CHAPTER I.

[caption:

Stricken with terror, Margot watched a small, thin hand,

then a forearm reach from under her bed.]

THE

HAUNTING HAND

By

W. ADOLPHE ROBERTS

Frontispiece by

GEORGE W. GAGE

NEW YORK

THE MACAULAY COMPANY

[COPYRIGHT]

_Copyright, 1926

By The Macaulay Company_

[DEDICATION]

DEDICATED TO

FLORENCE M. OSBORNE.

CONTENTS

I. Movie Men and Mannequins

II. The Grisly Hand and the Flame

III. A Creature Without a Body

IV. Mounting Mystery

V. Weird Suspicions

VI. The Midnight Prowler

VII. Spooks and the Press

VIII. The Claws of Jealousy

IX. Hidden Motives

X. A Witness from the Dead

XI. Whose Hand?

XII. Stella’s Story

XIII. Will-o’-the-Wisp

XIV. Love’s Alarm

XV. Stoner’s Share

XVI. A King’s Ransom in Radium

XVII. “Better Than Brotherly!”

THE HAUNTING HAND

CHAPTER I.

MOVIE MEN AND MANNEQUINS

Mid October, with its tang, and the blazoned glory of its skies and

sun and tawny trees! Margot Anstruther thanked a kind fate that she

could live these brilliant, exhilarating days out of doors. Had she

been confined to office or classroom, her restless spirit would have

carried her body with it, in reckless escape. Long Island--where the

Superfilm Company studio spread over the landscape--although not

precisely the Maine woods or sea, or the open spaces of her own

wide-flung West, at least spelled trees and grass and fresh air.

Margot stood on the diminutive roof-garden of her New York home,

watching the moon rise over the house-tops. It was eight o’clock and

her guests would soon arrive. She hoped that Gene Valery would come

before the others. It was pleasant to be loved so ardently by Gene,

but she surmised that it would be pleasanter if she could love as

ardently in return. At any rate, his friendship was invaluable. He was

the only one with whom she could share her mental gymnastics, the

aspect of her mind which others would regard as rather too serious for

human nature’s daily food.

She had Gene to thank for her tiny roof-garden. It was one of those

quaint affairs, a covering built over the yard, to be found in many an

old New York house. Gene had rigged up a trellis and had brought

potted palms and a South American hammock. For to-night he had hung

Japanese lanterns. Margot had already lighted them. That small, mock

garden took the curse, so to speak, off her lodging-house quarters,

which consisted of one large, high-ceilinged room, in which she slept,

ate--her breakfasts--and had her being.

She cut short her transport over the moon, stepped across the

door-sill into the room, and cast critical eyes over her domain. A

brass bed in one far corner was concealed by a screen, which Gene had

made and she had decorated. The effect was rather good. She had

recently acquired a divan, with many cushions, large and soft and

gaily colored. Against one wall was a chest of drawers, a Chinese

scarf over its battered top, a brass jar at one end, and a pewter

candlestick with orange candle, at the other. The walls were a muddy

gray, but there was a Japanese print here and there, and bright

cretonne at the windows and on the wicker chairs.

Flanking the old-fashioned fireplace were her bookcases, built and

painted by Gene. As catholic in her literary tastes as in her choice

of friends, Margot’s books presented a varied diet; fiction ranging

from Kipling to Anatole France, poetry from Dante to Millay. A

desk-table and an old console table--her own acquisitions--with carved

wood book-racks for a few modern novels, and a bit of brass or copper;

and two much worn but softly blended Oriental rugs thrown over the

antiquated carpet, almost hiding its ugliness. Margot had achieved

distinction, beauty and a subtle charm, in a room which previous

tenants of the old lodging-house must have accepted as irretrievably

barren and sordid.

She glanced in her four-foot mirror and patted her hair. It looked

redder than usual in the light from the candles and from the

yellow-shaded electric lamp over by the table. She flicked a speck of

dust from the mirror-frame, gave a little twist to her soft, straight

hung dress of corn color silk, then glanced toward the lanterns

swinging in the evening breeze. Yes--it was all rather nice, but she

was especially grateful for the roof-garden. Of course, a chilly

October night could not be expected to lend exotic warmth to the

scene, but in the room, the logs would be burning.

