With only a preliminary knock, which he did not wait to hear answered, the young man had swung through the door, hat in hand.
“How do, Miss O’Grady?” he said. “I saw your picture—fine! Good acting, but a perfectly rotten play. I suppose you wrote it, Ellsberger?”
“I wrote it,” admitted that gentleman gloomily.
“It bears the impression of your genius, old bird.”
Timothy Anderson shook his head reproachfully.
“It only wanted you as the leading man, and it would have been dead before we put the titles in,” said Ellsberger with a grin.
“I’m out of the movies for good,” said Timothy Anderson, sitting himself on a table. “It is a demoralising occupation—which reminds me.”
He slipped from the table, thrust his hand into his pocket, and producing a roll of notes:
“I owe you twenty-five pounds, Ellsberger,” he said. “Thank you very much. You saved me from ruin and starvation.”
He counted the money across, and Mr. Ellsberger was undoubtedly surprised and made no attempt to conceal the fact. So surprised was he that he could be jocose.