"Good! Come get him here at my office at eleven-fifteen. Get a taxi by the hour at your stage-door—on me—and come by for him."
. . . . . .
"Good girl! By!"
"What a life!" Mr. Vandeford muttered to himself, then rang his buzzer for Mr. Adolph Meyers.
"Pops, it's eight o'clock. Go get us a couple of slabs of pie at the automat, and then I'll go over to see Breit at the booking office."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Vandeford," Mr. Meyers acquiesced, and departed in search of provender for the lion and himself. Left to himself, Mr. Vandeford fell into another trance, from which he was dragged by another tinkle of his telephone.
"There'll be a wireless to my grave," he muttered as he took down the receiver and snapped into it:
"This is Mr. Vandeford talking."
. . . . . .