His game was possible because Morrison was a West Coast man and had never operated in Chicago before, and McArdle had only recently come over from London. If these things hadn’t happened to be the case, Spellman would have taken some other track. But he instantly saw the possibilities of this game if he rushed it and planted money lavishly in a few necessary places. The Essanay was an enormous concern in those days, frequently taking fifteen or twenty pictures simultaneously, and naturally couldn’t keep a close watch on their hundreds of small-part people—of whom McArdle was one. Particularly was this so because these “artists” were hardly ever seen at the studio except in make-up. The crime for which Morrison was arrested—a murderous assault on one of the clerks in a jewelry store—was committed in the early afternoon, and he was picked up by the police that same evening. At the time of the assault McArdle was engaged in his work in one of the Essanay studios. Spellman got at him in his room in a cheap apartment building between six and seven o’clock the next morning. It was, of course, vital to the game that McArdle should not go to the studio again, and, indeed, should be seen by no one who knew him. Those who had seen and recognized him after the time of Morrison’s arrest must be taken care of. If they couldn’t be, the game was off. But the game wasn’t off on that account, for McArdle had been in his rooms all the evening and no one had come there. He had dined at a cheap restaurant near, but that was four hours before Morrison’s arrest. Clear sailing so far. The money bargain was arranged after Spellman had lifted the figure to the point where the temptation wrestled successfully with McArdle’s fears. As soon as Spellman had this nailed down he let Morrison know by a prearranged signal—for he didn’t want to go near him just then—and Morrison began to cut up in his cell and cry and beg to see some one, as he wanted to confess. In the inspector’s office it transpired that what he was so anxious to tell them was not that he was guilty, but that when arrested the night before he’d been so terrified for fear his employers in Chicago would hear of it that he’d given them a fictitious name; but now he realized that he’d got to send word to the Essanay studios that he couldn’t get there for his scene. You had to notify them. If you didn’t they’d never give you another job. And would they please send word for him to the Essanay? Couldn’t they say he’d been in an automobile accident?—for if they knew up there that he was in jail it would be the end of him.