I know I was carried away by a sense of reality.  It seemed to me that waiters made endless trips to and fro, that here and there pretty girls broke into laughter constantly or that men leaned forward every other moment to make witty remarks; in fact I felt genuinely sorry I could not take part in the festivities.  I knew that danger, in the person of the Black Terror as played by Shirley, lurked just out the window.  I felt delicious anticipatory thrills of fear, so thoroughly was I in the spirit of the thing.  Then I saw that Werner was about to propose the toast, about to give the cue for the big action.

“Watch him” whispered Kennedy.  “He’s an actor.  He’s taking that drink just as though he meant every drop of it.”

Werner had raised his delicately stemmed glass as though to join his neighbor in some pledge when a new idea seemed to strike him.  He leaped to his feet.

“Let’s drink together!  Let’s drink to our hero and heroine of the evening!”

Other voices rose in acclamation.  The wine had been poured lavishly.  Glasses clinked and we could hear laughter.

Suddenly at the window, back of everyone, appeared the evil, black-masked figure of Shirley, eyes glittering menacingly from their slits, two weapons glistening blue in his hands.

At the same moment there was a terrible groan, followed by a scream of agony.  Werner staggered back, his left hand clutched at his breast.  From his right hand the glass which he had drained fell to the canvas covered floor with an ominous dull crash.

This was not in the script!  Practically everybody realized the fact, for the scene instantly was in an uproar.  In the general consternation no one seemed to know just what to do.

Shirley was the first to act, the first to realize what had happened.  Dropping his weapons, reaching the side of the stricken director in one leap, he supported him as he reeled drunkenly, then eased him to the floor.  Behind us, before I could look to Kennedy to see what he would do, there was the gasp of a man out of breath from hurrying upstairs.  I turned, startled.  It was Mackay.

“Shall I make the collar?” he wheezed.  At the same instant he saw the gathering crowd in the set.  “What—­what’s happened?” he asked.

Kennedy had bounded forward only a few seconds after Shirley.  As I pushed through after him, Mackay following, I discovered him kneeling at the side of Werner.

“Some one send for a doctor, quick,” he commanded, taking charge of things as a matter of course.  “Hurry!” he repeated.  “He’s gasping for air and it’ll be too late in a minute.”

Then he saw us.  “Walter—­Mackay”—­he raised Werner’s head—­“push everyone back, please!  Give him a chance to breathe!”

A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as politely but firmly I widened the space about Kennedy and the director.  Was this a case of suicide?  Had Werner known we were coming for him?  Had he thought to bring about his own end in the most spectacular fashion possible?  Was this the fancy of a drug-weakened brain?