Fanchon had sent him on an errand to the nearest chemist. She had given him a prescription for some headache powders, she said, and Leigh did not know that he was returning with a peculiarly effective preparation of “bloom” that she usually applied at night. He carried the package with something of the air and feeling with which _Sir Lancelot_ might have worn the colors of _Elaine_. It happened that his way led him past a corner of the main street, where Mr. Bernstein had just made special arrangements for showing Rosamond Silvertree’s feature pictures at the little local theater. Mr. Bernstein himself, in a new plaid suit with a diamond scarf-pin, was viewing a poster of Rosamond in the effective, if rather startling, costume of “A Belle from Borneo.” He had encountered Leigh on one or two previous occasions, and knew him to be the youngest son of Johnson Carter. As the boy approached, looking a little pale from his night’s vigil, Mr. Bernstein eyed him shrewdly. “Looks like a regular moon-calf,” he thought; “but I guess he’s got gumption enough to take a warnin’ to the rest of ’em. Hello, young man!” he called out. “Been in to see this picture? Greatest picture on the screen! There’s a matinee to-day and two showings to-night.” Leigh shook his head, stopping to gaze in some amazement at the highly colored portrait of the fair Rosamond. “Gee!” he remarked. “She’s fat!” “Fat?” Mr. Bernstein blew his cheeks out and stared at him with a kindling eye. “Fat, boy? Why, she’s superb! That’s Rosamond Silvertree, the most beautiful star on the screen!” Leigh giggled. He giggled like a girl, a faint pink color coming into his beardless cheeks, and his girlish eyes dancing. “How much do you suppose she weighs?” he asked gleefully. “Looks to me like four hundred pounds--and some spangles!” “Miss Silvertree’s a lady, young man!” retorted Mr. Bernstein reprovingly. “She’s got one of the finest figures I ever saw. Spangles? I want you to know that there’s one scene where she’s got on the fetchingest costume--five yards of chiffon and fifteen pounds of crystal spangles! It’s beauty, classic beauty, on the screen.” Leigh suppressed a giggle this time, and only smiled inanely, edging away. “Looks kinder foolish,” Mr. Bernstein reflected, but he laid a detaining hand on Leigh’s arm. “See here, you’re Leigh Carter, ain’t you?” Leigh nodded. He half expected an offer for the screen, and he lingered, coloring like a girl. “Then I guess I can say a word to you--confidential, you understand?” Mr. Bernstein winked slowly. “Entirely confidential--between gentlemen, see?” he added with a stroke of inspiration. Leigh, flattered in spite of himself, nodded. Mr. Bernstein linked an arm in his. “Step this way,” he said casually. “Don’t want to attract attention. Now, Mr. Carter----” He paused, allowing the formal address to sink in. It did. Leigh straightened up. “There’s a fellow over at the inn named Corwin. Heard of him?” Leigh’s color deepened.