Probably never in his clear-cut, well-established career had Jim Barrison experienced what he was experiencing now: The sense that he had brought unnecessary suffering upon an innocent person, and brought it in a peculiarly merciless and unsportsmanlike way. He felt savage when he thought of that “tip” of Miss Templeton’s—or did he, really? He was obliged to confess to himself that, where she was concerned, he would be almost sure to discover approximately extenuating circumstances! It was partly to soothe his own aching conscience that Jim forced himself to ask a few perfunctory questions. “You don’t mind?” he asked Kitty. “Naturally I don’t,” she said, trying not to cry, and choking down coffee. “You’ve been awfully kind, Mr. Barrison. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me. You know”—she looked at him in a sudden, piteous way—“I had expected to marry Mr. Mortimer. Maybe you can guess what all this means to me? Will you tell me what you wanted to know?” “For one thing,” he said, “we want to establish as nearly as we can when the murderer—the murderess, as we think it was—entered the theater. Old Roberts says that he went out through the alley to the street to get you a taxi——” “Dear old thing!” she whispered. “Yes; he is a nice old sort. He made it very clear that it was only his devotion to you that induced him to leave his post. Well, it seems almost certain that some one passed him, and perhaps you, in the alley last night. You don’t remember seeing even a shadow that might be suspicious?” She shook her head thoughtfully. “No, I don’t,” she said. “But I was in a hurry, and wasn’t looking out for anything of that sort. Roberts knows I was in a hurry?” She spoke quickly. “Oh, yes. He says you were in a hurry, and not feeling well. The point is, did you see anything at all on your way to the taxi?” “Nothing. I was only thinking of getting home and to bed; it had been a horrid evening.” Now, of course, the obvious thing for Jim Barrison to do then was to take his leave. More, it was manifestly the only decent thing for him to do. He had proved conclusively that Kitty had not expected the news of Mortimer’s murder; in addition, she had declared that she had noticed no one on her way out to the taxi the night before. On the face of it, there was nothing further to be found out here. And yet, after he had got to his feet and taken up his hat, he lingered. As a matter of fact, he never was able, in looking back afterward, to tell just what insane impulse made him blurt out suddenly: “Miss Legaye, you were wearing a red wrap last night, weren’t you? Something quite bright, scarlet?” She looked up at him faintly surprised. “Why, yes,” she answered, “you saw it yourself, just as I was going out.” Jim hesitated, and then said something still more crazy: “Would you—do you very much mind letting me see it—now?”