“A pal, Joe, a pal. I haven’t been seeing much of Vic lately....” There was a moment of silence. “Make it three o’clock sharp.” Joe Carlin walked into the office of Vic Wylie Productions at half-past two. The door to the inner office was closed. Behind that door a voice was lifted momentarily in audible protest. Joe swung around to Miss Robb. “Carver?” he demanded. The stenographer said: “Ambrose Carver. Know him?” “He’s my agent.” “I can tell him you’re here.” “I’ll wait,” said Joe. He took the chair that had been warmed for hours yesterday by Archie Munn. Amby had distinctly said three o’clock. Not once, twice. Why had three o’clock been so strongly stressed the second time? To make sure that he did not come in until three? But Amby’s original thought had been for them to go to Wylie together. Word by word, the telephone conversation came back to Joe. He had reminded Amby of a claimed friendship. That, he decided, was when Amby must have shifted his plans. Why? Joe got up from the chair and walked to a window near Miss Robb’s desk. What was Amby anxious to hide? As he debated this question, one fact became clear. To-day his suspicions concerning the agent would be verified or dissipated. For, when the brisk man with the trick mustache came out of Wylie’s office, what had been between an agent and an actor would be cemented with a stronger bond or else it would be destroyed. He didn’t know how or why. All he knew was that this was so. Behind that closed door Vic Wylie was speaking words of scorn. “Carver, you’re a chiseling crook. You never went out to Northend High to hear Carlin in a school play. You had nothing to do with FKIP calling him in for an audition. You’ve made a few friends around the stations; you’ve oiled yourself in on auditions. When you find them putting some kid down as a possibility, you get to that kid quickly. The kid’s green, awed, gullible. You sell him a bill of goods. “You’re a phony. You’ve hung around studios, you’ve watched producers at work, you’ve picked up a smattering of technic. You don’t know radio and you never will. But if you can gather in twenty credulous kids, that will set you up, won’t it? Fifty per cent from twenty kids. They have some talent or a station wouldn’t have listed them. In time they’ll get a little work. Perhaps they’ll earn ten or twelve dollars a week. Half to you. That leaves them six dollars a week. They’ll manage to live, God knows how. But Mr. Carver, the agent, collects at least one hundred dollars a week. Mr. Carver gets himself a nice racket; Mr. Carver lives soft.” Amby’s lips were dry. “You’ve got me wrong, Mr. Wylie. I’ve been working for Joe....”