“Can it be the director’s glass?” Mackay asked, handing it to Kennedy.

Kennedy slipped it into his pocket, fussing with his handkerchief so that the precious contents would not drip out.  “I think so.  I doubt whether any other glass was broken.  Verify it quickly.”

The police were entering now with Manton.  Following them was the physician.  Mackay and I ascertained readily that no other glass had been shattered, while Kennedy searched the floor for possible signs that the stem was part of a glass broken where we had found it.  Unquestionably we had a sample of the actual wine quaffed by the unfortunate Werner.  Elated we strolled to a corner so as to give the police full charge.

“They’ll waste time questioning everyone,” Kennedy remarked.  “I have the real evidence.”  He tapped his pocket.

The few moments that he had had to himself had been ample for him to obtain such evidence as was destroyed in so many cases by the time he was called upon the scene.

A point occurred to me.  “You don’t think the poison was planted later during the excitement?”

“Hardly!  Our criminal is too clever to take a long chance.  In such a case we would know it was some one near Werner and also there would be too many people watching.  Foolhardiness is not boldness.”

I took to observing the methods of the police, which were highly efficient, but only in the minuteness of the examination of witnesses and in the care with which they recorded names and facts and made sure that no one had slipped away to avoid the notoriety.

The actors and actresses who had stood rather in awe of Kennedy, both here and in Kennedy’s investigation at Tarrytown, developed nimble tongues in their answers to the city detectives.  The result was a perfect maze of conflicting versions of Werner’s cry and fall.  In fact, one scene shifter insisted that Shirley, as the Black Terror, had reached Werner’s side and had struck him before the cry, while an extra girl with a faint lisp described with sobering accuracy the flight of a mysterious missile through the air.  I realized then why Kennedy had made no effort to question them.  Under the excitement of the scene, the glamour of the lights, the sense of illusion, and the stifling heat, it would have been strange for any of the people to have retained correct impressions of the event.

The police sergeant knew Kennedy by reputation and approached him after a visit to the dead man’s body with the doctor.  His glance, including Mackay and myself, was frankly triumphant.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “I don’t suppose it occurred to any of you scientific guys to search the fellow, now did it?”

Kennedy smiled, in good humor.  “Searching a man isn’t always the scientific method.  You won’t find the word ‘frisk’ in any scientific dictionary.”

“No?” The police officer’s eyes twinkled.  There was enough of the Irish in him to enjoy an encounter of this kind.  “Maybe not, but you might find things in a chap’s pocket which is better.”  With a flourish he produced a hypodermic syringe, the duplicate of the one I had appropriated, and a tiny bottle.  “The man’s a dope,” he added.