“Well?” he asked brusquely.
“Is there a part I could play in this production, Mr. Knebworth?” she asked.
His shaven lips curled.
“Aren’t you playing a part, Miss—can’t remember your name—Leamington, is it?”
“I’m certainly playing—I’m one of the figures in the background,” she smiled. “I don’t want a big part, but I’m sure I could do better than I have done.”
“I’m mighty sure you couldn’t do worse than some people,” he growled. “No, there’s no part for you, friend. There’ll be no story to shoot unless things alter. That’s what!”
She was going away when he recalled her.
“Left a good home, I guess?” he said. “Thought picture-making meant a million dollars a year an’ a new automobile every Thursday? Or maybe you were holding down a good job as a stenographer and got it under your toque that you’d make Hollywood feel small if you got your chance? Go back home, kid, and tell the old man that a typewriter’s got a sunlight arc beaten to death as an instrument of commerce.”
The girl smiled faintly.
“I didn’t come into pictures because I was stage-struck, if that is what you mean, Mr. Knebworth. I came in knowing just how hard a life it might be. I have no parents.”
He looked up at her curiously.
“How do you live?” he asked. “There’s no money in ‘extra’ work—not on this lot, anyway. Might be if I was one of those billion dollar directors who did pictures with chariot races. But I don’t. My ideal picture has got five characters.”
“I have a little income from my mother, and I write,” said the girl.
She stopped as she saw him looking past her to the studio entrance, and, turning her head, saw a remarkable figure standing in the doorway. At first she thought it was an actor who had made up for a film test.
The newcomer was an old man, but his great height and erect carriage would not have conveyed that impression at a distance. The tight-fitting tailcoat, the trousers strapped to his boots, the high collar and black satin stock belonged to a past age, though they were newly made. The white linen bands that showed at his wrists were goffered, his double-breasted waistcoat of grey velvet was fastened by golden buttons. He might have stepped from a family portrait of one of those dandies of the ’fifties. He held a tall hat in one gloved hand, a hat with a curly brim, and in the other a gold-topped walking-stick. The face, deeply lined, was benevolent and kind, and he seemed unconscious of his complete baldness.
Jack Knebworth was out of his chair in a second and walked toward the stranger.
“Why, Mr. Longvale, I am glad to see you—did you get my letter? I can’t tell you how much obliged I am to you for the loan of your house.”
Sampson Longvale, of the Dower House! She remembered now. He was known in Chichester as “the old-fashioned gentleman,” and once, when she was out on location, somebody had pointed out the big, rambling house, with its weed-grown garden and crumbling walls, where he lived.
“I thought I would come over and see you,” said the big man.
His voice was rich and beautifully modulated. She did not remember having heard a voice quite as sweet, and she looked at the eccentric figure with a new interest.
“I can only hope that the house and grounds are suitable to your requirements. I am afraid they are in sad disorder, but I cannot afford to keep the estate in the same condition as my grandfather did.”
“Just what I want, Mr. Longvale. I was afraid you might be offended when I told you—”
The old gentleman interrupted him with a soft laugh.
“No, no, I wasn’t offended, I was amused. You needed a haunted house: I could even supply that quality, though I will not promise you that my family ghost will walk. The Dower House has been haunted for hundreds of years. A former occupant in a fit of frenzy murdered his daughter there, and the unhappy lady is supposed to walk. I have never seen her, though many years ago one of my servants did. Fortunately, I am relieved of that form of annoyance: I no longer keep servants in the house,” he smiled, “though, if you care to stay the night, I shall be honoured to entertain five or six of your company.”
Knebworth heaved a sigh of relief. He had made diligent inquiries and found that it was almost impossible to secure lodgings in the neighbourhood, and he was most anxious to take night pictures, and for one scene he particularly desired the peculiar light value which he could only obtain in the early hours of the morning.
“I’m afraid that would give you a lot of trouble, Mr. Longvale,” he said. “And here and now I think we might discuss that delicate subject of—”
The old man stopped him with a gesture.
“If you are going to speak of money, please don’t,” he said firmly. “I am interested in cinematography; in fact, I am interested in most modern things. We old men are usually prone to decry modernity, but I find my chiefest pleasure in the study of those scientific wonders which this new age has revealed to us.”
He looked at the director quizzically.
“Some day you shall take a picture of me in the one role in which I think I should have no peer—a picture of me in the role of my illustrious ancestor.”
Jack Knebworth stared, half amused, half startled. It was no unusual experience to find people who wished to see themselves on the screen, but he never expected that little piece of vanity from Mr. Sampson Longvale.
“I should be glad,” he said formally. “Your people were pretty well known, I guess?”
Mr. Longvale sighed.
“It is my regret that I do not come from the direct line that included Charles Henry, the most historic member of my family. He was my great-uncle. I come from the Bordeaux branch of Longvales, which has made history, sir.”
