“What the hell do you mean by ‘less risky’?” he demanded. Poor Reggie had meant nothing, and admitted as much in some haste. He had meant to be helpful, and was ready to sulk at the storm he had aroused. More ready because, as the conversation had progressed, he had faded more and more into the background as an inconsiderable factor. There is nothing quite so disheartening to a conspirator as to find the conspiring taken out of his hands, and Reggie Connolly felt it was the moment to make a complete _volte face_, and incidentally assert what he was pleased to call his “personality.” “This is all very well, Stella,” he said, “but it looks to me as if I’m going to be left out in the cold. What with your thinking about Chauncey Seller—he’s let down more pictures than any two men I know—and all that sort of thing, I don’t see that I’m going to be much use to you. I don’t really. I know you’ll think I’m a fearful, awful rotter, but I feel that we owe something to old Jack Kneb, I do really. I’ve jeopardized my position for your sake, and I’m prepared to do anything in reason, but what with pulling Chauncey Seller—who is a bounder of the worst kind—into your cast, and what with Foss jumping down my throat, well, really—really!” They were not inclined to mollify him, having rather an eye to the future than to the present, and he had retired in a huff before the girl realized that the holding of Reggie would at least have embarrassed Knebworth to the extent of forcing a retake of those parts of the picture in which he appeared. “Never mind about Connolly. The picture is certain to fail with that extra: she’s bad. I have a friend in London,” explained Foss, after the discussion returned to the question of ways and means, “who can put up the money. I’ve got a sort of pull with him. In fact—well, anyhow, I’ve got a pull. I’ll go up to-night and see him.” “And I’ll see mine,” said Stella. “We’ll call the company The Stella Mendoza Picture Corporation——” Lawley Foss demurred. He was inclined to another title, and was prepared to accept as a compromise the Foss-Mendoza or F.M. Company, a compromise agreeable to Stella provided the initials were reversed. “Who is Brixan?” she asked as Foss was leaving. “He is a detective.” She opened her eyes wide. “A detective? Whatever is he doing here?” Lawley Foss smiled contemptuously. “He is trying to discover what no man of his mental calibre will ever discover, the Head-Hunter. I am the one man in the world who could help him. Instead of which,” he smiled again, “I am helping myself.” With which cryptic and mystifying statement he left her.