Somehow, although the extras had been dismissed, and the body was to be removed, Barrison felt that Lowry had not yet quite finished with his reconstruction work, so scornfully stigmatized by young Crane as “theatrics.” His instinct was not at fault. The inspector wheeled very suddenly toward Sybil Merivale. “Miss Merivale,” he said, “you have already given us some testimony which doubtless was unpleasant to give. I am going to beg you to be even more generous. You have said that you stood there at the head of the steps, waiting for your cue. I should like you now to be more detailed. You are relating, remember, what occurred within the last two minutes of Alan Mortimer’s life. There could scarcely be two minutes more important, and I must ask you as solemnly and urgently as I can to omit nothing that could possibly throw any light upon the problem of how he met his death. Will you repeat what you said before, with any additions that come to you as you strain your memory?” “I don’t understand,” she faltered wearily. “What more is there to tell?” “Try to remember!” said the inspector. Barrison was convinced that he was bluffing, and that he had no idea of anything further that the girl could tell, but to his surprise Sybil flushed painfully and looked away. The younger detective shook his head in silent admiration. The inspector might be old-fashioned, but he had his inspirations. “I was waiting for my cue,” she began, in a low voice, “and looking at the stage through the open door. I have told you that.” “What was your cue, Miss Merivale?” “But you know that—after the lantern was broken, there were to be six shots, and he”—she would not mention his name—“was to carry me on in his arms.” “Well, go on,” said the inspector gently enough. “It is true that we have heard this before, Miss Merivale, but in my experience even the most honest witness—even the most honest witness”—he repeated the words with faint emphasis—“seldom tells a story precisely the same twice. You were standing there——” “I was standing there, and I heard him come up behind me.” “How did you know it was Mr. Mortimer if you were not looking in his direction?” “I heard him speak.” “What did he say?” “I don’t know. He was muttering to himself. He seemed horribly angry—upset. I thought——” She checked herself. “What did you think?” “That—he had been drinking. He—he was—very much excited. He kept muttering things under his breath, and once he stumbled.” Dukane interposed. “Mortimer—drank—occasionally; but he was cold sober to-night. I know.” “Ah!” The inspector nodded dreamily. “Then it was something else which had upset him; quite so. You see, one gets more from the second telling than the first. Go on, if you please, Miss Merivale. You knew from his voice that he was excited. Did he come up onto the steps at once?”