The actor nodded.
“Yes, and was politely but firmly turned down.”
For a few minutes there was silence. Demarest toyed with his ice, while Merriwell gazed thoughtfully at the tablecloth. Suddenly he raised his head and his eyes brightened.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed eagerly. “The old Concert Hall. I’ll bet none of the New York managers control that!”
Demarest looked dubious.
“The Concert Hall!” he echoed. “But that’s got a—a—well, a reputation, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has,” Dick admitted, “but I don’t see why that should stand in your way. If it was made clear that you were unable to bring out a play at any of the other houses, I don’t think people would stay away on account of the reputation of that house. Certainly the fellows wouldn’t. They go to see everything in the nature of college plays which comes to town. I admit that, more often than not, they go with the idea of picking flaws in the piece, but if it’s what you say it is, it ought to succeed. At any rate, you’d have your audience, and it would be up to you to do the rest.”
Demarest’s eyes brightened and he nodded emphatically.
“You can trust me for that,” he said decidedly. “All I want is the audience. The play’s all right. Buffer and Lane would never have made an offer for it if it hadn’t been pretty good. I don’t know but that idea of yours will prove a life saver, Merriwell. I was just about at my wit’s end, but you’ve put new heart into me.”
Summoning the waiter, he paid the check, and they walked out to the lobby.