“I——” began Norman Crane impulsively, then stopped in discomfort. He recalled that he had sworn not to have seen anything through the open door. Lowry, on the other hand, restrained himself from reminding him that his testimony under the circumstances would be rather worse than nothing. To cover up any awkwardness, he went on: “Without any discourtesy to you, we are bound to consider any and all possibilities.” “But,” protested Norman Crane, “you said all that would be settled by the doctors!” “I said your part of it would be; not, necessarily, Miss Merivale’s. Doctor Colton?” The little man with spectacles stepped forward, and, after a brief interchange of words with the inspector, bent over the body of Mortimer. Lowry turned to Dukane. “I should like to have the murdered man carried in somewhere, just as soon as the medical examiner arrives and sees it. The dressing room? Is that the closest? Quite so—quite so! That will do excellently. Very near, isn’t it? Quite convenient.” His eye measured the distance between the door of the room and the spot where the murder had taken place. “Just a moment first, though. I want to——Oh, here’s the medical examiner now. In a minute I think you may dismiss your people, most of them, that is. We shall know where to reach them, if necessary, eh?” “Of course—at any time.” “Then they may all go—except Miss Merivale, and—let me see—the man who was on guard at the door between the front and back. And your stage door keeper; I shall want to speak to him a bit later. But the rest—what do you call them—supers?” “Extras. I may dismiss the extras?” “I think so. They were all on the stage, or upstairs in the upper tier of rooms, weren’t they?” “Yes.” “Then I doubt if we want them——” Barrison, though unwillingly, was obliged to whisper that Claire McAllister should be held. He knew that she was bound to talk sooner or later about Sybil’s attitude toward the dead man, and he felt that it might as well be sooner as later. Barrison, looking toward the star dressing room, saw that the door was a little open, and that old Wrenn was standing in the aperture, with an expression of intense agitation upon his wrinkled face. Whether the look was horror, grief, or fear, it would be impossible at that juncture to say. Barrison rather believed it was the latter. Though of what could that old man be so acutely afraid? There was another person who was taking an exceptional interest in the proceedings, the uniformed guard who had been placed on duty at the communicating door, the young man whom the inspector had said he wished to question later. Lowry suddenly turned upon him. “Is that where you stood at the time of the shooting?” he demanded. The young man started and flushed. “N-no, sir,” he stammered; “I was over there by the door.” “Then go back there over by the door, and stay there until you are told to move.” The man retreated hastily, looking crestfallen, and muttering something under his breath.