"I was never more serious in my life," soberly assured Corot.

"But, look here, Inspector," the reporter demanded eagerly, "what is all this about a deluge of old pictures? Do you think a picture has something to do with this murder?"

"Not directly," he said slowly, "It's just a notion of mine. You know," he went on confidentially, "you and I know actors. They seldom live outside their calling—continually talk shop and all that—and the sense of the dramatic is always with them. Yes; the drama of make-believe is life itself to most of them, especially those in motion pictures, and that's where my notion comes in. I stick to it! This is a trick murder, and a premeditated one, and I rather suspect it was suggested by something remembered, probably some incident from a play in the past. So there, my boy, you have what makes my head tick."

"But the entire cast of the company was on the stage," protested Dawson, "and yet someone crawled across the stage—bumped into Miriam Foye. Wouldn't that suggest—"

"Ah! That body!" breathed Corot. "Your subconscious mind is telling you something, my boy, and you're turning a deaf ear."

DAWSON was still worrying about what it was his subconscious mind was trying to tell him when he hurried back from his office that evening and took a seat beside the inspector in the projection room. But he was loath to ask for further enlightenment.

By ten o'clock, as reel after reel was run off, the reporter's eyes were watering and he was willing to call it a day, but not so Corot. He stuck it out till midnight, and only quit when the film ran out.

On and off, it was the same next day, and because Dawson was no hog for punishment, he threw up his hands and started to consort with Detective-Sergeant Moody. Under the latter's direction, the network of New York's vast police system was in motion to link up the dead Helene Storme with her buried past.