“The cinema industry is in the hands of showmen all the world over, but in England it is in the hands of peep-showmen, as against the Barnums of the States. No, there’s no chance for your little friend, not in this country. If the picture I’m taking makes a hit in America—yes. She’ll be playing at Hollywood in twelve months’ time in an English story—directed by Americans!” In the outer lobby of his office he found a visitor waiting for him, and gave her a curt and steely good morning. “I want to see you, Mr. Knebworth,” said Stella Mendoza, with a smile at the leading man who had followed Knebworth into his office. “You want to see me, do you? Why, you can see me now. What do you want?” She was pulling at a lace handkerchief with a pretty air of penitence and confusion. Jack was not impressed. He himself had taught her all that handkerchief stuff. “I’ve been very silly, Mr. Knebworth, and I’ve come to ask your pardon. Of course, it was wrong to keep the boys and girls waiting, and I really am sorry. Shall I come in the morning? Or I can start to-day?” A faint smile trembled at the corner of the director’s big mouth. “You needn’t come in the morning and you needn’t stay to-day, Stella,” he said. “Your substitute has done remarkably well, and I don’t feel inclined to retake the picture.” She flashed an angry glance at him, a glance at total variance with her softer attitude. “I’ve got a contract: I suppose you know that, Mr. Knebworth?” she said shrilly. “I’d ever so much rather play opposite Miss Mendoza,” murmured a gentle voice. It was the youthful Reggie Connolly, he of the sleek hair. “It’s not easy to play opposite Miss—I don’t even know her name. She’s so—well, she lacks the artistry, Mr. Knebworth.” Old Jack didn’t speak. His gloomy eyes were fixed upon the youth. “What’s more, I don’t feel I can do myself justice with Miss Mendoza out of the cast,” said Reggie. “I really don’t! I feel most awfully, terribly nervous, and it’s difficult to express one’s personality when one’s awfully, terribly nervous. In fact,” he said recklessly, “I’m not inclined to go on with the picture unless Miss Mendoza returns.” She shot a grateful glance at him, and then turned with a slow smile to the silent Jack. “Would you like me to start to-day?” “Not to-day, or any other day,” roared the old director, his eyes flaming. “As for you, you nut-fed chorus boy, if you try to let me down I’ll blacklist you at every studio in this country, and every time I meet you I’ll kick you from hell to Halifax!” He came stamping into the office, where Michael had preceded him, a raging fury of a man.