“Oh, no! I’m not,” he said. “I’ve nothing to do. What’s the good of my writing? I earn less and less with every book that comes out. I’m dying of poverty.” “That’s because you won’t consider the Public.” “How can I consider the Public when I don’t know what they want?” “Because you won’t take the trouble to find out. If I suggested a way to you of pleasing the Public and making money you’d kick me out of the room.” And the words, “For instance, I’ve got a little gold-mine of yours in my pocket,” were on the tip of my tongue, but I choked them back. ‘Daren’t risk it!’ I thought. ‘He’s given you the thing. _Carte blanche--cartes serrés!_’ I took the gold-mine away and promptly rough-shaped it for the film. It was perfectly easy, without any alteration of the story. Then I was faced with the temptation to put his name to it. The point was this: If I took it to a film company as an authorless scenario I should only get authorless terms; whereas, if I put his name to it, with a little talking I could double the terms at least. The film public didn’t know his name, of course, but the inner literary public did, and it’s wonderful how you can impress the market with the word ‘genius’ judiciously used. It was too dangerous, however; and at last I hit on a middle course. I would take it to them with no name attached, but tell them it was by ‘a genius,’ and suggest that they could make capital out of the incognito. I knew they would feel it _was_ by a genius. I took it to an excellent company next day with a covering note saying: “The author, a man of recognised literary genius, for certain reasons prefers to remain unknown.” They took a fortnight in which to rise, but they rose. They had to. The thing was too good in itself. For a week I played them over terms. Twice I delivered an ultimatum--twice they surrendered: they knew too well what they had got. I could have made a contract with two thousand pounds down which would have brought at least another two thousand pounds before the contract term closed; but I compounded for one that gave me three thousand pounds down as likely to lead to less difficulty with Bruce. The terms were not a whit too good for what was really the ‘acme’ of scenarios. If I could have been quite open I could certainly have done better. Finally, however, I signed the contract, delivered the manuscript, and received a cheque for the price. I was elated, and at the same time knew that my troubles were just beginning. With Bruce’s feeling about the film how the deuce should I get him to take the money? Could I go to his publishers and conspire with them to trickle it out to him gradually as if it came from his books? That meant letting them into the secret; besides, he was too used to receiving practically nothing from his books; it would lead him to make enquiry, and the secret was bound to come out. Could I get a lawyer to spring an inheritance on him? That would mean no end