“Oh, an extra, is he?” said the young man. “I say, it’s pretty desperately awful when extras hobnob with principals! And this Leamington girl—she’s simply going to mess up the pictures, she is, by Jove!” “Is she, by Jove?” snarled Knebworth. “Now see here, Mr. Connolly, I ain’t so much in love with your work that I’m willing to admit in advance that even an extra is going to mess up this picture.” “I’ve never played opposite to an extra in my life, dash it all!” “Then you must have felt lonely,” grunted Jack, busy with his unpacking. “Now, Mendoza is an artiste——” began the youthful leading man, and Jack Knebworth straightened his back. “Get over there till you’re wanted, you!” he roared. “When I need advice from pretty boys, I’ll come to you—see? For the moment you’re _de trop_, which is a French expression meaning that you’re standing on ground there’s a better use for.” The disgruntled Reggie Connolly strolled away with a shrug of his thin shoulders, which indicated not only his conviction that the picture would fail, but that the responsibility was everywhere but under his hat. From the big doorway of Griff Towers, Sir Gregory Penne was watching the assembly of the company. He was a thick-set man, and the sun of Borneo and an unrestricted appetite had dyed his skin a colour which was between purple and brown. His face was covered with innumerable ridges, his eyes looked forth upon the world through two narrow slits. The rounded feminine chin seemed to be the only part of his face that sunshine and stronger stimulants had left in its natural condition. Michael watched him as he strolled down the slope to where they were standing, guessing his identity. He wore a golf suit of a loud check in which red predominated, and a big cap of the same material was pulled down over his eyes. Taking the stub of a cigar from his teeth, with a quick and characteristic gesture he wiped his scanty moustache on his knuckles. “Good morning, Knebworth,” he called. His voice was harsh and cruel; a voice that had never been mellowed by laughter or made soft by the tendernesses of humanity. “Good morning, Sir Gregory.” Old Knebworth disentangled himself from his company. “Sorry I’m late.” “Don’t apologize,” said the other. “Only I thought you were going to shoot earlier. Brought my little girl, eh?” “Your little girl?” Jack looked at him, frankly nonplussed. “You mean Mendoza? No, she’s not coming.” “I don’t mean Mendoza, if that’s the dark girl. Never mind: I was only joking.” Who the blazes was his little girl, thought Jack, who was ignorant of two unhappy experiences which an unconsidered extra girl had had on previous visits. The mystery, however, was soon cleared up, for the baronet walked slowly to where Adele Leamington was making a pretence of studying her script. “Good morning, little lady,” he said, lifting his cap an eighth of an inch from his head. “Good morning, Sir Gregory,” she said coldly.