Six weeks since she had first met her expected guests: Frederick

Stoner, the director of the Superfilm Company, with his strange, pale

eyes; May Cheshire, the little blond girl who had been the first to

inspire Margot with a desire to get into pictures; Lulu Leinster, the

prize-beauty-contest winner from Texas, whose large brown eyes,

beautifully chiseled lips and exquisite skin and yellow hair would

have been assets in any profession. These three, and others, men and

girls of the company, whose admiring friendship Margot had won during

the past six weeks of work in the great studio of the Superfilm

Company. Gene Valery was an older friend. That he happened to be an

efficient young camera man with the same company was a pleasing

coincidence.

Six weeks! A mere point in time, but they had been constructive weeks.

To her own satisfaction and to that of her director, it had been

proved that she had histrionic talent of a high order and that she

screened admirably. Of no less significance the fact that she knew

now, beyond all doubt, not only what she could do, but what she wanted

to do. The absurd thing was that she should originally have chosen

science as her profession! Mentally equipped she might be for

scientific work, but oh, how much more interesting it was to act!

Certainly more remunerative. That morning in June, when she had

applied for work and been taken on as an “extra” by the International,

had supplied not only a little extra cash for her summer vacation but

the fillip to her vague ambition to be a screen actress. And here she

was, at twenty-five, launched on her career.

Her laboratory work would not be wasted; nothing excellent was ever

wasted, she knew, and she was grateful for any acquisitive experience

which she owed to her college course. But mental activities on the

side, she would regard as a hobby; for an actress she was by

temperament, and a good actress she proposed to be by intelligent use

of her powers.

Funny, how Stoner had engaged her that day, and given her a real part

in the new picture, _A Toreador’s Love_! Funny how he had chosen her,

instead of the lovely Lulu, for apparently no good reason! When Lulu

proceeded to weep and look like a piece of broken Dresden china, he

had weakened to the extent of giving the latter a very small rôle,

but it was still a mystery to Margot why he had given _her_ the

important part for which she and Lulu--and many others--had applied,

in response to an advertisement. She had forgotten, or hadn’t had

time, to tell Gene about it. She must remember to tell him sometime.

It would amuse him and perhaps he’d be able to dispel the vague sense

of mystery aroused in her by Stoner, with his strange pale eyes, from

that first moment when she had given him her name and address.

Margot smiled, recalling Gene’s absurd jealousy of Frederick Stoner.

Ridiculous to suppose that she could ever give the director a second

thought except in relation to her work. He wasn’t a bad sort, really,

but his rather brutish good looks repelled her. And he was a good

director, although, as everyone had told her, he belonged to the old

school of directors; very old-fashioned in his methods. There were

few, if any, of his kind left in the motion picture industry, for

which those working under him were devoutly thankful. Stoner’s notion

of discipline was to shout his orders and conduct himself generally as

if everything were melodrama.

Gene was rather annoying with his jealous suspicions. She didn’t dare

tell him that she endured Stoner’s boring attentions as much for

Gene’s sake as for her own. Stoner had never liked Gene, and now he

made his dislike very evident. If she were to let it become obvious

that she preferred Gene’s friendship to Stoner’s, the director would

be quite capable of discharging him and queering him with other

directors and managers. Men often did contemptible things out of

jealousy. If she explained all this to Gene, ten to one he would

resign, just when his chances for promotion were so good. Gene was a

rank outsider. He had been taken on almost by accident and retained

because he was so amazingly clever with the camera. But all the

cleverness in the world wouldn’t help you if you were an outsider and

an influential director considered you undesirable.

