Though the player's face whitened, his voice was steady enough as he answered: "Snatching a bite beside the set."

"Oh, no, you weren't," said the inspector softly. "Your dog never leaves your side—he was rushing around in the dark trying to smell you out."

"I deny that," said Lane, and his smile was cool.

Corot's voice became as hard as his eyes. "Perhaps you'll deny that the slain woman was your abandoned wife?" he rasped.

A startling change came over the actor. His eyes dilated with fear, the hand that rested on the neck of the horse trembled and caused the animal to move unsteadily.

"You married Helen Schneider all right," the inspector relentlessly continued, "and you murdered her—with this!"

Like one paralyzed, the motion picture actor stared at the curious knife that was thrust under his eyes. He slumped back against the horse, his hand frantically clutching at its mane. As though his fear had communicated itself to the animal, it suddenly leaped forward, dragging its master at its side. But the next moment, Lane's other hand had obtained a hold and he vaulted into the saddle as the frantic animal headed up the runway to the imitation cliff some fifty feet above the heads of those breathlessly watching.

A few more wild leaps and the horse gained the top and faced the open space that separated it from the cliff opposite. Then, as the detectives' guns barked, the horse was hurtling himself across the chasm that had been lightly dubbed "the leap of death."

IN mid-air, horse and rider, unhit, appeared suspended for a long moment, silhouetted against the sky. Then the actor put spurs to his mount and deliberately pulled at the reins. The gallant steed quivered and jerked its head back. Strong men closed their eyes as it stopped in that graceful parabola, to drop like a plummet to the earth beneath. They knew it truly had been a leap of death!