"Stay where you are!" yelled Boone. "No one can come on this set until the police give the word! Some one has killed Miss Storme!"

And none of that terror-stricken crowd did move for what seemed to them, in their chattering excitement, an eternity, until there came the heavy tread of feet, and two towering bluecoats forced their way through the huddle of players and came striding towards Stage A.

"Stand back, all of yuh!" vociferated one of the policemen, as he caught sight of the body. He lumbered towards the stage as if to brush aside the players with his club.

"One moment, Officer!" called Tad Boone, bolting after him. "These people were standing where they are when this happened. Some one close at hand must have attacked Miss Storme, so I thought—"

"And quite right, too," remarked a quiet voice at his elbow; then: "Officer, you and your team-mate can rope off the space about here, and keep everybody out until further orders."

INSPECTOR COROT, head of the Homicide Squad, shot a swift glance at the dead woman on the stage. Then his gray eyes swept the members of the company and returned to the pallid face of the director.

"As you were saying, Mr.—er—"

"Boone is my name. I am the director." He caught sight of a younger man behind Inspector Corot. "Oh, hello, Dawson," he said weakly. "Have the newspapers already—"

"Just happened to be calling at the precinct station with the inspector when the flash came," the Blade reporter interjected.

"Am I to understand, Mr. Boone," remarked the inspector, "that no one has left the scene since this happened?"

"Absolutely no one—except two of my men I sent on errands." He told of the precautions he had taken, gave a hasty outline of the tragic occurrence.