It was the biggest open secret in the industry. Everybody but the combine knew about it. The other independents watched Magnum carefully to see what would happen next.

Meanwhile Peter was quietly buying up all the raw stock he could lay his hands on and Joe was busy working with the playwright whipping the script into shape for a picture.

Warren Craig's dressing room was crowded with people while he removed his make-up. In his mirror he could see the people talking excitedly, but that pretty little girl in the corner wasn't saying a word; she just watched him remove his make-up with an awed expression on her face.

He felt good. He had turned in a good performance tonight and he knew it. There were some nights when everything just seemed to go right and nothing you could do would spoil it, just as there were the other kind of nights. He crossed his fingers as he thought about it.

The girl in the mirror saw him do it and smiled tentatively at him. He smiled back at her. Her smile brightened.

With a flourish he wiped the last of the cold cream from his face and wheeled around. "And now if you good people will excuse me," he said in his rich baritone voice, "I'll get out of this provincial costume."

The people laughed. They always did when he said that; it had become part of the performance. He was dressed in a cowboy costume and it flattered him. The bright colors of his shirt, contrasting with the dull color of the chaps, lent gentle emphasis to his broad shoulders and very flat hips.

He went behind a screen and appeared in a few minutes in regular clothes. It was the truth that he looked as well in evening clothes as he did in costume. He was an actor and he knew it. Everything he wore, everything he did and said, never let you forget that Warren Craig was the third generation of his family on the American stage.

He was ready now to receive their homage. He stood there easily in the center of the room, his head lightly inclined forward; he spoke a few words to each person as they came up and congratulated him. A cigarette in a long Russian holder dangled from his lips.

That was how Johnny first saw him as he followed Sam Sharpe into the dressing room. Only Warren Craig wasn't happy to see Sam. Sam reminded him of the appointment he had made reluctantly earlier in the day to talk to that flicker fellow, and he was trying to find an approach to make that pretty little girl in the corner have supper with him.

Craig smiled to himself philosophically. That was the trouble with being one of the foremost actors of the American stage, he thought, your time was never your own.

Gradually the room emptied. The last to leave was that pretty little girl. She stopped at the doorway and smiled back over her shoulder at him. He returned her smile with a helpless gesture that spoke as plainly as words. "I'm sorry, my dear," it said, "but being a great actor has its drawbacks. Your time isn't your own."

Her smile answered him. He knew just what it meant. "I understand. Some other time soon." The door closed behind her.

Johnny didn't miss the byplay. He had stood there quietly sizing Craig up. He had no doubt that Craig was a competent actor, but the man's vanity hung about him like a cloak. And he had reason to be vain. He was young, not more than twenty-five the way Johnny figured. He was handsome, with thin, even features and black thick curling hair that Johnny thought would photograph beautifully.

Craig turned to Johnny and really saw him for the first time. "Why, he's younger than I am!" was his first thought of shocked surprise. "And still he's a vice-president of a flicker concern." But as he continued to look at Johnny he could see other things, things that were not at first visible to the ordinary person. Being on the stage taught you to look for certain signs of character, things that were important if you wanted to project them to an audience. Johnny's mouth was wide and generous, but firm and determined. His jaw had a slightly aggressive tilt to it, but was controlled. The most unusual thing about him, however, was his eyes. They were dark blue, and deep inside them there seemed to lurk hidden flames. "An idealist," Craig thought.

"Hungry, Warren?" Sharpe asked in his thin little voice.

Craig shrugged his shoulders. "I can eat," he said quietly, as if food meant nothing to him. He turned to Johnny. "These performances take so much out of one."

Johnny smiled sympathetically. "I understand, Mr. Craig."

Craig warmed to Johnny's voice. "I say, let's not be so formal. Warren's the name."

"Johnny to you," Johnny replied.

The two men shook hands and Sam Sharpe smiled happily to himself as they left the dressing room. That bonus and commission were beginning to look as if they had a chance.

Craig warmed the brandy in the goblet between his hands. Slowly he rolled the goblet back and forth. Despite his protestation of not being hungry he had performed a very trencherman-like job on the large steak he had ordered. Now he was ready to talk.

"I understand you're with a flicker company, Johnny," he said.

Johnny nodded.

"Sam tells me that you're planning to film The Bandit."

"Right," Johnny replied, "and we would like you to play the lead. There isn't anyone else in the theater who could do justice to so difficult a role." He couldn't see any harm in flattery.

Craig couldn't either. He nodded his head in agreement. "But flickers, old boy," he said in a gentle derogatory voice, "but flickers!"

