Joe went back to Wylie’s chair. The inner room throbbed with memories—memories of his first days with Vic, of the hard grind of rehearsals, of the thrill of his first days on the air. When would he go back? Why hadn’t he played in to-day’s show?
Miss Robb, wearing her hat and coat, appeared in the doorway. “If you’re staying, Joe, I won’t put the catch on the door.”
“They’ll want to hear about Lucille,” said Joe.
The girl drew on her gloves. “Show business is tough,” she said impulsively, and was gone.
Daylight faded. Had she been trying to tell him something? Joe thought of the crowded carbons in the filing cabinet. Sonny Baker playing fast and loose with a script, little Amby Carver fussing impotently in Studio B—these happenings were more or less public. And he had thought them important. The real story might lie in letters locked away in the file. Letters that Wylie had received; letters he had written. Office secrets. But Miss Robb knew those secrets. He remembered her agitation the day he had met her at the restaurant, and to-day she had blurted out that show business was tough. Nobody had to tell him that. He knew it.
The inner room darkened and he turned on a light. Did Miss Robb know why he hadn’t gone back to the cast? Wylie had had knowledge since Friday that he had recovered.
The door from the hall opened and closed. Sonny Baker strolled into the inner room.
“Around again, Carlin?” he asked. His eyes reflected a sleepy, mocking amusement. He picked up a magazine and lolled on the settee.
Stella Joyce and Bert Farr came in together.
“Tell me everything,” Stella said eagerly.