“Too late,” the actor returned quickly. “I have the best locations cinched. They’re paid for, and an agreement signed. If any of them try to take out my lithographs, or cover them up with yours, I’ll sue for breach of contract.”
If looks could kill, Demarest would have been slain on the spot by the ferocious glare from the older man’s eyes. Bryton knew that he had suffered a serious check, for the window advertising had always been considered of equal or greater importance than the billboards.
He realized, however, that he could accomplish nothing by going off his head, so he made a great effort, and managed to get control of his temper.
“After all, I don’t know why I’m going to all this trouble,” he said sarcastically. “You’re a fool if you think anybody will go to the Concert Hall. Why, the place is rotten!”
“That’s my business,” Demarest retorted. “I rather think if you drop in to the opening Thursday night you’ll be surprised. But I really must tear myself away. This has been a great pleasure, and I trust I shall see you again.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, and started toward the door. The next minute he stopped and looked back.
“Can’t I give you a couple of seats for Thursday?” he smiled. “I should be delighted to have your critical opinion of the performance.”
“Bah!” snarled Bryton, his face purpling dangerously.
The young actor shrugged his shoulders.
“Too bad you’re feeling that way this morning,” he said airily. “You really ought to take something—a bromo seltzer might do.”