In the conversation with Manton there was certainly no hint of answer to my queries.  With all his ease, Manton was the true picture promoter.  Seldom was he betrayed into a positive statement of his own.  Always, when necessary, he gave as authority the name of some one else.  But the effect was the same.

A hurried call of some sort took Manton away from us.  Kennedy turned to me with a whimsical expression.

“Let’s go!” he remarked.

“What do you make of it, offhand?” I asked, outside.

“We’re going about in a circle,” he remarked.  “Strange group of people.  Each apparently suspects the other.”

“And, to cover himself, talks of the other fellow,” I added.

Kennedy nodded, and we made our way toward the laboratory.

“I’ll bet something happens before the day is over,” I hazarded, for no reason in particular.

Kennedy shrugged.

As we went, I cast up in my mind the facts we had learned.  The information from Manton was disconcerting, coming on top of what had already been revealed about the inner workings of his game.  If Phelps had secretly “borrowed” from the trust accounts in his charge a quarter of a million or so, I saw that his situation must indeed be desperate.  To what lengths he might go it was difficult to determine.

XX

THE BANQUET SCENE

For once I qualified as a prophet.  We were hardly in our rooms when the telephone rang for Kennedy.  It was District-Attorney Mackay, calling in from Tarrytown.

“My men have positive identification of one of the visitors to the Phelps home the night after the murder,” he reported.

“Fine!” exclaimed Kennedy.  “Who was it?  How did you uncover his trail?”

“You remember that my deputy heard the sound of a departing automobile?  Well, we have been questioning everyone.  A citizen here, who returned home late at just about that hour, remembers seeing a taxicab tearing through the street at a reckless rate.  He came in to see me this morning.  He made a mental note of the license number at the time, and while nothing stuck with him but the last three figures, three sixes, he was sure that it was a Maroon taxi.  We got busy and have located the driver who made the trip, from a stand at Thirty-third all the way out and back.  On the return he dropped his fare at the man’s apartment.  The identification is positive.”

“Who is it?” Kennedy became quite excited.

“Werner, the director.”

“Werner!” in surprise.  “What are you going to do?”

“Arrest him first—­examine him afterward.  I’ve sworn out the warrant already, and I’m going to start in by car just as soon as we hang up.  I thought I’d phone you first in case you wanted to accompany me to the studio.”

“We’ll hurry there,” Kennedy replied, “and meet you.”

“Outside?”