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. . . I'll tell you some other time . . .” and was silent again.

I let it go at that, of course. It was good to know that she distinguished me from other men . . . that she thought of me as a man rather than as a detective. That, I told myself, was a great step forward. I went back to the subject of the curious happening in her dressing room.

“Can I go to your dressing room?” I asked. “I would like to see it for myself.”

“Of course,” she said readily. “Wait, I’ll go with you. It’s locked.”

We crossed the empty stage, dim and mysterious in its corners, the lack of direct light hiding the tawdriness in the large empty space from which all the scenery had been removed.

“Not that I think it’s going to do much good—my seeing the exact spot,” I said, “but then, it’s always well to see these things for yourself. You never can tell.” I made these banal remarks just to keep talking. I was happy to be with her.

She unlocked the door of the dressing room and switched on the light instantly. My gaze traveled like a ray of light to her dressing table and even from the door I could see the spot of red blood. It was on the end of the white, lacy covering of the table, and there was no mistaking it.

I examined it at close range.