Far upon the storm-wastes pitched a tiny craft under naked poles, hurled toward destruction. As he drove past her under thundering sail he saw--for the first time in any dream--the ghost of Eris lashed to the little helm, her death-white face fixed, her gaze intent upon the last fading star. He awoke calling to her, the strain of nightmare an agony in his throat, and shaking all over. But now, awake, he couldn’t understand what had so terrified him in his dream, why he quivered so. “I suppose I thought she couldn’t ride out the storm in that cockle-shell,” he muttered, gazing at the grey warning of dawn outside his windows. The first sparrow chirped. Annan pulled the quilt over his ears, disgusted. “I ought to look up that kid,” he thought. It was his last conscious effort until he awoke for another day. CHAPTER XIII Annan, leaving the Province Club--one of the remaining threads attaching him to the conventional world--espied Coltfoot. They had not met in weeks, and they shook hands affectionately. “What are you doing these days, Mike?” inquired Annan. “Hunting geniuses as a dog hunts fleas. What’s your latest effort, Barry?” “No effort. I am awaiting with composure the birth of my great novel.” “Any good?” demanded the other with professional curiosity. “It’s good enough to sell in Heaven,” replied Annan modestly. “Not so good then,” grunted Coltfoot. “And if that’s all you’re doing this afternoon, why not saunter along with me?” “Gladly, but whither?” “To 57th Street. Frank Donnell is running Betsy Blythe’s stuff this afternoon. Don’t you want to see it?” “Why, yes--of course.” Annan signalled a club taxi in waiting; they rolled away together, Coltfoot directing the driver to go to “The Looking Glass”--quite the most charming little motion-picture house yet erected on Manhattan Island. “Albert Wesly Smull built it,” remarked Coltfoot. “It’s a gem.” “Isn’t Smull one of that bunch of sports behind Betsy Blythe?” “One of ’em. I hear ‘The Looking Glass’ is the first of a string of picture houses that Smull means to build and operate.” “I supposed that Wall Street men had learned to fight shy of pictures,” remarked Annan. “You can’t scare them away. It’s a bigger gamble than their own. That’s why.” They stopped at the pretty bit of colonial architecture on Fifty-Seventh Street, and entered a private corridor where an elevator whisked them to the third floor. There were a number of people in Frank Donnell’s office. Donnell, prematurely grey, smooth-shaven and with the manners of a gentleman, greeted Coltfoot who, in turn, made him known to Annan.