Johnny looked over at him. "Motion pictures are growing up, Warren," he said. "Now an artist of your talent can express himself more fully than on the stage."

Craig sipped at his brandy slowly. "I don't agree with you, Johnny." He smiled deprecatingly. "The other day I went into a nickelodeon and saw the most horrible things. They called it a comedy but, believe me, it wasn't funny. There was a little tramp and he was being chased by fat policemen and they were falling all over the place." He shook his head. "Sorry, old boy, I just can't see it."

Johnny laughed. He saw that the goblet Warren held in his hand was empty and gestured for the waiter to refill it. "Certainly you don't think that's the kind of picture we're going to make out of The Bandit?" His voice expressed amazement that Craig should think of such a thing.

He leaned across the table. "Look, Warren, first of all, this picture will be the real thing. It won't run just twenty minutes, it will run more than an hour. Then there is something new that's just been developed. It's called the close-up."

Johnny saw the blank look on Craig's face. "A man by the name of Griffith just worked it out. This is the way it works. Say you're playing a big scene-that scene with the girl in the garden. Remember that moment when you look at her and your face expresses your love for her without your saying one word? On the screen that would be magnificent. The camera would focus on your face and your face alone. That's all the audience would see. And every subtle expression, every tiny nuance that you, with your superb artistry, are capable of, would be brought forth for everyone to see, not just the people in the first few rows of the theater."

Craig looked interested. "You mean the camera would be on me alone?"

Johnny nodded his head. "And that's not all. It would be on you for most of the picture, for, after all, without you what is there to The Bandit?"

Craig was silent. He sipped a little more of the brandy. He liked that idea. After all, he was The Bandit. Then he shook his head. "No, Johnny, you tempt me very much, but I just can't do it. The flickers would ruin my reputation on the stage."

"Sarah Bernhardt isn't afraid that motion pictures would ruin her reputation," Johnny pointed out. "She can see the challenge to her artistry and goes forth to meet it. She knows that the new medium of motion pictures offers her as broad an opportunity for acting as the stage. Think of it, Warren, think of it! Bernhardt in France, Warren Craig in America. The foremost artists on their respective sides of the ocean making motion pictures. Would you have me believe that you are afraid to meet the same challenge that Madame Bernhardt is facing?"

Craig tossed down his drink. The last few words had reached him. What was it Johnny had said? He liked the sound of it. Bernhardt and Craig, the foremost artists in the world. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily and looked down at Johnny. "Old boy," he said pompously, "you've convinced me. I'll do the picture! And what's more, I don't care what anyone in the profession thinks, even John Drew. I'll show them that a true artist can meet the challenge and work in any medium. Even flickers!"

Johnny looked up at him and smiled. Under the table Sam Sharpe uncrossed his fingers.

6.

Joe sat in the easy chair and watched Johnny knot his tie. Twice Johnny did it over and at last he ripped the tie off and took another one from the rack. "d.a.m.n it!" he muttered. "I can never get it right the first time."

Joe smiled. Since the morning he had spoken to Johnny about the risk he ran in prompting Peter to make that picture, he hadn't said another word on the subject. He did his share of the job quietly and well and hoped that everything would work out all right. But everything was going too smoothly. Occasionally he felt a twinge of misgiving at the easy way things seemed to be working out and would reprimand himself for being a pessimist.

"Got a date?" he asked Johnny.

Johnny nodded, still concentrating on the tie.

"Anyone I know?" Joe asked.

The tie was knotted at last and Johnny turned around. "I don't think so," he replied. "Sam Sharpe's secretary."

Joe let out a whistle. "Better be careful, kid." He smiled. "I seen that pretty little blonde once. She's the marrying kind."

Johnny laughed. "Nonsense. She's a lot of fun."

Joe shook his head in pretended sadness. "I seen that happen before. You go out with a dame for laughs and wind up with a ball and chain."

"Not Jane," Johnny answered. "She knows I'm not looking to settle down."

"A dame might know it, but she'll never believe it." Joe smiled. Then his expression changed and his face grew serious. "You an' Peter goin' over to the combine offices tomorrow?"

Johnny nodded. It was late in May and everything was ready to roll on the picture. The script and the cast were ready; the only difficulty that remained was getting a studio big enough to make the picture in, since their own was pitifully small.

They had checked several of the independents, but none was available. At last they had decided to approach the combine and try to rent a studio from them. They had several large studios that could accommodate The Bandit, and one of them Johnny knew was not in use that summer. They had agreed that they would tell the combine they were making a serial, and it was a logical enough excuse to get by.

