“That’s talk!” she rejoined, with a show of feeling.  “That’s the thing I hate about pictures.  It’s always talk, talk, talk!  I’m not saying Stella and old Papa Lloyd, as we used to call him, never were mixed up with each other, but it’s one thing to repeat a bit of gossip and quite another thing to prove it.  I’m not one to help give currency to any rumor of immoral relationship until I’m pretty dog-gone sure it’s true.”

“You think Miss Lamar wasn’t as bad as painted?” asked Kennedy.

“I’m sure of it, Mr. Kennedy.  I’ve known Stella and I’ve known others of her type.  Fundamentally they’re the kindest, truest, biggest-hearted people on earth.  When Stella and I shared a dressing room I often caught her giving away this or that—­ frequently things she needed herself.  I’ve known her to draw against her salary to lend money to some actor or actress whom she well knew would never repay her.  Stella’s biggest fault was an overbalancing quality of sympathy.  If she ever did get mixed up with anyone you may bet it was because that person played upon her feelings.”

“Have you any theory as to who killed her?” It was a direct question.

“No!” The answer was quick, but then an amazing thing happened.  Marilyn suddenly colored, a flush which gathered up around her eyes above the make-up and made me think of a country girl.  She started to say something else and then bit her tongue.  Her confusion was surprising, due, probably, to the unexpectedness of Kennedy’s query.

Kennedy seemed to wish to spare her.  Undoubtedly her prompt negative had been the truth.  Some afterthought had robbed her of her self-control.  “Tell me why you said Miss Faye was a clever girl,” he directed.

“Just because she puts her ambition above everything else and works hard and honestly and sincerely, and will get there.  That’s what people call being clever.”

“I see.”

Werner’s voice, roaring through a megaphone, announced an interval for lunch.  Marilyn rose, laughing now, but still in a high color, conscious perhaps that she had revealed some strong undercurrent of feeling.

“If you’ll escort me to my dressing room,” she said, coaxingly, “and wait until I slip into a skirt and waist, I’ll initiate both of you to McCann’s across the street.  We all eat there, players, stage hands, chauffeurs—­all but the stars, who have machines to take them elsewhere.”

Kennedy glanced at me.  “Delighted!” said I.

“We haven’t much time,” she went on, leading the way.  “Werner’s on a rampage to-day.”

“He isn’t usually that way?”

“It’s Stella’s death, I guess.”  She opened one of the steel fire doors.  “He’s always that way, though, when he’s been out the night before.”

I flashed a look at Kennedy.  Could Werner have been at Tarrytown?

In the long hallway of dressing rooms Marilyn stopped, grasping the knob of her door.  “It’ll only take me—­” she began.