It had been scarcely five minutes since Mortimer’s murder, yet already it seemed a long time. They all felt as though that still figure on the floor had been there for hours. Dukane would have had the dead man moved to his dressing room, but Barrison insisted that everything should be left as it was. It was just then that he espied a small object glittering on the floor just beyond the steps. He stooped, picked it up, and put it in his pocket. As he turned he saw, to his surprise, Tony Clay approaching. The older detective stared and frowned. “Where is Miss Templeton?” he demanded sharply. “I told you to stay with her whatever happened. Where is she?” “That’s what I want to know,” said Tony. “She’s gone!” “Gone! When did she go?” “Just before the dark scene. She felt faint and sent me for a glass of water. Before I got back, all that row on the stage started, and when the lights were turned on again, she’d gone; that’s all.” “All!” groaned Barrison despairingly. “Tony, you fool! You fool! Well, it’s too late to mend matters now.” “Did anything happen, after all?” asked Tony, with round eyes. Barrison stood aside and let him see Mortimer’s dead body, which had been hidden from his view by the little group around Sybil. “Oh, Heaven!” gasped Tony, horror-stricken. “Then you don’t think she—Miss Templeton—did it? Why, Jim, she couldn’t—there wasn’t time!” “I don’t think so myself. But it’s not our business to do any thinking at all—just yet. This can be a lesson to you, Tony. When you’re watching a person, _watch ’em_!” “Well, I think it can be a lesson to you, too!” said Tony unexpectedly. “You’ve been acting all along as though this affair were a movie scenario, that you thought was entertaining, but not a bit serious, and——” Jim Barrison flushed deeply and miserably. “I know it, Tony,” he said, in a very grave voice. “Don’t make any mistake about it; I’m getting mine! I’ll never forgive myself as long as I live.” Willie Coster came up to them. He was paler and wilder-eyed than ever, and his scant red hair stood stiffly erect. Poor Willie! In all his long years of nightmarish first nights, this was the worst. Any one who knew him could read in his eyes the agonized determination to go and get drunk as soon as he possibly could. “The police inspector has come,” he said, in a low tone. “And, say, when you get to sifting things down, I’ve something to say myself.” “You have! You know who fired the seventh shot?” “I didn’t say that. But if you’ll ask me some questions by and by, I may have something to tell you.” CHAPTER IX RECONSTRUCTING THE CRIME Inspector Lowry was an old friend of Barrison’s, though, like most of the regular force, inclined to treat the younger man as a dilettante rather than an astute professional. However, he was quite ready to include Jim in the investigation which he set about making without loss of time.