“Yes. Going to see the show from the front and interview her afterward. She’s through with her stunt, I hear, about nine thirty. It isn’t a usual thing, but Coyne—who owns the theater—has a bit of a pull with us; advertising, you know; and we usually give one of his acts a write-up every week.” “Might I come along?” “You? Sure thing! But I warn you, it’ll be an awful thing! It’s one of those continuous affairs. Well, have it your own way. If you’ll meet me at the theater, I can get you in on my pass. Eight?” “Eight it is.” Barrison waited for directions as to the whereabouts of Coyne’s Music Hall, of which he had never heard, and took his departure. He went into a telephone booth to call up Lowry, but found that the inspector would not be at his office until the afternoon. Then he went uptown again, and, taking a deep breath and a big brace with it, went to call on Max Dukane. He had no real reason for dreading an interview with him; the manager had always been most courteous to him. Yet he did feel a shade of apprehension. Something told him that the Dukane of yesterday would not be quite the Dukane of to-day. And it wasn’t only the tragedy which had brought him so much financial loss which was to be considered. Ever since Willie Coster had intimated that Dukane had a secret reason for keeping dark the conditions under which he had come across Mortimer, Barrison had felt uneasy in regard to him. He had always recognized in the manager a man of immense power and authority. If he had a sufficient reason, he could guess that he would be immensely unscrupulous as well. However, at a little after half past eleven o’clock, he presented himself at the great man’s office. This time, though there were half a dozen people ahead of him, he did not have to wait at all. The fact surprised him, but when he had been admitted to Dukane’s presence, he understood it better. He had been thus speedily summoned in order to be the more speedily dismissed. “Hello, Barrison,” said Dukane crisply. “Anything I can do for you?” He sat at his desk like an iron image; his face was hard and cold. He did not look so much angry as stern. It was clear that, in his own stony fashion, he had flung yesterday into the discard, and was not any too pleased to be reminded of it. Barrison was not asked to sit down, so stood by the desk, feeling rather like a small boy reporting to his teacher. “Yes, Mr. Dukane,” he said quietly, “there is. I’ve come about the case.” “Case?” “The murder of Alan Mortimer.” Dukane raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am not interested in it.” “Mr. Dukane, I can scarcely believe that. Mortimer was your star, under your management; I should imagine that the disaster to him must concern you very closely.” Dukane laid down a paper cutter which he had been holding in his hand.