"I don't believe a word of it," Erika said, when he had finished. She shook her head sharply. "Just the same, I'm still your agent, and your career's still my responsibility. The first and only thing we have to do is get your contract release from Tolliver Watt. And that's _all_ we're going to consider right now, do you hear?" "But St. Cyr--" "I'll do all the talking. You won't have to say a word. If St. Cyr tries to bully you, I'll handle him. But you've got to be there with me, or St. Cyr will make that an excuse to postpone things again. I know him." "Now I'm under stress again," Martin said wildly. "I can't stand it. _I'm_ not the Tsar of Russia." "Lady," said the cab-driver, looking back, "if I was you, I'd sure as hell break off that engagement." "Heads will roll for this," Martin said ominously. * * * * * "By mutual consent, agree to terminate ... yes," Watt said, affixing his name to the legal paper that lay before him on the desk. "That does it. But where in the world is that fellow Martin? He came in with you, I'm certain." "Did he?" Erika asked, rather wildly. She too, was wondering how Martin had managed to vanish so miraculously from her side. Perhaps he had crept with lightning rapidity under the carpet. She forced her mind from the thought and reached for the contract release Watt was folding. "Wait," St. Cyr said, his lower lip jutting. "What about a clause giving us an option on Martin's next play?" Watt paused, and the director instantly struck home. "Whatever it may be, I can turn it into a vehicle for DeeDee, eh, DeeDee?" He lifted a sausage finger at the lovely star, who nodded obediently. "It's going to have an all-male cast," Erika said hastily. "And we're discussing contract releases, not options." "He would give me an option if I had him here," St. Cyr growled, torturing his cigar horribly. "Why does everything conspire against an artist?" He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. "Now I must break in a new writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would have been a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible." "I'm afraid not, Raoul," Watt said resignedly. "You really shouldn't have hit Martin at the studio today." "But--but he would not dare charge me with assault. In Mixo-Lydia--" "Why, hello, Nick," DeeDee said, with a bright smile. "What are you hiding behind those curtains for?" Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to see the white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like a scared chipmunk's. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, "Oh, that isn't Nick. It doesn't look a bit like him. You made a mistake, DeeDee." "Did I?" DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree. "Certainly," Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt's hand. "Now if you'll just let me have this, I'll--"