“If I could have had a few days to study the part, Mr. Wylie, I could have given you a much better reading.” “I don’t look for a finished performance on first reading.” “What do you look for, Mr. Wylie?” “I can’t say. But I always know when I get it.” “It—it seems to be a good show.” “I don’t have anything to do with bad shows.” “If you’d care to have me read something else....” “That won’t be necessary.” “Well—thank you, Mr. Wylie.” “You’re quite welcome.” Mrs. Munson’s nephew sauntered through the outer office. About twenty, Joe thought, and wondered if he’d copied the rakish panama and the cane from Ambrose Carver. Wylie stood in the doorway, dark and brooding. “I’ll see you now, kid.” Joe knew how a man on trial must feel when he rises to hear the verdict of the jury. _Sue Davis Against the World_ scripts were scattered across Wylie’s desk. How many had the producer given Mrs. Munson’s nephew to read? The knife that turned in him now was a cold knife, blue with chill and frosted with apprehension. Vic Wylie, behind the desk, enacted a one-man tragedy. He talked to himself in scorn; he began to laugh—short, savage outbursts of derision. He put a coy finger under his chin, smirked, and said something in a falsetto simper. Abruptly he began to growl indistinguishable words. He picked up the _Sue Davis_ scripts, held them a moment and hurled them at the desk. Joe picked them up from the floor. Wylie stared at him, shook his head so that the reddish hair tumbled left and right, and ran a hand across his forehead. When he took the hand down his eyes had grown calm. “Kid,” he said, “Carver has a knife out for you a yard long.” All at once suspicion whetted the knife. Joe thought in dismay: “No; it can’t be.” But suspicion grew. Amby Carver, trying to force Mrs. Munson’s nephew into the cast, was understandable; through the doting aunt, Amby hoped to ease himself into a fat Munson job. But why should Amby have a knife out for him? Wasn’t he one of Amby’s assets? Vic Wylie, posturing and simpering, began to look like an actor playing a scene well rehearsed. “Mr. Wylie,” Joe said with an effort, “there’s something here I don’t get.” “You’re afraid you do get it, kid. I don’t fool easy. You’re afraid I’m using Carver as a stage prop to give you the hook.” Joe’s face reddened. “He’s my agent, isn’t he?” “Suppose you play in the show. Carver’s commission would be two-fifty a week. Big money.” Suppose you play! Wylie had said that. Joe gave up faith and all hope. “Why should Amby throw two-fifty away?” “An agent on the level throws nothing away. He’s out to get all he can for his client. But an agent on the level doesn’t try to call Sonny Baker back from the coast to blast his client.”