Lowry was a big, raw-boned man of middle age, with a peculiarly soft, amiable voice, and a habit of looking at almost any point on earth save the face of the person to whom he was speaking. This seemingly indifferent manner gave him an enormous advantage over any luckless soul whom he chanced to be examining, for when he shot the question which was of all questions the most vital and the most important, he would suddenly open his eyes and turn their piercing gaze full upon his victim. That unfortunate, having by that time relaxed his self-guard, would be apt to betray his innermost emotions under the unexpected gaze. Naturally, the first thing to do was to get Sybil Merivale’s story. His manner to the girl was not unkindly. She was a piteous figure enough, as she sat drooping in the chair they had brought her, trying to keep her eyes from turning, with a dreadful fascination, to the spatter of red upon the steps so near her. Norman Crane stood at her side, with the air of defying the universe, if it were necessary, for her protection. Once in a while she would look up at him, and always with that subtle expression of apprehension and uncertainty which Barrison found so hard to read. “Miss—ah—Merivale? Quite so, quite so. Miss Merivale, if you feel strong enough, I should be glad if you would tell us what you know about the shooting.” The inspector’s voice was mild as honey, and his glance wandered about this queer, shadowy world behind the scenes. It is doubtful if he had ever made an investigation in such surroundings. To see him, one would have said that he was interested in everything except in Sybil Merivale and what she had to tell. “I don’t know anything about it,” she answered simply. “But you were quite close to him when he was shot, were you not?” “Yes.” She shuddered, and looked down at the stain of blood upon her dress. “He was just taking me up in his arms to carry me on——” “That was in the—ah—action of the play?” “Yes. After the six shots, I heard another, and felt him stagger. I slipped to the floor, and he fell at once. He put out his hand to catch at the scenery.” She pointed to the canvas door of the stage set which still stood open. “I felt something warm on my hand.” She closed her eyes as though the remembrance made her faint. “Then he—he fell backward down the steps. That’s all.” “Ah, yes.” The inspector thought for a moment, and then he said to Dukane: “Would it be possible for every one to go to the places they occupied at the moment of the shooting? I am assuming that every one is here who was here then?” “Every one; so far as I know, no one has been allowed to leave the theater. Willie, tell them to take their places.” Willie caused a rather ghastly sensation when he called out: “Everybody, please! On the stage, every one who is in the last act!” There was a murmur among the actors. “Good Lord!” muttered Claire McAllister. “They ain’t goin’ to rehearse us _now_, are they?”