Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed, he seemed calculating something in his head.
“D’ you believe me?”
Kellerman opened his eyes.
“Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would be clever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it out to a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believe you—however, that is your affair—you have given me five reels of the finest stuff, or at least the material for it, and if I ever care to use it I will fix you up a contract giving you twenty-five per cent royalties. But there’s one thing you haven’t given me—the dénouement. I’m more than interested in that. I’m not thinking of money, I’m a film actor at heart and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?”
“How?”
“Come along with you to the end, give all the assistance in my power—or even without that just watch the show. I want to see the last act for I’m blessed if I can imagine it.”
“I’d rather not,” said Jones. “You might get to know the real names of the people I’m dealing with, and as there is a woman in the business I don’t feel I ought to give her name away even to you. No. I reckon I’ll pull through alone, but if you’d give me a sofa to sleep on to-night I’d be grateful. Then I can get away in the morning.”
Kellerman did not press the point.
“I’ll give you better than a sofa,” he said. “There’s a spare bed, and you’d better not start in the morning; give them time to cool down. Then towards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right, they’ll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I’ll arrange all that.”