“No, but the new scenario editor tells me that he was looking through the book where Foss kept a record of all the manuscripts that came in, and he found one entry had been blacked out with Indian ink.” “I’d like to see that book,” said the interested Michael, and it was brought to him, a large foolscap ledger, ruled to show the name of the submitted scenario, the author, his address, the date received and the date returned. Mike put it down on the table in Knebworth’s private office and went carefully through the list of authors. “If he sent one he has probably sent more,” he said. “There are no other erasures?” The secretary shook his head. “That is the only one we’ve seen,” he said. “You’ll find lots of names of local people—there isn’t a tradesman in the place who hasn’t written a scenario or submitted an idea since we’ve been operating.” Slowly Michael’s finger went up the column of names. Page after page was turned back. And then his finger stopped at an entry. “The Power of Fear: Sir Gregory Penne,” he read, and looked round at Dicker. “Did Sir Gregory submit scenarios, Mr. Dicker?” Dicker nodded. “Yes, he sent in one or two,” he said. “You’ll find his name farther back in the book. He used to write scenarios which he thought were suitable for Miss Mendoza. He’s not the man you’re looking for?” “No,” said Michael quickly. “Have you any of his manuscript?” “They were all sent back,” said Dicker regretfully. “He wrote awful mush! I read one of them. I remember Foss trying to persuade old Jack to produce it. Foss made quite a lot of money on the side, we’ve discovered. He used to take fees from authors, and Mr. Knebworth discovered this morning that he once took two hundred pounds from a lady on the promise that he’d get her into the pictures. He wrote Foss a stinging letter this morning about it.” Presently Michael found Sir Gregory’s name again. It was not remarkable that the owner of Griff Towers should have submitted a manuscript. There was hardly a thinking man or woman in the world who did not believe he or she was capable of writing for the films. He closed the book and handed it back to Dicker. “It is certainly queer, that erased entry. I’ll speak to Foss about it as soon as I can find him,” he said. He went immediately to the little hotel where Foss was staying, but he was out. “I don’t think he came home last night,” said the manager. “If he did, he didn’t sleep in his bed. He said he was going to London,” he added. Michael went back to the studio, for it had begun to rain, and he knew that that would drive the company from location. His surmise was correct: the big yellow char-à-banc came rumbling into the yard a few minutes after he got there. Adele saw him, and was passing with a nod when he called her to him. “Thank you, Mr. Brixan, but we lunched on location, and I have two big scenes to read for to-morrow.” Her refusal was uncompromising, but Michael was not the type who readily accepted a “No.”