The others of the company were clustered in the living room, through which we passed to reach the library.  I found small opportunity to study them in the rather dim light.  Mackay beckoned to a man standing in a window, presenting him to Kennedy as Doctor Blake.  Then we entered the long paneled chamber which had been the scene of the tragedy.

Now I stood, rather awed, with the motionless figure of Stella Lamar before me in her last pitiable close-up.  For I have never lost the sense of solemnity on entering the room of a tragedy, in spite of the long association I have had with Kennedy in the scientific detection of crime.  Particularly did I have the feeling in this case.  The death of a man is tragic, but I know nothing more affecting than the sudden and violent death of a beautiful woman—­unless it be that of a child.

I recalled a glimpse of Stella as I had seen her in her most recent release, as the diaphragm opened on her receiving a box of chocolates, sent by her lover, and playfully feeding one of them to her beautiful collie, “Laddie,” as he romped about upon a divan and almost smothered her with affection.  The vivacity and charm of the scene were in sad contrast with what lay before me.

As I looked more carefully I saw now that her full, well-rounded face was contorted with either pain or fear—­perhaps both.  Even through the make-up one could see that her face was blotched and swollen.  Also, the muscles were contorted; the eyes looked as if they might be bulging under the lids; and there was a bluish tinge to her skin.  Evidently death had come quickly, but it had not been painless.

“Even the coroner has not disturbed the body,” Mackay hastened to explain to Kennedy.  “The players, the camera men, all were sent out of the room the moment Doctor Blake was certain something more than a natural cause lay behind her death.  Mr. Phelps telephoned to me, and upon my arrival I ordered the doors and windows closed, posted my deputies to prevent any interference with anything in the room, left my instructions that everyone was to be detained, then got in touch with you as quickly as I could.”

Kennedy turned to him.  Something in the tone of his voice showed that he meant his compliment.  “I’m glad, Mackay, to be called in by some one who knows enough not to destroy evidence; who realizes that perhaps the slightest disarrangement of a rug, for instance, may be the only clue to a murder.  It’s—­it’s rare!”

The little district attorney beamed.  If he had found it necessary to walk across the floor just then he would have strutted.  I smiled because I wanted Kennedy to show again his marvelous skill in tracing a crime to its perpetrator.  I was anxious that nothing should be done to hamper him.

II

THE TINY SCRATCH

Kennedy, before his own examination of the body, turned to Doctor Blake.  “Tell me just what you found when you arrived,” he directed.