“By circumstance,” said he, “that is interesting. Circumstance is the master dramatist—are you interested in the Drama?”
“Interested!” said Jones. “Why, I am a drama. I reckon I’m the biggest drama ever written, and that’s why I am here to-night.”
“Ah,” said the other, “this is becoming more interesting still or promising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear of intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to the general. Now a man may, let’s say, commit some little act that the thing we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himself pressed by Circumstance into queer and dramatic positions, those positions though of momentary and intense interest to the man in question would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls or the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that thread of—what shall we call it—that is the backbone of the thing we call Story.”
“Oh, Justice isn’t bothering after me,” said Jones—Then vague recollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, the set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back.
“Why, you’re Mr. Kellerman, aren’t you?” said he.
The other bowed.
“Good heavens,” said Jones, “I ought to have known you. I’ve seen your picture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays—haven’t read your books, for I’m not a reading man—but I’ve been fair crazy over your cinema plays.”
Kellerman bowed.
“Help yourself to some cheese,” said he, “it’s good. I get it from Fortnum and Masons. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, for the first moment I was going to kick you out, then I thought I’d have some fun with you and freeze you out. So you’re American? You are welcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?”
“I came in because I am being chased,” said Jones. “It’s not the law, I reckon I’m an honest citizen—in purpose, anyhow, and as to how I came in I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door.”