finally, who took her hand in both his, and gently made her descend. Then, as she stood there, looking like a pale ghost in her white dress with the rather dull make-up that the scene had demanded, the boy put his arm gently around her. “It’s all right, dear,” he said tenderly. “Don’t look so wild, Sybil. Of course, it was a shock to you, but you must rouse yourself now.” He looked at Barrison as he spoke, and the detective thought that there was a touch of defiance in his tone as he emphasized the words, “Of course it was a shock to you.” He seemed anxious to establish definitely this fact. Jim quite understood and sympathized with him. That Sybil had had anything to do with Mortimer’s death the detective did not for a moment believe, but her position was certainly an equivocal one. This young actor was clearly in love with her, and the situation must be an agonizing one for him. In confirmation of his conclusions, Barrison heard Crane say to Dukane: “Miss Merivale and I are engaged to be married, sir. She is very much upset, as you see. Will you let me take her to her dressing room?” Dukane looked doubtfully at Barrison, who shook his head. “I shall be very grateful if Miss Merivale will stay where she is until the police come,” he said courteously, but firmly. “You might see if you can’t find her a chair.” For he had no desire to let a witness out of his sight at this stage of the game. Norman Crane flushed under his make-up. “I think you are going rather far!” he exclaimed hotly. “Surely you don’t think——” “I think,” said Barrison, deliberately cutting him short, “that you had better get the chair, and—has any one any brandy? Miss Merivale looks very bad indeed.” Old Wrenn spoke in a tremulous voice. “There is some in his—in the dressing room, sir.” He went off and brought it, then stood once more beside the body, wiping his shriveled old cheeks. Barrison, seeing his evident and genuine grief, made a mental chalk mark to the credit of Alan Mortimer. There must have been some good in the man, some element of the kind and the lovable, to have won the devotion of this old servant. Crane held the brandy to Sybil’s lips, and she drank a little mechanically. After a moment or so, her eyes became less strained, her whole expression more natural, and instead of the frozen blankness which had been in her face before, there now dawned a more living and at the same time an inexplicable fear. She looked up at the face of her young lover with a sort of sharp question in her blue eyes, a look which puzzled Jim Barrison as he caught it. What was it that she was mutely asking him? What was it that she was afraid of?