“Then look here, let’s get down to cases. If it’s business, we’ll talk business. You’ve got to stay. Gloria can’t get along without you.”
[205]
] Brooks’ eyes shifted to the window.
“I don’t want any trouble for her,” little ’Dolph pursued. “I’ve got you billed together next season. Her public looks for you both. I’ll meet any offer you got. Yes—and top it.”
Brooks turned back slowly, shook his head.
Cleeburg sprang up.
“Well, get me straight—will you? You’re tied up tight. And I won’t let you off. Now I’ll just about show you where you stand.” His thumb went down on the press-button in his desk as if it were going through the top. “Bring me Mr. Brooks’ contract,” he told his secretary.
Brooks walked over to the window. His hands were shaking. His face was dead white. He stood staring out with jaws set and the look of a man going into battle.
But Cleeburg saw nothing of that. His own hands opened and shut spasmodically. He tramped steadily back and forth the space of his desk, muttering to himself like the rumble of storm. Under the puzzled question that brought brows together was a frown of fury.
When the contract was handed him, he rustled quickly through the pages, scanning the closely typed sheets, studying it clause for clause.
“No, sir! I’ve got you!” he ended triumphantly.