“Well, what do you know about this, Barrison? I can’t seem to get a line on myself to-day. Am I the whole cheese, or am I an also ran? Do I stack up as the one best bet, or do I crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after me? Sit down!” “Talk English!” suggested Barrison good-naturedly as he obeyed. “Order me some breakfast, first, and then tell me what you’re talking about.” Carlton, having with difficulty been prevented from ordering a meal adequate to the needs of a regiment on march, condescended to translate his emotions. “You see, it’s this way,” he explained, munching toast and marmalade. “That poor guy going out like that—I never liked him, but it was a rotten way to finish, and I’d like to broil whoever did it alive—leaves me, so to speak, guessing. My play is off, for the present anyway, and I’ve been spending my royalties already. On the other hand, I’m getting some simply priceless advertising! Everybody will be after me, I guess, and all the beautiful leading men will be thirsting to play the part in which poor Mortimer achieved eternal fame by getting killed. I may sound flippant, but I’m not; it’s the only way I can express myself—except on paper! Now, where do I get off? Am I a racing car or a flivver?” “You’ll probably find out soon enough,” Jim told him. “Meanwhile, I want your help.” “Nothing doing!” said Carlton energetically. “Meanwhile, I want yours! I can live just long enough for you to drink that cup of coffee without talking, but after that it’s only a matter of seconds before I cash in, if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. Beastly of you and the governor not to let me back, so I could be in on what was doing.” Barrison told him what had happened. He was not too completely communicative, however; he liked the playwright, and had no reason to distrust him, but he knew that this case was likely to be a big one, and a hard one, and he had no mind to take outsiders into his confidence unless it was strictly necessary. “And now,” he said, “I’ve done my part, and, I hope, saved you from an early grave shared by the cat who died of curiosity. Come across, and do yours!” Carlton grinned. “Talking slang so as to make yourself intelligible to my inferior intelligence? All right; fire away! What can I do for you?” Barrison told him that he wanted to find out about a wild West show called by the name of its manager, Blinkey or Blankey. Carlton scowled at him wonderingly. “Now, what sort of a game’s that?” he demanded. “What has a wild West show to do with my perfectly good play——” “Never mind. Can you find out for me?” The writer shook his head. “Not in a million years. I don’t know anything about the profession except where it happens to hit me. Why don’t you tackle the governor? He knows everything and everybody.” “I may yet. But it isn’t anything that really concerns him. And I don’t imagine he’s very cheery this morning.”