Another point. Until recently, she had done her trick with four pistols, all exactly alike. Where was the fourth? Jim knew where the fourth was. Naturally, there had not been time to have another made and marked in precisely the same way. He handed back the weapons, saw them examined by several other curious people, and settled back to see what she was going to do with them. The stunt itself turned out to be disappointing. It was a mere juggling trick, the old three-ball affair, done with loaded pistols; that was all. To be sure, there was a certain amount of risk about it, since even a clever shot cannot always be responsible for what will happen to a trigger when it is caught in the lightning manipulation of juggling. But it was not nearly so dangerous as it was advertised to be. “Now, it’s safe to assume,” remarked Teddy languidly, in Barrison’s ear, “that she never fired one of those things off yet, in that stunt, and never will!” And then two things happened. It was difficult even for Jim Barrison’s trained mind to tell him which had happened first. His eyes caught sight of some one in the box opposite, a gray-haired, dignified figure of middle height, not sitting, but standing with his look fixed sternly upon the stage. It was Max Dukane, the great manager, and Barrison, in a great flash of intuition, knew why he was there. He had come either to warn or threaten these people who knew him since the days when he had discovered Mortimer in the show known as Blankley’s Daredevils. And at the selfsame instant, it seemed, the pistols which Rita was tossing so composedly and surely, experienced a hitch in their methodical orbits. One, two, three, they rose and fell, and she caught them neatly each time, and sent them whirling as though they were tennis balls, instead of loaded guns. But something had happened. There was a faint cry, Barrison was near enough to hear it. And then a shot. The detective’s hair seemed to rise. It was so soon after that other tragedy! Was it possible? But nothing had happened, it seemed, except a flesh wound for Rita herself. She was holding her hand against her arm, and staring in front of her in a dazed and frightened way. Her partner was tearing away her sleeve to investigate, and the house was wildly excited. It was superb advertising, of course; only, Barrison knew that it was not advertising. She had been frightened by Dukane’s sudden appearance, and even her sure hand had lost its cunning for a second. He looked toward the other box sharply, at the very moment, as he thought, when Rita had sunk down wounded. But even so, he was too late. Dukane had gone. “Shall we go behind now, and have a talk with her?” suggested Teddy Lucas, rising. “Really, that was quite well staged. Every one will be twice as ready to believe her a daredevil after they have seen her wounded. Ready?” They made their way behind.