Peter solemnly shook his head. “It wasn't necessary, Hy,” he said huskily; then cleared his throat. “What was the matter with his throat to-day, anyway?” He sank back in his chair. His eyes closed. Hy leaned forward with some anxiety. “Pete, what's the matter? You're white!” Peter's head moved slowly. “Nothing's the matter.” He slowly opened his eyes. “It has been a hard day, Hy, but the job is done.” “The job...?” “I have saved her, Hy.” “But the pictures?” “They will be taken under my direction.” “And Silverstone?” “Silverstone is out. I control the company.” He closed his eyes again and breathed slowly and evenly in a deliberate effort to calm his tumultuous nerves. “Well!” said Hy, big-eyed. “Well!” “Something to drink, Hy,” Peter murmured. “I put it over, Hy! I put it over!” He said this with a little more vigor, trying to talk down certain sudden misgivings regarding six thin little books with pasteboard covers that lay at the moment in the middle drawer of the desk, next the wall. Hy got slowly to his feet; stood rubbing his head and staring down in complete admiration at the apparently triumphant if unmistakably exhausted Peter. “It's a queer time for them,” Hy remarked, solemn himself now. “But in this case cocktails are certainly indicated.” He picked up the telephone. “John,” he said to the night man below, “some ice!” Then he shuffled to the closet, struck a match and found the shaker. In the amber fluid they pledged the success of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., these Seventh-Story Men! Dwelling, the while, each in his own thoughts, on the essential nobility of sacrificing one's self to save another. CHAPTER X--PETER THE MAGNIFICENT |IF she strikes you as a girl you'd like to kiss, I should say, as a general principle--well, kiss her.” Thus Hy Lowe, musingly, seated on the decrepit flat-top desk between the two windows of the studio, swinging his legs. Peter Ericson Mann met this observation with contempt. “Right off, I suppose! First time you meet her--just like that!” The expert waved his cigarette. “Sure. Kiss her.” “She murmurs her thanks, doubtless.” “Not at all. She hates you. Won't ever speak to you again.” “Oh, really!” Peter was caustic. “She didn't think you were that sort; and won't for a minute permit you to think she's that sort.” “And then?” Another wave of the cigarette. “Slow down. Be kind to her. If she's a cross old thing, forgive her. Let her see that you're a regular fellow, even if you did start from third base instead of first. Above all, keep cool. Avoid tragedy, scenes. Keep smiling. When she does swing round--well, you've kissed her. There you are!” Peter surveyed his apartment mate with gloomy eyes. “Sue and Betty are two very different girls,” said he.