“You’re perfectly right, Mr. Knebworth,” he said earnestly. “I can’t improve! I’ve touched the zenith of my power, and I doubt whether you’ll ever look upon the like of me again. I’m certainly the best juvenile lead in this, and possibly in any country. I’ve had three offers to go to Hollywood, and you’ll never believe who is the lady who asked me to play against her——” “I don’t believe any of it,” said Jack even-temperedly, “but you’re right to an extent about Miss Leamington. She’s fine. And I agree that it doesn’t do you much good playing against her, because she makes you look like a large glass of heavily diluted beer.” Later in the day, Adele herself asked her grey-haired chief whether it was true that Reggie would soon be leaving England for another and a more ambitious sphere. “I shouldn’t think so,” said Jack. “There never was an actor that hadn’t a better contract up his sleeve and was ready to take it. But when it comes to a show-down, you find that the contracts they’re willing to tear up in order to take something better, are locked away in a lawyer’s office and can’t be got out. In the picture business all over the world, there are actors and actresses who are leaving by the first boat to show Hollywood how it’s done. I guess these liners would sail empty if they waited for ’em! That’s all bluff, part of the artificial life of make-believe in which actors and actresses have their being.” “Has Mr. Brixan come back?” He shook his head. “No, I’ve not heard from him. There was a tough-looking fellow called at the studio half an hour ago to ask whether he’d returned.” “Rather an unpleasant-looking tramp?” she asked. “I spoke to him. He said he had a letter for Mr. Brixan which he would not deliver to anybody else.” She looked through the window which commanded a view of the entrance drive to the studio. Standing outside on the edge of the pavement was the wreck of a man. Long, lank black hair, streaked with grey, fell from beneath the soiled and dilapidated golf cap; he was apparently shirtless, for the collar of his indescribable jacket was buttoned up to his throat; and his bare toes showed through one gaping boot. He might have been a man of sixty, but it was difficult to arrive at his age. It looked as though the grey, stubbled beard had not met a razor since he was in prison last. His eyes were red and inflamed; his nose that crimson which is almost blue. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his trousers, and seemed to be their only visible means of support, until you saw the string that was tied around his lean waist; and as he stood, he shuffled his feet rhythmically, whistling a doleful tune. From time to time he took one of his hands from his pockets and examined the somewhat soiled envelope it held, and then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny, put it back again and continued his jigging vigil. “Do you think you ought to see that letter?” asked the girl, troubled. “It may be very important.”