Joe tried to find words to explain the unexplainable. Why, after all he had seen of the tinsel and make-believe, the gay, masquerade lightness, wasn’t he fed up? But show business was still a land of glamour. He said uncertainly: “If I do get this part—” That didn’t explain anything, either. He glanced helplessly at his mother. “Anything good on the air to-night?” Kate Carlin asked. Tom Carlin took the hint. Next morning FKIP’s ten o’clock music program blared at Joe as he walked through Royal Street. What would to-day bring? He dreaded entering Vic Wylie’s office; he dreaded staying away. He took a deep breath in the hall and steeled himself for whatever Wylie would tell him. Smiling, his hat cocked a little to one side, he opened the door. The bright babble of light, gay voices met him; Lucille, Stella, and Archie were in their accustomed corner. He walked toward the corner, and all at once it was as though he saw his three friends individually and apart, each one watchful, wary and withdrawn. Joe’s nerves were tight. He thought: “It’s true; they know.” He hung up his hat and drawled: “Amby phoned me last night.” There was an instant of profound silence. “I thought he would.” Lucille’s voice had become hard. “Little Sunshine Carver.” Joe was casual. “How did Mrs. Munson’s nephew get into this?” “Amby has an idea he’d like to work himself into the Munson store. Public relations, radio—a nice job. He heard that Mrs. Munson had a nephew in Baltimore who was ambitious to get into show business. Anybody want to guess the rest?” “So the nephew,” Stella fluted, “was brought up here to read to Amby.” “That must have been good,” Archie Munn commented dryly. “Anybody want to guess,” Lucille asked, “what Amby told Mrs. Munson? Well, Mrs. Munson fell for it.” Joe’s front was perfect. “This Lucille gal should work for a newspaper. She gets all the news.” “Amby talks,” said Lucille. Archie’s deep voice said: “I’d figure myself in until Vic told me I was out.” “Has Munson bought the show?” Joe demanded. Archie Munn shook his head. “Not yet.” All at once the outer office was brighter, and the charming, crisp talk all around Joe seemed gayer. If the show had hit a snag, he was the snag. Wylie wanted him in the part. Violent Vic Wylie was fighting for him. A voice called: “Hello there, Pop.” Pop Bartell was among the gay group, the pin-stripe suit without a wrinkle, his linen spotless. Miss Robb, watching for him, stood up at her desk. “I have a call for you from Mr. Vaux, Mr. Bartell.” The old trouper stopped short. “Tony Vaux? Of course. I’ve been expecting—” He had to clear his throat. “You’re sure it was from Tony, Miss Robb?” The quavering voice was stark with a pleading appeal. “He wants you in at four o’clock to read a part.” “At four?” Gentle Pop Bartell began to fumble. Joe could not bear to look on. Lucille Borden, the tough girl of last season’s _Years of Danger_ show, bit her lips.