"What'll you do if they turn you down?" Joe asked.

"They won't turn us down," Johnny replied confidently. "Stop being a gloomy Gus."

"All right, all right," Joe said; "I was just askin'."

The horse's hoofs stopped clattering on the pavement, and the hansom drew to a stop. The driver turned around on his seat and looked down at them. "Where to now, sir?" he asked.

"Around the park again," Johnny said. He turned and looked at Jane. "All right with you?" he asked. "You're not tired?"

Her face was pale in the moonlight. The night was warm, but she had a little scarf around her shoulders. "I'm not tired," she said.

The hansom set off again and Johnny leaned back in his seat. He looked up at the sky; the stars were out and they twinkled down on him. He put his hands behind his head. "When this picture is finished, Janey," he said, "we'll really be on our way. Nothing'll stop us then."

He felt her stir beside him. "Johnny," she said.

"Yes, Jane?" His mind was still in the stars.

"Is that all you ever think about? When the picture is finished?"

He turned toward her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

She looked at him steadily. Her eyes were wide and softly luminous. Her voice was very quiet. "There are other things in life besides pictures, you know."

He stretched himself and grinned. "Not for me there ain't."

She turned her face away from him and looked out the other side of the carriage. "Other people find time for other things besides business."

He put his arm around her shoulder; with the other hand he turned her face to him. For a moment he looked at her, then he kissed her. Her lips were warm and her arms went around him hungrily and then as suddenly dropped from his shoulders.

"You mean things like this, Janey?" he asked softly.

She was silent for a few seconds. When she answered, her voice was very small. "I wish you hadn't done that, Johnny."

Johnny's face expressed his astonishment. "Why, honey?" he asked. "Isn't that what you meant?"

She looked at him steadily. "It is and it isn't. Kisses themselves aren't important, but the things that are behind them are. I'm sorry that you kissed me because now I know there's nothing behind it. You've got moving pictures inside you, Johnny, not feelings."

The combine offices were located in a big building on Twenty-third Street. It was a twelve-story building and the combine occupied every floor. The executive offices were on the seventh floor, and when Peter and Johnny got off the elevator on that floor, they were met by a young girl receptionist.

"Who do you wish to see?" the girl asked.

"Mr. Segale," Peter answered. "Mr. Edge and Mr. Kessler to see him. We have an appointment."

"Won't you take a seat?" the girl asked, gesturing toward a comfortable couch placed along the wall. "I'll check with Mr. Segale's office."

Johnny and Peter sat down. At the end of the hall was a large office with an open door. Through it they could see row upon row of desks with men and women sitting at them.

"They really are big business," Johnny whispered.

"I'm nervous," Peter answered.

"Take it easy," Johnny counseled in a whisper. "They haven't the faintest idea of what we're going to do. There's nothing to worry about."

Peter started to reply, but his answer was cut short by the girl. "Mr. Segale will see you," she said. "Right down the hall. You'll see his name on the door."

They thanked her and walked down the hall. The place was big and oppressive. Occasionally someone would scurry by them with an air of doing something very important. Even Johnny was impressed.

The name on the door read: "Mr. Segale-Production Supervisor." They opened the door and walked in. They were in a secretary's office. A girl looked up at them and gestured to another door against the inner wall. "Right in there," she smiled. "Mr. Segale is expecting you."

They went into the other office. The office was quietly but lavishly furnished. A rich wine-colored rug covered the floor, several paintings hung on the gray painted wall, and rich leather couches and chairs were scattered around the room.

Behind a tremendous flat-topped walnut desk sat Mr. Segale. He greeted them warmly and waved them to chairs. "Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen," he said, smiling. He pa.s.sed around a box of cigars. "Smoke?"

Peter took one and lit up. Johnny gestured no and lit a cigarette.

Mr. Segale was a small, fat man with a cherubic face. His blue eyes were unusually keen and his lips were thin and his mouth small and round.

It was when he looked at him that Johnny felt his first sense of misgivings. "This baby's no fool," he thought. "It's not going to be so easy to pull the wool over those baby-blue eyes." But he said nothing, he kept silent.

Mr. Segale spoke first. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Peter decided to come right to the point. "Magnum would like to rent the Sloc.u.m studios for three weeks to make a serial."

Mr. Segale clasped his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling. "I see," he said, blowing the smoke from his cigar upwards. "I believe you hold a sublicense from us for the production of short features not to exceed two reels in length."

"That's right, Mr. Segale," Peter answered quickly.

"You're doing all right with them?" Segale continued.