The cast merrily congratulated one another, showering Mr. Vincent with handshakes and praise, and finally dragging him and even Ford Birmingham into an impromptu conga line about the stage. Gus turned on the music and it wasn’t long before a real party developed. Michael Miller went out to bring back sandwiches and soft drinks, and the set of Angel Street changed, miraculously, from a gloomy room to one of brightness and gaiety.
“How did it all happen?” Peggy asked Bill Slade breathlessly during a lull in the dancing.
“Simple,” he answered, smiling. “It occurred to me after our talk that there was one effort I could make in your behalf. I had never spoken seriously to Ford about the theater. I took it for granted that he knew how I felt, but then I remembered that I’d never actually told him so. He’d only heard Max’s side of the story. So”—he grinned at her—“after I saw you that day, I went to see Ford. It took all week to persuade him to come up here, but I finally managed.”
“But what did you say to him?” Peggy questioned, her eyes alight with interest. “It must have been good!”
“I appealed to his sense of honor,” Bill said. “Since we’re all in the same business, I felt he should make an effort to understand your side of the question, too. And after enough insistence that you were really professional, and that he ought to check that for himself, well—he agreed. You know,” Bill added rather sheepishly, “I was terribly impressed. I really didn’t think the play would be as good as it was. Will you forgive me?”
Peggy laughed delightedly, “Oh, Bill! Of course!”
“I think Ford will give you a terrific review,” Bill said.
“And what about Mr. Vincent?” Peggy asked, “Was that your doing, too?”
“No.” Bill shook his head shyly. “Just a coincidence, Peggy. Ford was having dinner with him—”
“And you persuaded both of them to come!” Peggy cried. “Now don’t deny it, Bill Slade, I know you did!”