There were brilliant electric bulbs topping and framing the glass on the dressing table; Barrison knew that actors were obliged to test their make-up under various lighting effects, and there was something darkly strange in this array of lights still ready for a test that could not come again—for Mortimer. At that same table, under the same bulbs, other stars would put on paint and wigs and costumes. This one would do so no more. In that vivid glare, the litter of the paraphernalia of make-up glowed with a somewhat gay, decorative effect. Rouge boxes and cold-cream jars and sticks of grease paint lay just as he had left them. Evidently Mortimer had been “touching up” for the last act, and the valet had not yet had time to clear up or put away anything. Lowry’s keen eyes ran over the room, in that seemingly cursory but actually minute inspection which characterized his methods. There was nothing about it unlike other theatrical dressing rooms. There was the usual long dresser with its rows of brilliant bulbs; there were the clothes hanging on the walls; there was the couch—now bearing that tragic burden, the magnificent body in khaki—the big trunk, the two chairs—the small one by the table, and the easy one for rest and visitors. Apparently, there was nothing in the room for a detective to note, save the dead man, and—here the inspector’s glance became more vague, a sure sign that he was particularly interested, for he was looking at Wrenn. The old man, in his decent black clothes, was standing near the couch; and he was watching the intruders with a sort of baleful combination of terror and resentment. The fear which he had shown in his face when he looked out of the dressing-room door a few minutes since, had not vanished from it; but to it was added another, and a not less violent emotion. He was angry, he was on the defensive. He might, for the moment, have been some cornered animal, frightened, but nevertheless about to spring upon his enemy. It was against Lowry’s principles to ask questions at such moments as might be considered obvious; so it was Dukane who said, with some asperity: “What’s the matter, Wrenn?” The old man’s face worked and his voice shook, as he returned: “Mr. Dukane, sir—you—you aren’t going to let all these people in here, to poke and pry about among my poor master’s things? It’s—it’s a wicked shame, so it is! I’d never have thought it possible! It’s an outrage——” “You’re crazy, Wrenn!” said Dukane, trying to remember the old fellow’s bereavement, and doing his best to speak kindly instead of impatiently. “These are detectives, officers of the law. They are on this case, and they have a perfect right to do anything they want to.” “But, sir”—the old servant was working himself up more and more, and his cracked voice was growing shrill—“what are they doing here, sir? What can they have to do here? Can’t his—his poor body rest in peace without a—a lot of policemen poking——”