Speaking of jealousy! She smiled again, remembering that the only

member of the cast of _A Toreador’s Love_, who had declined her

invitation for to-night, was the star, Corinne Delamar. To be sure,

she was younger than Corinne--somewhat--and perhaps prettier, but

there was no reason for fearing that she had designs upon the

director. Margot had treated Corinne with consistent and amiable

courtesy, but had made no attempt to overcome her antagonism, by

catering to her up-stage exactions. In token of her good-will and to

celebrate her success in the Superfilm’s new picture, she had asked

them all to her informal home for a “party.” The word covered a

multitude of sins--of excess or boredom. Silly of Corinne not to come!

Silly of her to advertise her jealousy of Margot! There had been

gossip about it already, some of it a trifle malicious.

At that point in her rapid reflections, Gene appeared, carrying a

bunch of yellow roses. He brought candy also, and cigarettes, and a

bottle or two under his arm. Gene was tall, clear-skinned and plain of

feature, except for his blue eyes. He was well knit, had brilliant

teeth and a smile which made one forget that his mouth was too wide

and his nose crooked--it had been broken in a football game. At times

his smile quickened his face to actual beauty.

With bright eyes smiling in unison with her red, parted lips, Margot

watched him unwrap his packages. Then he stood looking at her, longing

to take her in his arms, and daring only to stare at her adoringly.

“You _are_ a darling, Gene!” Her voice cooed at him, and she took a

step nearer, smiling at him.

Well, that wasn’t so bad in the way of a greeting, his expansive smile

told her.

“And _you_ are a darling--an exquisite darling!”

She went a little nearer to him.

“If you won’t muss me, and won’t get too rapturous, I’ll let you kiss

me--_once_--just to give you a good start for the evening.”

“Sweetheart!” Impetuously he tried to put an arm around her, then,

gingerly, as she drew away with a laugh of warning, he put his hands

on her shoulders and bending down, kissed her lips. It was a kiss

pregnant with emotion but short-lived, as she freed herself, with

another gay laugh.

“Look, Gene! You haven’t even noticed my new divan and my lovely

cushions.”

He glanced at the divan without interest, turned his gaze back to

Margot, and seeing her mouth droop in disappointment, he made an

effort to smile approval.

“Bully, darling! It adds fifty per cent to this room.” His eyes roved

about. “Color scheme’s fine!” His wandering glance reached the corner

where the screen did not entirely conceal the large brass bed. “Why on

earth don’t you get rid of that incubus?”

Margot’s smile clouded. “Now, you don’t imagine I keep it for sheer

love of the beastly thing? I told Mrs. Bellew that I was going to buy

a divan, and she promised to remove that monster over there. But when

the divan arrived the other day, she told me I’d have to keep the bed

till she could have one of her rooms done over. I can’t throw the darn

thing out the window. It makes me _so_ mad!”

“Sorry I mentioned it, dearest. Don’t bother about it. That screen

hides it and the room’s so huge you can forget that corner.”

“Anyway,” she smiled cheerfully, “I’ve managed to cover her hideous

old Wilton, except in spots, especially that torn place near the bed.

Dad sent the Orientals from home. Worn a bit, but the coloring’s

lovely. She wouldn’t take up her old carpet. Says the paint’s off the

floor and the boards cracked and rough. I don’t believe she’s had that

carpet up for years.”

“By the way,” said Gene irrelevantly, “Stoner coming to-night?”

“Why, of course he is!”

“Precisely--_why_--‘of course’?”

“How silly of you, Gene! I can’t snub Stoner, and it would have been

worse than a snub not to ask him to-night. Why, _he_ gave me the job

I’m celebrating! How _could_ I leave him out?”

“Suppose you’re right.” Gene’s agreement was sulky. “But I don’t like

Stoner and I hate to see him hanging around you.”

She went up to him and gave him a light, swift kiss on the end of his

chin, then ran back before he could seize her.

“Be a good sport, Gene, dear. A man of Stoner’s type couldn’t possibly

hurt me in anyway, for I’d never want him as a friend, let alone as a

lover. But it’s policy to be decent to him, and I’m not a fool.”

“All the same I hate to see his familiar manner with you. All the

logic in the universe isn’t going to change that.”

