She had to know sooner or later: he satisfied himself with that thought.
The return of Foss relieved him of further explanations. The man spoke for a while with Jack Knebworth in a low voice, and then the director beckoned Michael across.
“Foss can’t trace this manuscript,” he said, handing back the sheet. “It may have been a sample page sent in by a contributor, or it may have been a legacy from our predecessors. I took over a whole lot of manuscript with the studio from a bankrupt production company.”
He looked impatiently at his watch.
“Now, Mr. Brixan, if it’s possible I should be glad if you would excuse me. I’ve got some scenes to shoot ten miles away, with a leading lady from whose little head you’ve scared every idea that will be of the slightest value to me.”
Michael acted upon an impulse.
“Would you mind my coming out with you to shoot—that means to photograph, doesn’t it? I promise you I won’t be in the way.”
Old Jack nodded curtly, and ten minutes later Michael Brixan was sitting side by side with the girl in a char-à-banc which was carrying them to the location. That he should be riding with the artistes at all was a tribute to his nerve rather than to his modesty.
CHAPTER VI
THE MASTER OF GRIFF
Adele did not speak to him for a long time. Resentment that he should force his company upon her, and nervousness at the coming ordeal—a nervousness which became sheer panic as they grew nearer and nearer to their destination—made conversation impossible.