“I believe that little thing! It’s beastly hard lines for him! Tell you what I’ll do, Barrison. I’ll give you a card to Ted Lucas. He’s a decent sort of chap, on the dramatic department of the New York _Blaze_. If he can’t help you, maybe there’ll be some one in his office who can.” “Thanks. That’s just what I want.” Armed with the card, Barrison said good-by and departed. He met two or three men whom he knew on his way out. One and all were talking about the murder. He was not known to have any connection with the case, so he escaped being held up for particulars, but he heard enough to show him that this was going to be the sensation of the whole theatrical world. It was not yet ten o’clock, and Dukane would not be in his office, so he went downtown to hunt up Ted Lucas in the roaring offices of the _Blaze_. He had to wait a bit, with the deafening clatter of typewriters, and the jangle of telephones beating about his ears. Then a keen-faced but very quiet young man rather foppishly dressed, and with sleek hair which looked as though it had been applied with a paint brush, appeared. “I’m Lucas,” he explained politely. “Wanted to see me?” Barrison knew reporters pretty well, and this one was typical. The detective wasted as few words as possible, but stated what he was after. Lucas shook his head doubtfully. “Never heard of any such show,” he said. “I’ll have a look at the files, though. My chief is rather a shark for keeping records of past performances. Will you look in a bit later—or phone?” “I’ll phone,” said Barrison, preparing to leave. He had not expected any rapid results, yet he felt vaguely disappointed. Or was it because he was tired? “See here,” he said impulsively. “You cover a lot of theatrical assignments, don’t you?” “Quite a lot,” said the reporter indifferently, eying him. “Isn’t there anything playing here in town now with a—a wild West feature? Anything that includes a shooting stunt, or cowboy atmosphere, or—or that?” Barrison could not help clinging to that faint clew concerning Mortimer’s connection with the “daredevil” outfit, out West. Ted Lucas considered. “Why, no,” he said. “I don’t know of any. You wouldn’t mean a single act, like Ritz the Daredevil, would you?” “Ritz the Daredevil!” Barrison leaped at the name. Of course, it might be nonsense, but there was something that looked like just the shadow of a coincidence. “Who is she?” “Just a crack shot, a girl who plays at a bum vaudeville theater this week. I don’t know why she calls herself a ‘daredevil.’ It isn’t such a daring stunt to shoot at a target. But she’s clever with a gun, I understand. I’m to ‘cover’ her act to-night.” Barrison thought quickly. It was only the ghost of a trail, but—— “You’re going to see her to-night?”