“And I can’t help _that_! If you _will_ be jealous of an inferior,

then you just prove an inferiority complex.” Her smile sweetened the

words, then she added with a laugh: “The same kind of complex that

made Corinne Delamar decline my invitation for to-night.”

Before Gene could reply, the door-bell rang. To Margot’s relief, the

first arrivals were May Cheshire and Lulu Leinster, with several other

girls and men from _A Toreador’s Love_. She was glad that Stoner had

not come in time to make an embarrassing trio with Gene and herself.

Amid the chatter and laughter and admiring exclamations regarding

Margot’s room and the tiny roof-garden, the bell rang again. This time

it would be Stoner, she knew. She ran to the door to admit him,

standing with her back to the room.

Stoner was tall and heavily built, with thick eyebrows that gave him a

fierce expression when he frowned. He was handsome, of a crude,

slightly brutal type. He possessed, at least, that illusive quality,

personality. He smiled down at Margot and extended a large,

well-groomed hand.

Her cordial but impersonal greeting of: “Why, hello, Mr. Stoner!

Awfully glad to see you!” sounded innocent enough, which was for

Gene’s benefit, but only Stoner saw the roguish, upturned corners of

her mouth, and the smile of challenge in her lovely eyes. After all,

one must play a game with finesse. If she didn’t coquette a _little_

with Stoner, just to keep the ball rolling, either she’d antagonize

him, or run the risk of bringing on a crisis by goading him to a less

oblique attack.

Before she turned and sauntered with him across the room, the color

had deepened in her cheeks. Whenever Stoner looked at her with his

critical, predatory eyes, Margot always grew uncomfortably conscious

of her physical assets: of the long, gently curved lines of her body;

of the clearness of her white skin, with its pink shadings; of the

golden auburn of her bobbed hair; of her nose, straight, except for a

slight uptilt at the end, which harmonized with the way her lips

deepened and lifted at the corners of her mobile mouth. She had no

unwarranted conceit, but the trained appraisal of Stoner’s glance had

brought to her to-night, as on previous occasions, the conviction that

she was more beautiful than she had supposed.

An hour later, Margot, sitting Turk-fashion on her divan, and flashing

a smile over the rim of her cocktail glass at the girls and men

standing or lolling about the room, answered their toast to her

success, with one of her own.

“If Shakespeare were alive to-day, he’d be writing scenarios, and

instead of saying: ‘The play’s the thing!’ he’d say: ‘The movies are

the _only_ thing!’ Drink to the drama of the screen! May it live long

and prosper, and have lots of--of offspring!”

“Taking liberties with the famous old toast of Rip Van Winkle. Very

clever of you, Margot, I’ll tell the world!” It was Stoner speaking.

Surprising, Margot thought, that Stoner, with all his crudities,

should have recognized her paraphrasing of the toast of Rip Van

Winkle. She was sure that no one else but Gene in that room had

education enough for that. She studied Stoner through lowered eyes. He

was standing by the table, compounding bright-colored cocktails with

much orange juice and not much gin. The bottles were emptying rather

early in the evening.

Stoner, liking to be in evidence wherever there were pretty women

about, had insisted upon presiding over the mixing of drinks. He swung

the big shaker with a loud tinkling of ice, and boisterous jests

thrown carelessly to one or another. He smiled, it seemed to Gene’s

watchful and jealous eyes, a little possessively at Margot, as he

said, with a laugh:

“I’ll hand it to you, Margot, for knowing how to maneuver the drinks

so that we’ll stay sober and yet enjoy ourselves. Most women, when

they entertain, can’t strike that happy medium. They’re either stingy

with the booze, or they turn on the hose and send you home wall-eyed.

You’re the perfect little entertainer, I’ll tell the world.”

“And why on earth, Margot, did you think you had to apologize for this

room of yours?” Lulu glanced about with wondering admiration. “I call

it a swell room, and fine for a party!”

Margot smiled, and her gray eyes twinkled.

