“Oh, she did, did she?” said Michael softly. “Well, if she comes again, you can tell her from me that Miss Leamington has another engagement.”
The other nodded wisely.
“I hope she won’t keep you waiting,” he said. “You never know, when Jack’s on location—”
“I did not say she had an engagement with me,” said Michael loudly.
“That reminds me, Mr. Brixan,” said the secretary suddenly. “Do you remember the fuss you made—I mean, there was—about a sheet of manuscript that by some accident had got into Miss Leamington’s script?”
Michael nodded.
“Has the manuscript been found?” he asked.
“No, but the new scenario editor tells me that he was looking through the book where Foss kept a record of all the manuscripts that came in, and he found one entry had been blacked out with Indian ink.”
“I’d like to see that book,” said the interested Michael, and it was brought to him, a large foolscap ledger, ruled to show the name of the submitted scenario, the author, his address, the date received and the date returned. Mike put it down on the table in Knebworth’s private office and went carefully through the list of authors.
“If he sent one he has probably sent more,” he said. “There are no other erasures?”
The secretary shook his head.
“That is the only one we’ve seen,” he said. “You’ll find lots of names of local people—there isn’t a tradesman in the place who hasn’t written a scenario or submitted an idea since we’ve been operating.”
Slowly Michael’s finger went up the column of names. Page after page was turned back. And then his finger stopped at an entry.
“The Power of Fear: Sir Gregory Penne,” he read, and looked round at Dicker.
“Did Sir Gregory submit scenarios, Mr. Dicker?”
Dicker nodded.
“Yes, he sent in one or two,” he said. “You’ll find his name farther back in the book. He used to write scenarios which he thought were suitable for Miss Mendoza. He’s not the man you’re looking for?”
“No,” said Michael quickly. “Have you any of his manuscript?”
“They were all sent back,” said Dicker regretfully. “He wrote awful mush! I read one of them. I remember Foss trying to persuade old Jack to produce it. Foss made quite a lot of money on the side, we’ve discovered. He used to take fees from authors, and Mr. Knebworth discovered this morning that he once took two hundred pounds from a lady on the promise that he’d get her into the pictures. He wrote Foss a stinging letter this morning about it.”
Presently Michael found Sir Gregory’s name again. It was not remarkable that the owner of Griff Towers should have submitted a manuscript. There was hardly a thinking man or woman in the world who did not believe he or she was capable of writing for the films.
He closed the book and handed it back to Dicker.
“It is certainly queer, that erased entry. I’ll speak to Foss about it as soon as I can find him,” he said.
He went immediately to the little hotel where Foss was staying, but he was out.
“I don’t think he came home last night,” said the manager. “If he did, he didn’t sleep in his bed. He said he was going to London,” he added.
Michael went back to the studio, for it had begun to rain, and he knew that that would drive the company from location. His surmise was correct: the big yellow charabanc came rumbling into the yard a few minutes after he got there. Adele saw him, and was passing with a nod when he called her to him.
“Thank you, Mr. Brixan, but we lunched on location, and I have two big scenes to read for tomorrow.”
Her refusal was uncompromising, but Michael was not the type who readily accepted a “No.”
“What about tea? You’ve got to drink tea, my good lady, though you have fifty scenes to study. And you can’t read and eat too. If you do, you’ll get indigestion, and if you get indigestion—”
She laughed.
“If my landlady will loan me her parlour, you may come to tea at half-past four,” she said; “and if you have another engagement at five o’clock, you’ll be able to meet it.”
Jack Knebworth was waiting for him when he went into the studio.
“Heard about that entry in the scenario book?” he asked. “I see you have. What do you think of it?” Without waiting for a reply: “It looks queer to me. Foss was an unmitigated liar. That fellow couldn’t see straight. I’ve got a little bone to pick with him on the matter of a fee he accepted from a screen-struck lady who wished to be featured in one of my productions.”
“How’s the girl?” asked Michael.
“You mean Adele? Really, she’s wonderful, Brixan! I’m touching wood all the time”—he put his hand on the table piously—“because I know that there’s a big shock coming to me somewhere and somehow. Those things do not happen in real life. The only stars that are born in a night are the fireworks produced by crazy vice-presidents who have promised to do something for Mamie and can’t break their word. And Mamie, supported by six hundred extras and half a million dollars’ worth of sets, two chariot races and the fall of Babylon, all produced regardless of expense, manages to get over by giving a fine imitation of what the Queen of Persia would look like if she’d been born a chorus girl and trained as a mannequin. And she’s either got so few clothes that you don’t look at her face, or so many clothes that you don’t notice her acting.
“Those kind of stars are like the dust of the Milky Way: there is so much splendour all round them that it wouldn’t matter if they weren’t there at all. But this girl Leamington, she’s getting over entirely and absolutely by sheer, unadulterated grey matter. I tell you, Brixan, it’s not right. These things do not happen except in
