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back stage, and I dashed out, but Betty Sargent, who was right on the spot, was quicker. She came out of her horrific daze and leaped to the rescue, trying to drag something away from the throat of the horrified actor.

“What is it, Augustin?” she shrieked. “What is it?”

He flashed her a look of despair and of agony, his face turning blue even in that moment. By that time I was there, too, and Ike Humbert and several members of the cast were on our heels.

I could see nothing, and yet this man was being choked to death before our eyes.

Just before I reached his side he collapsed in a heap on the stage and out of the corner of my eye I could see the curtain descending rapidly, shutting out from the terrified audience the rest of what happened.

I bent over Arnold and tried to help him, though I did not know in just what way he could be helped, or what invisible thing was attacking him. With a last gasp, his tongue hanging out, his head fell back, and he was still. I tugged at something that was at his throat, and felt a solid substance, a substance of warm flesh and bone and muscle.

At his throat was a magnificently strong hand, though I could not see it!

It was like a bar of iron, and I could not budge it from its position. I pulled, and around me resounded