Kedzie and Ferriday were both encouraged when they saw a look of jealous suspicion cross his face. Ferriday hastened to explain: “We've been editing Miss Adair's new film. Like to see an advance edition of it?” “Love to,” said Dyckman. “Oh, Simpson, run that last picture through again,” Ferriday called through a little hole in the wall. A faint “All right, sir” responded. Kedzie led Dyckman to a chair and took the next one to it. Ferriday beamed on them and switched on the dark. Then, as if by a divine miracle, the screen at the end of the room became a world of life and light. People were there, and places. Mountains were swung into view and removed. Palaces were decreed and annulled. Fields blossomed with flowers; ballrooms swirled; streets seethed. Anita Adair was created luminous, seraphic, composed of light and emotion. She came so near and so large that her very thoughts seemed to be photographed. She drifted away; she smiled, danced, wept, and made her human appeal with angelic eloquence. Dyckman groaned with the very affliction of her charm. She pleased him so fiercely that he swore about it. He cried out in the dark that she was the blank-blankest little witch in the world. Then he groveled in apology, as if his profanity had not been the ultimate gallantry. When the picture was finished he turned to Kedzie and said, “My God, you're great!” He turned to Ferriday. “Isn't she, Mr.--Fenimore?” “I think so,” said Ferriday; “and the world will think so soon.” Kedzie shook her head. “I'm only a beginner. I don't know anything at all.” “Why, you're a genius!” Dyckman exploded. “You're simply great. You know everything; you--” Ferriday touched him on the arm. “We mustn't spoil her. There is a charm and meekness about her that we must not lose.” Dyckman swallowed his other great's and after profound thought said, “Let's lunch somewhere.” Ferriday excused himself, but said that the air would be good for Miss Adair. She was working too hard. So she took the air. Dyckman had come to the studio with Charity's business as an excuse. He had forgotten to give the excuse, and now he had forgotten the business. He did not know that he was now Kedzie Thropp's business. And she was minding her own business. CHAPTER XIX Peter Cheever was going to dictagraph to his wife. The quaint charm of the dictagram is that the sender does not know he is sending it. It is a good deal like an astral something or other. Peter had often telegraphed his wife, telephoned her, and wirelessed her. Sometimes what he had sent her was not the truth. But now she was going to hear from him straight. She would have all the advantages of the invisible cloak and the ring of Gyges--eavesdropping made easy and brought to a science, a combination of perfect alibi with intimate propinquity.