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hawking, and the characteristic sound of cracking peanut-shells filled the amphitheatre.
    “You’ll get plenty of Broadway wisenheimers here tonight,” said Mars. “I know my crowds. Broadway’s filled with a hard-boiled bunch, an’ all that; but they’re all saps an’ suckers at heart, and they’ll come an’ chew goobers an’ raise hell just for the kick they’ll get out of actin’ like hicks. Ever watch a morning crowd of hard guys at the State when they put on an old-time Western? They whistle an’ stamp their feet an’ all that, and they love it so much they’d cry if you took it away from ’em. Old Buck Horne’ll get a good hand tonight.”
    At the magic name Djuna’s prominent ears twitched, and he turned and slowly surveyed Tony Mars with a kindling respect.
    “Buck Horne,” said the Inspector with a dreamy smile. “The old galoot! Thought he was dead and buried long ago. Good stunt getting him here, all right.”
    “Ain’t a stunt, Inspector. It’s a build-up.”
    “Eh?”
    “Well, y’see,” said Mars reflectively, “Buck’s been out of pictures for nine-ten years. Did a movie three years ago, but it didn’t pan out so well. But now with the talkies goin’ full blast. …He an’ Wild Bill Grant are buddies. Grant’s a good business man to boot. Now the pay-off is this: if Buck goes over in the big time here, if his appearance makes a splash in New York, it’s—well, rumored that he’ll make a screen come-back next season.”
    “With Grant, I suppose, backin’ him?”
    The promoter looked at his house. “Well I ain’t sayin’ I’m not interested in the proposition myself.”
    The Inspector settled more comfortably in his seat. “How’s the big fight coming along?”
    “Fight? Oh, the fight! Swell, Inspector, swell. Advance sales are way beyond my expectations. I think—”
    There was a little flurry at the rear of the box. They all turned, and then rose. A very lovely and feminine creature in a black evening gown and ermine wrap stood smiling there. A press of young men with hard eyes and cocked snap-brims were behind her, talking fast; some of them held cameras. She entered the box, and Tony Mars gallantly handed her to a front seat. There were introductions. Djuna, who had turned back to devour the arena once more after a single brief look at the newcomer, suddenly shuddered.
    “Miss Horne—Inspector Queen, Mr. Ellery Queen. …”
    Djuna kicked his chair aside, his lean face working. “You,” he gasped to the astonished young woman, “you Kit Horne?”
    “Why—yes, of course.”
    “Oh,” said Djuna in a trembling voice, and retreated until his back pressed against the rail. “Oh,” he said again, and his eyes grew enormous. Then he licked his lips and croaked: “But where—where’s your six-shooter, ma’am, an’ your—your bronc, ma’am?”
    “Djuna,” said the Inspector weakly; but Kit Horne smiled and then said in a very serious tone: “I’m frightfully sorry, but I had to leave them home. They wouldn’t have let me in, you see.”
    “Gee,” said Djuna, and spent five minutes staring at her radiant profile in fierce concentration. Poor Djuna! It was almost too much, this proximity to an idol. The great Kit Horne had spoken to him, to Djuna the Magnificent, by—by Buffalo Bill! That lovely wraith who had flitted over an impersonal screen, riding like a Valkyrie, shooting like a man, roping the dastardly villain. …And then he blinked and slowly, reluctantly, turned his head toward the rear of the box.
    It was Tommy Black.
    There were two others with him—another radiant vision, to whom all the males instantly deferred, Mara Gay; and Julian Hunter, impeccably dressed—but Djuna forgot everything, even the great Kit Horne, as he gulped the bubbling, incredible elixir so casually offered to him. Tommy Black! Tommy Black the fighter! Cripes! He retreated to his feet, overwhelmed by shyness; but from that moment no one in Tony Mars’s box