“Albert Wesly Smull built it,” remarked Coltfoot. “It’s a gem.”
“Isn’t Smull one of that bunch of sports behind Betsy Blythe?”
“One of ’em. I hear ‘The Looking Glass’ is the first of a string of picture houses that Smull means to build and operate.”
“I supposed that Wall Street men had learned to fight shy of pictures,” remarked Annan.
“You can’t scare them away. It’s a bigger gamble than their own. That’s why.”
They stopped at the pretty bit of colonial architecture on Fifty-Seventh Street, and entered a private corridor where an elevator whisked them to the third floor.
There were a number of people in Frank Donnell’s office.
Donnell, prematurely grey, smooth-shaven and with the manners of a gentleman, greeted Coltfoot who, in turn, made him known to Annan.
Other men spoke to them, Dick Quilling—whose novel had been filmed for Miss Blythe—a dapper, restless young man, eternally caressing a small and pointed moustache with nicotine-stained fingers; Stoll, celebrated camera-man, silent, dreamy and foreign; David Zanger, art-director, a stumpy, fat man with no eyelashes, a round, pock-marked face, frayed cuffs and dirty fingers.
Annan, looking about, discovered Betsy Blythe, returned a smile for her swift frown, and went over to make his peace for his long neglect of her.