Phelps either seemed convinced, or else he felt it inadvisable to irritate Kennedy by a further pretense of skepticism.

A point occurred to me, however.  “Listen, Craig!” I spoke in a low voice.  “Remember all the emphasis you placed upon the fact that she would cry out.  She was not supposed to cry out in that first scene.”

“No, Walter, but if you’ll read the second, the close-up, you’ll see that the script actually calls for a cry.  Now suppose she makes an exclamation in the first instead.  Nobody would think anything of it.  They would assume that she had played her action a little in advance, perhaps.

“And then consider this, too!  Miss Lamar, receiving the scratch, would cry out unquestionably.  But she has been before the camera for years and she is trained in the idea that film must not be wasted uselessly.  She would not interrupt her action for a little scratch because in these circumstances any little startled movement would fit in with the action.  By the time the scene was over she would have forgotten the incident.  It would mean very little to her in the preoccupation of bringing the mythical Stella Remsen into flesh-and-blood existence.  The poison, however, would be putting in its deadly work.”

“Wouldn’t it act before the thirteenth scene—­” I began.

“Not necessarily.  As a matter of fact, an actress, in the excitement of her work, might resist the effects for a much longer period than some one who realizes he is sick.  Some day I’m going to write a book on that.  I’m going to collect hundreds of examples of people who keep plugging along because they refuse to admit anything’s the matter with them.  It’s like Napoleon’s courier who didn’t drop until he’d delivered his message and made his last precise military salute.”

One other thought struck me.  “The blood spots on the curtain cannot be Miss Lamar’s if, as you say, the scratch brought no blood.”

“How about the nocturnal visitor who removed the needle in the dark?  Can’t you imagine him pricking himself beautifully in his hurry.”

“Good heavens!” I felt the chills travel up and down my spine.  “There may be another fatality, then!” I exclaimed.

Kennedy was noncommittal.  “It would be too bad for justice to be cheated in that fashion,” he remarked.

Phelps meanwhile had been listening to us impatiently.  Finally he turned to Mackay.

“Was that all you called me out here for?  Did you just want to show me the pinholes in those portieres?”

“Not exactly,” Mackay replied, eyeing him sharply.  “Some one forced his way into this library last night.  My guard saw him, and also saw a second man who remained out in the shrubbery and seemed to be watching the first.  One shot was fired, but both men got away.  An automobile was waiting, perhaps two of them.”

“How does this concern me?” Phelps’s voice rose in anger.  He strode into the library and over to the French windows, inspecting the damage to the fine woodwork with steadily rising color.  Then he hurried back to the side of Mackay.