For once Kauf did not rehearse the scene.  Shirley was obviously weakened from his experience and the director wished to spare him.  All the details were shouted out through the megaphone, however, and I grasped that the action of this part of the dance was familiar to everyone; it was the big scene of the story toward which all other events had built.

Then came the familiar order.  “Camera!”

At the start of this episode the orchestra was playing and the dancers were in motion.  Suddenly Gordon, as the hero, strode up to Shirley and unmasked him with a few bitter words which later would be flashed upon the screen in a spoken title.  Instantly a crowd gathered about, but in such a way as not to obstruct the camera view.

Cornered, seeing that flight was impossible unless he became the Black Terror and possessed the strength and fearlessness of that strange other self, Shirley drew a little vial from his breast pocket and drank the contents.  Evidently he knew his Mansfield well.  Slowly he began to act out the change in his appearance which corresponded with the assumption of control by the evil within.  His body writhed, went through contortions which were horrible yet fascinating.  It was almost as though a new fearful being was created within sight of the onlookers.  Not only was the face altered, but the man’s stature seemed to shrink, to lose actual inches.  I thought it a wonderful exhibition.

The very next instant there came a groan from Shirley, something which at once indicated pain and realization and fear.  He lost all control of himself and in a moment pitched forward upon the floor, sputtering and clutching at the empty air.  Another cry broke from between his lips, a ghastly contracted shriek as treble as though from the throat of a woman.

This was no part of the story, no skillful bit of acting!  It was real!  Even before I had grasped the full significance of the happening Kennedy had dashed forward.  The cameras still were grinding and they caught him as he kneeled at the side of the stricken man.  Hardly a second afterward Mackay and I followed and were at Kennedy’s side.  Kauf and the others, their faces weirdly ashen, clustered about in fright.

A third time the invisible hand had struck at a member of the company.  “The Black Terror,” with all the horror written into that story, contained nothing as fearful as the menace to the people engaged in its production.

Shirley’s skin was cold and clammy, his face almost rigid.  While conscious, he was helpless.  Kennedy found the little vial and examined it.

“Atropin!” he ejaculated.  “Walter!” He turned to me.  “Get some physostigmin, quick!  Have Mackay drive you!  It’s—­it’s life or death!  Here—­I’ll write it down!  Physostigmin!”

As I raced madly out and down the stairs, Mackay at my heels, I heard a woman’s scream.  Marilyn!  Did she think him dead?

Once in the car, headed for the nearest drug store, grasping wildly at the side or at the back of the seat every few moments as the district attorney skidded around curves and literally hurdled obstacles, I remembered a forgotten fact.