“Fagan—Oh, I don't mean Fagan.” He paused and looked at the wet point of his pen. “I was just writing a note to Sampson,” he said. He hesitated a moment, and then tore the written sheet across several times and dropped it in the basket.
“Oh, hell,” he said. “I can't appeal to Sampson again. I'll have to work it out myself.—Don't imagine I take Fagan too seriously. Fagan is only an accident. A tragic accident. That's part of my weird, as the Scotch say. I mean, you'll understand better about Dunbar.”
I didn't quite understand, and said nothing.
“I wouldn't let a man like Fagan stand between me and Dunbar,” he said. “It's in the hands of the author now. You heard what he said. He put Dunbar into the play, he's the only one who can take him out of it.”
The next morning Upton broke the news to me that I was to go out as advance man. The opening was set for Providence, only ten days later. There was to be a two-weeks' tour of three-night engagements, and I had to arrange for the publicity, poster-printing, accommodations for the company, and so on. This did not appeal to me very strongly, but I scrambled together a lot of photographs, interviewed the cast as to their preferences in hotel rooms, and set off. I got back a week later. We were then only three days away from the opening. They were rehearsing with the sets, Upton's telephone blonde told me, and I hurried round to the Stratford to see how the scenic artist had done the job.
They had just knocked off for lunch when I got there, and at the stage door I met Edwards coming out with Miss Cunningham. He looked very white and tired.
“Hullo,” I said; “just in time to have lunch with me! Come on, we'll go to Maxim's. I've still got some of Upton's expense money.”
“I've got to rush round to the modiste for a fitting,” said Miss Cunningham. “The gowns are just finished. You take Morgan and give him a good talking-to. He needs it.” I did not quite understand the appeal in her eyes, but I saw that she wanted me to talk with Edwards alone. She went toward Bryant Park, and we turned down to Thirty-eighth. Edwards stood a moment at the corner looking after her.
“Sylvia says I'm a fool,” he said, wearily. “I don't know: most of us are, one way or another.—You know I told you that I put my confidence in the author.”
“Quite right,” I said. “I myself heard Sampson say he thought you were corking.”