“It’s queer how all baronets are villains in stories,” he said, “and queerer still that most of the baronets I’ve known have been men of singular morals. I’m bothering you, being here, aren’t I?” he asked, dropping his tone of banter.
She looked round at him.
“You are a little,” she said frankly. “You see, Mr. Brixan, this is my big chance. It’s a chance that really never comes to an extra except in stories, and I’m frightened to death of what is going to happen. You make me nervous, but what makes me more panic-stricken is that the first scene is to be shot at Griff. I hate it, I hate it!” she said almost savagely. “That big, hard-looking house, with its hideous stuffed tigers and its awful looking swords—”
“Swords?” he asked quickly. “What do you mean?”
“The walls are covered with them—Eastern swords. They make me shiver to see them. But Sir Gregory takes a delight in them: he told Mr. Knebworth, the last time we were there, that the swords were as sharp now as they were when they came from the hands of their makers, and some of them were three hundred years old. He’s an extraordinary man: he can cut an apple in half on your hand and never so much as scratch you. That is one of his favourite stunts—do you know what ‘stunt’ means?”
“I seem to have heard the expression,” said Michael absently.
“There is the house,” she pointed. “Ugh! It makes me shiver.”
Griff Towers was one of those bleak looking buildings that it had been the delight of the early Victorian architects to erect. Its one grey tower, placed on the left wing, gave it a lopsided appearance, but even this distortion did not distract attention from its rectangular unloveliness. The place seemed all the more bare, since the walls were innocent of greenery, and it stood starkly in the midst of a yellow expanse of gravel.
“Looks almost like a barracks,” said Michael, “with a parade ground in front!”
They passed through the lodge gates, and the charabanc stopped halfway up the drive. The gardens apparently were in the rear of the building, and certainly there was nothing that would attract the most careless of directors in its uninteresting façade.
Michael got down from his seat and found Jack Knebworth already superintending the unloading of a camera and reflectors. Behind the charabanc came the big dynamo lorry, with three sun arcs that were to enhance the value of daylight.
“Oh, you’re here, are you?” growled Jack. “Now you’ll oblige me, Mr. Brixan, by not getting in the way? I’ve got a hard morning’s work ahead of me.”
“I want you to take me on as a—what is the word?—extra,” said Michael.
The old man frowned at him.
“Say, what’s the great idea?” he asked suspiciously.
“I have an excellent reason, and I promise you that nothing I do will in any way embarrass you. The truth is, Mr. Knebworth, I want to be around for the remainder of the day, and I need an excuse.”
Jack Knebworth bit his lip, scratched his long chin, scowled, and then:
“All right,” he said gruffly. “Maybe you’ll come in handy, though I’ll have quite enough bother directing one amateur, and if you get into the pictures on this trip you’re going to be lucky!”
There was a man of the party, a tall young man whose hair was brushed back from his forehead, and was so tidy and well arranged that it seemed as if it had originally been stuck by glue and varnished over. A tall, somewhat good-looking boy, who had sat on Adele’s left throughout the journey and had not spoken once, he raised his eyebrows at the appearance of Michael, and, strolling across to the harassed Knebworth, his hands in his pockets, he asked with a hurt air:
“I say, Mr. Knebworth, who is this johnny?”
“Which johnny?” growled old Jack. “You mean Brixan? He’s an extra.”
“Oh, an extra, is he?” said the young man. “I say, it’s pretty desperately awful when extras hobnob with principals! And this Leamington girl—she’s simply going to mess up the pictures, she is, by Jove!”
“Is she, by Jove?” snarled Knebworth. “Now see here, Mr. Connolly, I ain’t so much in love with your work that I’m willing to admit in advance that even an extra is going to mess up this picture.”
“I’ve never played opposite to an extra in my life, dash it all!”
“Then you must have felt lonely,” grunted Jack, busy with his unpacking.
“Now, Mendoza is an artiste—” began the youthful leading man, and Jack Knebworth straightened his back.
“Get over there till you’re wanted, you!” he roared. “When I need advice from pretty boys, I’ll come to you—see? For the moment you’re de trop, which is a French expression meaning that you’re standing on ground there’s a better use for.”
The disgruntled Reggie Connolly strolled away with a shrug of his thin shoulders, which indicated not only his conviction that the picture would fail, but that the responsibility was everywhere but under his hat.
From the big doorway of Griff Towers, Sir Gregory Penne was watching the assembly of the company. He was a thickset man, and the sun of Borneo and an unrestricted appetite had dyed his skin a colour which was between purple and brown. His face was covered with innumerable ridges, his eyes looked forth upon the world through two narrow slits. The rounded feminine chin seemed to be the only part of his face that sunshine and stronger stimulants had left in its natural condition.
Michael watched him as he strolled down the slope to where they were standing, guessing his identity. He wore a golf suit of a loud check in which red predominated, and a big cap of the same material was pulled down over his eyes. Taking the stub of a cigar from his teeth, with a quick and characteristic gesture he wiped his scanty moustache on his knuckles.
“Good morning, Knebworth,” he
