“What are you doing these days, Mike?” inquired Annan.
“Hunting geniuses as a dog hunts fleas. What’s your latest effort, Barry?”
“No effort. I am awaiting with composure the birth of my great novel.”
“Any good?” demanded the other with professional curiosity.
“It’s good enough to sell in Heaven,” replied Annan modestly.
“Not so good then,” grunted Coltfoot. “And if that’s all you’re doing this afternoon, why not saunter along with me?”
“Gladly, but whither?”
“To 57th Street. Frank Donnell is running Betsy Blythe’s stuff this afternoon. Don’t you want to see it?”
“Why, yes—of course.”
Annan signalled a club taxi in waiting; they rolled away together, Coltfoot directing the driver to go to “The Looking Glass”—quite the most charming little motion-picture house yet erected on Manhattan Island.