"You would not, if my conjectures are right," was his superior's mysterious comment. "How about visitors?"

"That's our one break—it just happened that none were about the studio at the time of the crime."

"So at least, we have our murderer within four walls," the inspector's nod said, as if to himself. "Perhaps, after all, we may not make such a muddle."

He hurried on towards the main building, but suddenly saw the Great Dane again, and stopped to admire it.

"A fine animal," he remarked to a near-by property man.

"Yeah!" was the rejoinder. "Only if I had my way it would be kept off the set when it wasn't needed."

"How is that?" "It's always in the way for somebody to fall over. Why, if Ned Lane so much as goes off for a drink of water, that big mutt runs around like a rodeo."

"Upsetting people, eh?" "You said it. The lummox spilled me on my bean only yesterday. Say, I thought I was being murdered myself!"

"Didn't you tell me you knew the press agent here?" Corot asked Dawson as they hurried on towards the executive offices.

"YES—Don Clark. An old friend. Can he be of any assistance?"

"He might help with some information I greatly need. First, I would like to know the pictures every actor in the studio has appeared in for, say, the past few years. Second, how soon can those pictures be assembled for me to view them?"

"You want to see all the pictures in which all these players have appeared?" Dawson's voice held astonishment.

"Exactly," Corot answered, grinning at the young man's expression. "I shouldn't think there would be so many, would you?"

"Gosh knows!" Dawson slowly breathed. "But if you're serious, of course I'll ask Clark, or anyone else, for that matter."