"Didn't you tell me you knew the press agent here?" Corot asked Dawson as they hurried on towards the executive offices.

"YES—Don Clark. An old friend. Can he be of any assistance?"

"He might help with some information I greatly need. First, I would like to know the pictures every actor in the studio has appeared in for, say, the past few years. Second, how soon can those pictures be assembled for me to view them?"

"You want to see all the pictures in which all these players have appeared?" Dawson's voice held astonishment.

"Exactly," Corot answered, grinning at the young man's expression. "I shouldn't think there would be so many, would you?"

"Gosh knows!" Dawson slowly breathed. "But if you're serious, of course I'll ask Clark, or anyone else, for that matter."

"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.

However, neither this far-reaching enquiry, nor the panorama of past pictures flashing before Inspector Corot, were productive of anything startling that day or the next.

It was on the evening of the third day that the slight figure of the head of the Homicide Squad shot out of the projection room and flashed by so fast that the newspaperman's frantic dash to the lower street level enabled him only to see the retreating tail-light of the police car. On the silent screen in the dark room something had pointed a finger of guilt at the murderer!

He was incommunicado at Headquarters, and it was not until the next morning that the insistent Dawson was finally admitted to his private office. Moody and Carroll entered shortly after him. From a bag he carried, the former carefully removed an object and placed it on the desk of his superior. It was a dagger-like knife, something like the short-sword of the early Roman. Beside the sinister weapon he laid a glass tumbler.

"The glass from the hotel room and the big bowie both have the same fingerprints," he said laconically.

THOUGH the man-hunter's eyes danced with a strange light, the only evidence of emotion was his rapid puffing on his pipe.

"Find the other knives?" he asked abruptly. "Sure," answered the detective-sergeant, with a casualness that did not deceive. "Twenty of 'em, with a lot of junk from an old circus act. The circus people raised hell about us breaking open the trunk. Got 'em downstairs, if you want 'em."

"Yes; bring one out to the car," his chief told him, "and see that it is properly wrapped. Carroll, file those exhibits, and don't mess the fingerprints."

Then he looked at the newspaperman and smiled slowly, "Got our man!" he said, like one who relieved suffering. "All but the collar."

"Who—what—how—?" Dawson spluttered. "You—you—"

But already Corot was on his feet and donning topcoat and hat. In the police car, Moody and Carroll were waiting. "Studio!" clipped Corot.

As they drew up in front of the Ajax Studios a long extension ladder was being carried to a fire department truck at the corner.

"Fire?" inquired Dawson of Carroll, at his side.

"Naw! That was my night's exercise," the detective husked in a tired voice. "That bloody knife was sticking in a rafter—you had to be an eagle to find the damned thing!"

A plainclothesman spoke to Corot. "All surrounded, Inspector."

Quickly they passed through the long hallway of the administration building into the darkened interior of the studio.

"You and Carroll know your stuff," the head of detectives said, as they neared the door to the big lot. "So be on your toes." He passed through the door, and paused to watch the activities of the Western pictures company on outside location.

ADIRECTOR on a platform was megaphoning directions to a group of bandit- like figures on horseback. Cameras and a sound- truck were being moved in the foreground. Far to one side stood Ned Lane, beside the beautiful white steed that was as much a part of his pictures as himself.

Corot appeared aimless in his movements, but presently Dawson became aware that he had an objective. This became more evident as he saw that Moody and Carroll, too, were approaching in a similar manner from different directions. They were closing in on someone. Walter Dawson caught his breath in quick discovery. For the only person within the triangle formed by the man- hunters was Ned Lane!

So intent was the new screen-hero on the action in the foreground that he was unaware of the approach of the detectives. A minute later, the two-gun actor wheeled around and faced an accosting officer.

"Lane," Corot asked peremptorily, without any preamble, "where were you when that murder occurred on Stage A?"

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."