Gordon and Shirley, of the men, and Marilyn and Enid, of course, were out on the floor of the supposed ballroom.  Gordon I recognized because I remembered that he was to wear the garb of a monk.  Marilyn was easily picked out, although the vivacity she assumed seemed unnatural now that we knew her as well as we did.  Her costume was a glorious Yama Yama creation, of a faint yellow which would photograph dazzling white, revealing trim stockinged ankles and slender bare arms, framing face and eyes dancing with merriment and maliciousness.  Unquestionably she was the prettiest girl beneath the arcs, never to be suspected as the woman who had braved the terrors of a film fire to rescue the man she loved.  Enid was stately and serene in the gown of Marie Antoinette.  In the bright glare her features took on a round innocence and she was as successful in portraying sweetness as Marilyn was in the simulation of the mocking evil of the vampire.

Shirley interested me the most, however.  I wondered if Kennedy still eliminated him in guessing at the identity of the criminal.  I called to mind the heavy man’s presence in the basement at the time of the explosion and McGroarty’s information that he had been hanging about that part of the studio for some time previously.  Some one had planted a cigarette case and stub to implicate Gordon, according to Kennedy’s theory.  Shirley certainly had had opportunity to steal the towel from the locker as well as to point suspicion toward the leading man.

In the midst of my reverie Shirley approached and passed us.  He was in the garb of Mephisto.  Like the others, he had not yet masked his face.  A peculiar brightness in his eyes struck me and I nudged Kennedy.

“Belladonna,” Kennedy explained when he was beyond earshot.

“Oh!” I remembered.  “Enid told him to use it.”

“What?”

I repeated the conversation as near as I could reconstruct it.

“H-m!  That’s a new cure for smoke-burned eyes; no cure at all.”

I was unable to get any more out of Kennedy, however.

Manton I detected in the background with Phelps.  The two men were arguing, as always, and it was evident that the banker was accomplishing nothing by this constant hanging about the studio.  Where previously my sympathy had been with Phelps entirely, now I realized that the promoter had won me.  Indeed, Manton’s interest in all the affairs of picture making at this plant had been far too sincere and earnest to permit the belief that he was seeking to wreck the company or to double-cross his backer.

Millard entered the studio as I glanced about for him.  He handed some sheets to Kauf, then turned to leave.  I attracted Kennedy’s attention.

“You don’t want Millard to get away,” I whispered.

Kennedy sent Mackay to stop him.  The author accompanied the district attorney willingly.

“Yes, Mr. Kennedy?”

“As soon as this scene is over we’re going down to the projection room; everyone concerned in the death of Miss Lamar and of Mr. Werner.”