Apparently Mackay had appealed to Kennedy the moment he learned the identity of Stella, the moment he realized there was any question about the circumstances surrounding the affair.  Over the telephone the little man had been almost incoherent.  He had heard of Kennedy’s work and was feverishly anxious to enlist his aid, at any price.

All we knew as we took the train on the New York Central was that Stella was playing a part in a picture to be called “The Black Terror,” that the producer was Manton Pictures, Incorporated, and that she had dropped dead suddenly and without warning in the middle of a scene being photographed in the library at the home of Emery Phelps.

I was singularly elated at the thought of accompanying Kennedy on this particular case.  It was not that the tragic end of a film star whose work I had learned to love was not horrible to me, but rather because, for once, I thought Kennedy actually confronted a situation where his knowledge of a given angle of life was hardly sufficient for his usual analysis of the facts involved.

“Walter,” he had exclaimed, as I burst into the laboratory in response to a hurried message, “here’s where I need your help.  You know all about moving pictures, so—­if you’ll phone your city editor and ask him to let you cover a case for the Star we’ll just about catch a train at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.”

Because the film world had fascinated me always I had made a point of being posted on its people and their activities.  I remembered the very first appearance of Stella Lamar back in the days of General Film, when pictures were either Licensed or Independent, when only two companies manufactured worth-while screen dramas, when any subject longer than a reel had to be of rare excellence, such as the art films imported from France for the Licensed program.  In those days, Stella rose rapidly to prominence.  Her large wistful eyes had set the hearts of many of us to beating at staccato rate.

Then came Lloyd Manton, her present manager, and the first of a new type of business man to enter the picture field.  Manton was essentially a promoter.  His predecessors had been men carried to success by the growth of the new art.  Old Pop Belman, for instance, had been a fifth-rate oculist who rented and sold stereopticons as a side line.  With blind luck he had grasped the possibilities of Edison’s new invention.  Just before the break-up of General Film he had become many times a millionaire and it was then that he had sent a wave of laughter over the entire country by an actual cable to William Shakespeare, address London, asking for all screen rights to the plays written by that gentleman.