“It’s really just a bedroom, Lulu, as I warned you. I can’t pretend

it’s anything else, while that monstrous brass bed stands over in that

corner.”

“Well, you’ve got it screened, haven’t you?” Lulu argued.

“That’s a weak camouflage. And when I go to bed, of course I remove

the screen, and then, when I look around the room, I feel as if I were

in a regular movie bedroom. They’re always so funny, you know. Aren’t

they, Mr. Stoner?”

For a second his expression showed that he thought she might be making

fun of him.

“We have to rig up those fancy bedrooms, to please the fans who’ve

never seen a really swell bedroom in their lives. They think they’re

getting the real dope when we show them beds all covered with lace and

satin and the Lord knows what not.”

“Beds don’t scare _me_,” laughed May Cheshire, shaking her little

blond, bobbed head. “Ain’t they among our best little props? Ain’t we

jumpin’ in and out of ’em in half the scenes?”

Margot laughed with the others. Hers was too human a sense of humor to

resent the obviousness of such an exhibition of another girl’s wit. It

was spontaneous at least.

“As to beds,” Stoner evidently thought the subject not yet exhausted;

“you aren’t the only young actress, Margot, who’s living in one room.

Lots of them in the ‘Roaring Forties.’ I’ve seen rooms that weren’t a

patch on this one for looks and comfort, and I’ve sat on more beds

than I could count, when there weren’t enough chairs to go round.”

“At least you won’t be put to that trouble in my room.”

Gene exulted at the slight coolness in her tone. Damn cheeky Stoner,

with his remarks about sitting on beds. Stoner gave her a sharp look,

then stared across the room to where the brass bed peeked around a

corner of the screen.

“Wouldn’t be any trouble, I assure you.” What was it, in his voice?

Irony, ridicule, effrontery or just plain nerve?

For the first time in weeks, Margot had a vivid memory of the look in

Stoner’s eyes when she had first given him her address, and the

following day, when he first suggested calling on her. The impression

of something vaguely sinister, had faded with more familiar knowledge

of the man, and his amiable crudities of mind and manner.

“Guess you’ll soon be movin’ up town into some big swell flat on

Riverside Drive. You’ll be a star I bet, in the next picture they

shoot.” There was faint envy in Lulu’s big blue eyes.

“If I move up town,” said Margot, with a laugh, “it certainly won’t be

to Riverside Drive. Too many murders of young actresses and dancers in

that neighborhood. And I’m in no hurry to move away from here. This

house has atmosphere, hasn’t it, Gene?” She turned her head to smile

directly into Gene’s watchful eyes. “It was built in the sixties, you

know, Mr. Stoner.” Her glance shifted to the director, who was sitting

on the arm of an old chair, and imperiling its usefulness.

“Picturesque old moldings, high ceilings and all that sort of thing.

Don’t you like these brownstone relics, Mr. Stoner?”

“Gene, there, knows more about them than I do. He has to shoot them

every now and then. But the inside dope on architecture and periods is

the bluff of the art director. ‘Ain’t it the truth,’ Valery?”

Gene disdained to attempt the sort of repartee which Stoner could have

understood. He got up, and poured himself a drink, and drank it

unsociably, except for a glance over his glass at Margot. She decided

hastily to make conversation of a kind that would entertain the crowd,

and avoid personalities, and danger of sword crossing between Gene and

Stoner. She would strike the note of mystery. That would intrigue them

all, at a minimum of effort.

“Listen, people,” she began, her mouth widening in a smile which

included everyone. “The best thing about this house is that it makes

good on its appearance. Mysterious lodgers have lived here. Strange

things have happened here.”

In her roving glance from one guest to the other, her eyes met

Stoner’s. Their pale blue looked dark in the shaded lighting of the

room. He sat quite still, staring intently at her. Certainly the man

had strange eyes. One moment colorless and without expression, even

when his mouth suggested significant things when he smiled or spoke to

her; the next moment taking on depth and color and a vague suggestion

of mystery. She was conscious of a slight effort in withdrawing her

glance from his arresting gaze.

