The letter was a work of surpassing art which had been jointly composed the day before by Jimmy and a reporter on the rival Inquirer who had covered “sports” with him in days gone by on a St. Louis paper and who had a freely flowing repertoire of adjectives at his command that was dazzling in its completeness. It was a protest against the Star’s embargo on theatrical tidings and a defense of the ancient and honorable calling of press agent. It was cunningly interlarded here and there with oily and unctuous references to the supreme wisdom of Mr. Jenkins. That worthy gentleman was appealed to as “the recognized authority on all things pertaining to the serious drama in this part of the United States” and as a “patron of the seven arts whose causeries are the delight of the cultured and the despair of the untutored.” Mention was made of the discouragement such worthy artists as Madame Stephano met with as a result of the refusal of the Star to co-operate in the movement for the uplift of the stage, etc., etc. “That’ll get that old bird,” Jimmy had remarked to his friend after the latter had explained what the “seven arts” were. “He’s the chairman of the executive committee of the I-Hate-Myself Club.” Jimmy had had prophetic vision. E. Cartwright had fallen into the trap. He had printed the letter in full and he had followed it with certain remarks of his own in which he regretted that the new rule interfered with the “proper exploitation of such representative and distinguished players as Madame Stephano,” etc., etc. The press agent took out a lead pencil and began underscoring the name of his star every time it appeared in both his letter and the dramatic editor’s subjoined comment. “Fourteen times,” he chuckled to himself. “The poor old boob.” He stuck his derby on his head a bit rakishly, reached for a silver topped walking stick and started a progress down to the lobby that was a continuous round of cheery greetings. He joked with the chambermaid he saw entering the room next his own; exchanged a bit of badinage with another who was loitering near the elevator, and playfully slapped the elevator boy on the back with his folded newspaper. He maintained this exalted mood throughout breakfast during which meal he again counted over the “Madame Stephanos” on the sixth page to see if he’d made a mistake in his previous reckoning. After breakfast he strolled out into the lobby again and over to the cigar counter. As he pointed to a box in the case marked “50¢” each, he beamed at the slender blonde who was reaching to serve him and the blonde beamed back. “Say, sister,” he asked pleasantly, “how’d you like a couple of seats for the show Monday night at the Standard?” “Fine,” replied the young woman. “What is it?” “Olga Stephano,” returned the press agent as he reached for his pass pad and his fountain pen. “She’s that Russian actress, ain’t she, that plays in those highbrow plays?”