There was bitterness in Kennedy’s tones.  “Before, I would not believe that a man—­”

Suddenly the projection room was plunged into darkness.  Some one had pushed the wall switch close by me.  I backed into the doorway, raising my weapon to resist any attempt to escape.

Almost at the same instant there were the sounds of a struggle.  Kennedy had dashed forward in the darkness, sure of the position of his man, unafraid.

A scream I recognized from the throat of Enid.  I groped for the switch, but the operator in the booth anticipated me.  In the first burst of illumination I saw that Kennedy had forced his antagonist back over the front row of chairs.  Almost I heard the crack of the man’s spine.

I caught a glimpse of the man’s face and gasped at the murderous rage as he struggled and strove to break Kennedy’s iron grip.

Enid was the first at Kennedy’s side.  With an expression I failed to analyze until long afterward she sought to claw at the murderer’s unprotected features, twitching now in impotent fury.

“You wrote that note for her to meet you at the tearoom,” Kennedy muttered, eyes narrowing grimly, “knowing she would be dead before that time.  You protected yourself against the poisoned needle in the portieres—­but—­your own blood convicts you—­ Millard!”

THE END