Lulu dragged her chair closer, and May sprang to the divan, and

cuddled close to Margot.

“Do go on!” May’s voice shrilled excitedly. “_What_ strange things

have happened here?”

“I only heard about it yesterday.” Margot determined to keep her

glance carefully away from Stoner’s direction. He made her nervous for

some reason. “I was talking to the landlady--trying to get her to take

away her old brass bed. She told me that a girl who was living in this

very room, disappeared in the funniest way, about three months ago.

She didn’t just walk out, bag and baggage. She disappeared--literally.

Left all her belongings, even her comb and tooth brush. _And_--she’s

never come back!”

“That’s interesting!” Stoner’s comment came as he walked to the table

and poured a drink. His back was turned to Margot. “What sort of a

girl was she?” He stood now facing the others, and looking at Margot.

He frowned as if mentally groping with an abstract problem. “Anybody

have a drink?” he added genially.

Cries from the girls, begging for silence, and telling the men to pour

drinks, if they must, without talking about it or interrupting

Margot’s story; then silence and absorbed attention as Margot

continued:

“The girl’s name was Stella Ball. She was supposed to be working at

Macy’s, half time, in the afternoons. But Mrs. Bellew communicated

with the manager at Macy’s, after the girl left here, and they’d never

even heard of her!”

Stoner leisurely blew rings of smoke from his cigarette, and said

lazily:

“She may have been run over in the street. Obscure people often

disappear that way. Sudden accident, and no identification possible.

No papers on them, and nobody claims them at the morgue. Nothing so

mysterious about that.”

“Wait till you hear the rest of it!” Margot’s eager glance avoided the

chair where Stoner was lounging. “The very same day that the girl left

here, an elderly man named Murchison, who had a garret room on the top

floor, also disappeared, with equal finality.”

“A _really_ old man?” Lulu’s instinct for romance jumped to the

obvious conclusion.

“No, dear, just middle-aged. He was about fifty-five. Agile and wiry,

Mrs. Bellew says. Young in strength, but very unprepossessing. He was

round-shouldered, and had a thin, ugly, hatchet sort of face. No girl

could have looked twice at him. And in the evenings he stuck in his

rooms like a hermit, and he seemed to hate women.”

“Did he have a job anywhere?” someone asked.

“Nobody knows. He never gave any information about himself. Of course

landladies like Mrs. Bellew would draw blood out of a stone, in the

way of gossip, but, apparently, she never found out anything about

that particular lodger. She didn’t care, so long as he gave no trouble

and paid his rent regularly.”

“Perhaps the old bird had money, and the girl, Stella, may have fallen

for that.” Lulu’s sense of romance was not to be crushed.

“Nonsense, Lulu. He wasn’t a miser, with bags of gold in his trunk. He

went out every day, so presumably he worked somewhere, but, judging by

the way he lived, he certainly earned very little.”

“Call it a case of hypnotism, and be done with it!” Stoner’s

suggestion came flippantly.

Margot turned her head quickly, and again met Stoner’s eyes, staring

at her through the shadows of the room, and the smoke from his

cigarette.

“I thought of that. But the man’s only motive in hypnotizing the girl

would have been an immoral one, which wouldn’t have required his

taking her out of the house. No one here bothers about his neighbors.

You could literally get away with murder, and not a soul be the

wiser.”

“Gosh! Catch _me_ living in a spooky place like this!” May glanced

over her shoulder, at the darker corner of the room where the brass

bed hid its plebeian head.

“Speaking of mysteries!” Margot glanced with surprise at Gene, whose

voice had broken the momentary silence in the room.--“Any of you

happen to read about the disappearance from the Fellowe Institute, of

a fraction of a gram of radium, a few months ago?”

“Yes, I read about it,” said Margot eagerly. “They haven’t the

faintest idea who took it, but of course it was stolen. Any of you

know anything about radium?” She glanced from one to another.

“Not a damn thing. I’ll speak for the crowd.” It was Stoner’s voice,

bland, a little ironical. “We motion picture people, Margot, aren’t

wise to all that scientific stuff. Ain’t it the truth?” He laughed,

throwing his glance around the room.

