“Let’s be on our way, old dears. This place is dead, but the Countess says they’ll soon be shooting some tenement-house stuff up at the Consolidated. Maybe there’ll be something in it for someone. We might as well have a look-in.” Merton felt relieved when the Montague family went out, the girl in the lead. He approved of the fine old father, but the daughter lacked dignity in speech and manner. You couldn’t tell what she might say next. The Montagues were often there, sometimes in full, sometimes represented by but one of their number. Once Mrs. Montague was told to be on Stage Six the next morning at 8:30 to attend a swell reception. “Wear the gray georgette, dearie,” said the casting director, “and your big pearls and the lorgnon.” “Not forgetting the gold cigarette case and the chinchilla neck piece,” said Mrs. Montague. “The spare parts will all be there, Countess, and thanks for the word.” The elder Montague on the occasion of his calls often found time to regale those present with anecdotes of Lawrence Barrett. “A fine artist in his day, sir; none finer ever appeared in a hall show.” And always about his once superb frock coat clung the scent of forbidden beverages. On one such day he appeared with an untidy sprouting of beard, accompanied by the talkative daughter. “Pa’s landed a part,” she explained through the little window. “It’s one of those we-uns mountaineer plays with revenooers and feuds; one of those plays where the city chap don’t treat our Nell right--you know. And they won’t stand for the crepe hair, so pop has got to raise a brush and he’s mad. But it ought to give him a month or so, and after that he may be able to peddle the brush again; you can never tell in this business, can you, Countess?” “It’s most annoying,” the old gentleman explained to the bench occupants. “In the true art of the speaking stage an artificial beard was considered above reproach. Nowadays one must descend to mere physical means if one is to be thought worthy.” CHAPTER V. A BREACH IN THE CITY WALLS During these weeks of waiting outside the gate the little woman beyond the window had continued to be friendly but not encouraging to the aspirant for screen honours late of Simsbury, Illinois. For three weeks had he waited faithfully, always within call, struggling and sacrificing to give the public something better and finer, and not once had he so much as crossed the line that led to his goal. Then on a Monday morning he found the waiting-room empty and his friend beyond the window suffering the pangs of headache. “It gets me something fierce right through here,” she confided to him, placing her finger-tips to her temples. “Ever use Eezo Pain Wafers?” he demanded in quick sympathy. She looked at him hopefully. “Never heard of ‘em.” “Let me get you some.” “You dear thing, fly to it!”