"Right. Right. Hnkhhh.... Mig says: 'Which is better, the old writers or the new writers?'" "That's it, sweetheart." The Monk took up the running. "So Diggy answers: My brother's got that." "Got what?" "Hnkhhh.... Neuritis!" They beamed at their employer. "I don't know, fellas," Mason said dubiously. "Diggy's a wholesome American boy. He wouldn't make fun of disease." Lennox ignored all this and concentrated on the photography business. There is nothing so sunny as the twinkle of flash bulbs, and by the time the photographer departed, Mason was suffering from 3rd degree burns and smiling happily. Lennox felt the time was right for the attack. He asked for a private conference and Mason sent his writers into the study. Then he began tinkering with a new head on the bench and told Lennox to go ahead. Lennox took the photostats out of his pocket. "Hit him hard," he thought. "Knock him off balance." "Read these letters," he said in an ominous voice. Mason took the photostats and read them one by one. Lennox watched him intently, searching for a give-away expression, a gesture, a sign. Mason handed the photostats back indifferently and picked up the dummy head. "Crazy," he said. "They write like that in subway johns. What do you think, Jake? Does Diggy's new face look wholesome?" "Mig! Don't you understand? These are threatening letters. I think they're written to you. You're in danger." "Me?" Mason was fascinated. "Me? I never...." He put the dummy down and stared at Lennox. "Yes, you. Did you read that last one? There's going to be dynamite Sunday. I'm here to help you. I want to do all I can. Who's writing them to you, Mig? Do you know?" "Sure they're to me. Sure. I should of realized." Mason nodded with growing conviction. "Stars always get anonymous letters. Like presidents." He began to get excited. "It hits the fan on the Sunday show, huh? This is sensational, Jake. Can we have a couple of reporters there?" "Reporters!" "Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Mason grabbed the photostats and ran through them again. "I just thought of something. Yeah. Here. You better not let the reporters see this one, Jake. Number three." "Don't let the reporters see...." Lennox echoed faintly. "Uh-huh. Keep it back. They'll know I'm not getting the letters if they see this one, but I ought to be getting them. That Spanish faker was getting blackmailed every night when he worked The Chert Room and I got twice his billing." "You're not getting the letters?"