“Aren’t you even interested when you read of such things in the

papers, Mr. Stoner?” Margot regarded him with curious eyes. He was

such a strange contradiction, with his unexpected knowledge along some

lines, and his equally surprising lack of it along others.

“Can’t say I am. As a matter of fact, I don’t have much time for

reading, except of course movie fan stuff, and the sports columns, and

local politics and all the bunk they write and call dramatic

criticism.”

“But a thing like the disappearance of that radium is most interesting

news. Even a tiny bit of radium is worth a lot of money, and they’ve

had detectives on the case without getting a glimmer of light or a

single clue.”

“The odd part of it is,” went on Gene, “that no one but an employee

could have access to their stock of radium, and the mystery lies in

the difficulty entailed in concealing it and getting out of the

building with it. It seems that all persons engaged in work at the

Institute are subject to search before they leave the building.”

Margot could see by their faces that, so far as the others were

concerned, the subject of radium was exhausted. But her own mystery

narrative still held interest, she felt sure.

“Well, to get back to the girl Stella, and old Murchison--” began

Margot.

“Why get back to them?” Stoner drawled the words, and rolled his eyes

in comic supplication. “Much better turn on the jazz and let me shake

another round of Bronxes.”

“Righto!” laughed Margot, getting up and going toward the victrola.

Without looking at Stoner she added:

“Evidently, Mr. Stoner, you haven’t got the detective sort of mind.”

“Have you?”

Through the high-pitched chatter of the girls, and the deeper cadence

of the men’s voices, Margot heard the brief, low-toned question. She

turned around, facing Stoner.

“Yes, I have. Ever since I’ve been old enough to read, I’ve had a

slant for mystery and detective stories. I adore unraveling

mysteries.”

“Is that so?” Stoner’s drawl expressed tolerant amusement. The slight

scorn so often shown by rather ignorant men for intelligent women.

Margot put on a record, wound the victrola, then walked slowly to

where Stoner stood. She let him light a cigarette for her as she said,

smilingly:

“Ever read ‘The House and the Brain,’ by Bulwer-Lytton? Fascinating

and gruesome. In fact quite blood-curdling.”

“Any more so than Monsieur Dupin?”

“Oh, mercy, yes.” She saw Gene approaching, and included him in the

conversation. “Who’s _your_ favorite, Gene, in detective fiction?”

“Gaboriau,” said Gene briefly, “and Maurice le Blanc.”

“They would be,” laughed Margot. “You’re of French descent, and I

suppose you read them in the original. Well, as for me, I vote for

Conan Doyle’s immortal Sherlock! Although I’ll admit that Le Blanc’s

‘Memoirs of Arsene Lupin’ are thrilling and clever.”

“You and Valery are some pair of highbrows to be in the motion picture

industry.” Stoner sounded sarcastic, and Gene frowned darkly, but

Margot answered gaily:

“I’ve never heard detective fiction called high-brow before. Except,

of course, that I take it more seriously than most readers do, Mr.

Stoner. You see, I was a medical student and specialized in chemistry

before you gave me the chance of my young life to become an actress.

I’ve had lots of fun analyzing the methods of most of the great

fiction detectives. How’s that?” Her upturned face challenged him with

a bright smile.

“Hot stuff for your press agent, when I’m directing you as a star,

some day.”

Gene turned abruptly on his heel. Margot stood, her eyes held by

Stoner’s veiled scrutiny. For veiled it was; that expressed it

exactly. For a few seconds his gaze held hers, then--again--what was

it--that sudden dilating of the pupil; the queer overtone as of a

yellowish shadow darkening the pale blue of the iris; a shimmer in the

eyeball, like dust specks seen in a sunbeam.…

Margot lowered her head, and walked slowly to the door leading to the

roof garden. Strange eyes! A little shiver shook her bare shoulders.

The night was sultry. The room was heavy with smoke and the warm

essence from many human bodies.