“I’ll give you a word of advice, kid. If you make good in this picture, link yourself up with one of those cute English directors that set three flats and a pot of palms and call it a drawing-room! Give Miss What’s-her-name the script, Harry. Say—go out somewhere quiet and study it, will you? Harry, you see the wardrobe. I give you half an hour to read that script!” Like one in a dream, the girl walked out into the shady garden that ran the length of the studio building, and sat down, trying to concentrate on the typewritten lines. It wasn’t true—it could not be true! And then she heard the crunch of feet on gravel and looked up in alarm. It was the young man who had seen her that morning—Michael Brixan. “Oh, please—you mustn’t interrupt me!” she begged in agitation. “I’ve got a part—a big part to read.” Her distress was so real that he hastened to take his departure. “I’m awfully sorry——” he began. In her confusion she had dropped the loose sheets of the manuscript, and, stooping with her to pick them up, their heads bumped. “Sorry—that’s an old comedy situation, isn’t it?” he began. And then he saw the sheet of paper in his hand and began to read. It was a page of elaborate description of a scene. “The cell is large, lighted by a swinging lamp. In centre is a steel gate through which a soldier on guard is seen pacing to and fro——” “Good God!” said Michael, and went white. The “u’s” in the type were blurred, the “g” was indistinct. The page had been typed on the machine from which the Head-Hunter sent forth his gruesome tales of death. CHAPTER V MR. LAWLEY FOSS “WHAT is wrong?” asked Adele, seeing the young man’s grave face. “Where did this come from?” He showed her the sheet of typewritten script. “I don’t know: it was with the other sheets. I knew, of course, that it didn’t belong to ‘Roselle.’” “Is that the play you’re acting in?” he asked quickly. And then: “Who would know?” “Mr. Knebworth.” “Where shall I find him?” “You go through that door,” she said, “and you will find him on the studio floor.” Without a word, he walked quickly into the building. Instinctively he knew which of the party was the man he sought. Jack Knebworth looked up under lowering brows at the sight of the stranger, for he was a stickler for privacy in business hours; but before he could demand an explanation, Michael was up to him. “Are you Mr. Knebworth?” Jack nodded. “I surely am,” he said. “May I speak to you for two minutes?” “I can’t speak to anybody for one minute,” growled Jack. “Who are you, anyway, and who let you in?” “I am a detective from the Foreign Office,” said Michael, lowering his voice, and Jack’s manner changed. “Anything wrong?” he asked, as he accompanied the detective into his sanctum. Jack laid down the sheet of paper with its typed characters on the table. “Who wrote that?” he asked.