"Miss Ashby, we are very busy," St. Cyr broke in importantly, making shooing motions toward the door. "Not now. Sorry. You interrupt. Go at once." "--better add six more jiggers of honey," Martin was heard to add contemplatively into the mike. "And then send it over immediately. Drop everything else, and get it here within sixty seconds. There's a bonus for you if you do. Okay? Good. See to it." He tossed the microphone casually at St. Cyr. Meanwhile, Erika had closed in on Tolliver Watt. "I've just come from talking to Gloria Eden," she said, "and she's willing to do a one-picture deal with Summit _if_ I okay it. But I'm not going to okay it unless you release Nick Martin from his contract, and that's flat." Watt showed pleased surprise. "Well, we might get together on that," he said instantly, for he was a fan of Miss Eden's and for a long time had yearned to star her in a remake of _Vanity Fair_. "Why didn't you bring her along? We could have--" "Nonsense!" St. Cyr shouted. "Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver." "She's down at Laguna," Erika explained. "Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won't--" A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as he had expected encountered a waiter with a tray. "Quick work," he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweating Napoleon in a bank of ice. "Beautiful, isn't it?" St. Cyr's booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark the waiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew, looking nauseated. "No, no, no, no," St. Cyr was roaring. "Tolliver, we can get Gloria and keep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent already thirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. In Mixo-Lydia we handle--" Erika's attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very deftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and all, over St. Cyr's capacious front. St. Cyr's bellow broke the microphone. * * * * * Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency. The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers of honey. He reeked of peppermint. "I suggest we adjourn to the commissary," Martin said fastidiously. "In some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the--the rather overpowering smell of peppermint."