As the district attorney nodded, Kennedy dismissed Manton rather shortly; then turned again to Mackay as the promoter drew out of earshot.

“Bring in Bernie, the property-boy, before anyone can tell him to hide or destroy that locket.”

V

AN EMOTIONAL MAZE

Bernie proved to be as stupid a youth as any I had ever seen.  He possessed frightened semi-liquid eyes and overshot ears and hair which might have been red beneath its accumulation of dust.  Without doubt the boy had been coached by the electrician, because he began to affirm his innocence in similar fashion the moment he entered the door.

“I don’t know nothin’, honest I don’t,” he pleaded.  “I was out in the hall, I was, and I didn’t come in at all until the doc. came.”

“I suppose you were anxious to see if the cable was becoming hot,” Kennedy suggested, gravely.

“That’s it, sir!  We was lookin’ at it because it was on the varnish and the butler he says—­”

“Where’s the locket?” interrupted Kennedy.  “The one Miss Lamar wore in the scenes.”

“Oh!” in disdain, “that thing!” With some effort Bernie fished it from the capacious depths of a pocket, disentangling the sharp corners from the torn and ragged lining of his coat.

I glanced at it as Kennedy turned it over and over in his hands, and saw that it was a palpable stage prop, with glass jewels of the cheapest sort.  Concealing his disappointment, Kennedy dropped it into his own pocket, confronting the frightened Bernie once more.

“Do you know anything about Miss Lamar’s death?”

“No!  I don’t know nothing, honest!”

“All right!” Kennedy turned to Mackay.  “Werner, the director.”

Of Stanley Werner I had heard a great deal, through interviews, character studies, and other press stuff in the photoplay journals and the Sunday newspaper film sections.  Now I found him to be a high-strung individual, so extremely nervous that it seemed impossible for him to remain in one position in his chair or for him to keep his hands motionless for a single instant.  Although he was of moderate build, with a fair suggestion of flesh, there were yet the marks of the artist and of the creative temperament in the fine sloping contours of his head and in his remarkably long fingers, which tapered to nails manicured immaculately.  Kennedy seemed to pay particular attention to his eyes, which were dark, soft, and amazingly restless.

“Who was in the cast, Mr. Werner?  What were they playing and just exactly what was each doing at the time of Miss Lamar’s collapse?”

“Well”—­Werner’s eyes shifted to mine, then to Mackay’s, and there was a subtle lack of ease in his manner which I was hardly prepared to classify as yet—­“Stella Lamar was playing the part of Stella Remsen, the heroine, and—­uh, I see your associate has the script—­”