“Don't you see?” cried Zanin, confronting him, and spreading out those big hands. Peter wished wildly that he would keep them in his pockets, put them behind his back--anything to get them out of sight!... “Lets be sensible, Maun. As you said, we're business men, you and I. You let me take the scenario. I'm to see Sue this evening--I'll read it to her. I'm sure it's good. It'll reassure her. And it will help me to hold her enthusiasm and pave the way for a better understanding between her and you.” Quite unforeseen by either, the little matter of reading the scenario had struck up an issue between them. All was not harmony within the directorate of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't. “No,” said Peter. “I won't let you have it now.” “But--good lord!--” “I will think it over.” Magnificent was the word. Zanin gulped down a temperamental explosion and left. Peter, as he came slowly back from the elevator to the apartment, discovered that he still held the poker tightly in his right hand, like a sword. He thought again of Napoleon and Henry V. He stood motionless, by the window, staring out; moved by the histrionic emotionalism that was almost his soul to stiffen his shoulders like a king's. Out there--beyond old Washington Square where the first buds of spring tipped the trees--beyond the glimpse, down a red-brick vista of the Sixth Avenue Elevated--still beyond and on, were, he knew, the dusty wandering streets, the crumbling houses with pasts, the flimsy apartment buildings decorated in front with rococo fire escapes, the bleak little three-cornered parks, the devastating subway excavations of Greenwich Village. Somewhere in that welter of poverty and art, at this very moment (unless she had walked up-town) was Sue Wilde. He tried to imagine just where. Perhaps in the dim little rear apartment she shared with Betty Deane, waiting for Zarin. His gaze wandered down to the Square. There was Zanin, crossing it, under the bare trees. His grip on the poker relaxed. He moved toward the telephone; glanced out again at the swift-striding Zanin; then with dignity, replaced the poker by the fireplace, consulted the telephone book and called up Sue's apartment. Sue herself answered. “This is Eric Mann,” he told her. “I want very much to talk with you”--his voice was none too steady--“about the scenario.” “Well”--over the wire he could feel her hesitation--“if it is important....” “I think it is.” “Any time, almost, then... “Are you busy now?” “Why--no.” “Perhaps you'd dine with me.” “Why--all right. At Jim's, say.” The color came rushing to Peter's face. “Right away?” he suggested, controlling his voice. “All right. I'll meet you there.” Peter hung up the receiver and smiled. So Zanin was to see Sue this evening, was he? “He'll need a telescope,” mused Peter with savage joy as he hurried out. CHAPTER XI--PROPINQUITY-PLUS