I . . .
Wait a minute, Mr. Deacon. Don't interrupt. What I am getting at is this: Our firm, our group of artists, pays authors the highest sums compatible with sound business principles. Perhaps—I won't say for sure—we should pay you just a little more than we pay some of the others. It is reported to me, Mr. Deacon . . . Griesheimer's tone now became insinuating . . . that you are at present the guest of Imperia Starling. I should hate to believe, Mr. Deacon, you are playing us against Invincible to see which'll offer you the highest price.
It's not true! Ambrose positively shrieked. I tell you I don't want to write for the films. I don't know anything about pictures. I . . .
The film magnate changed his tactics. Mr. Deacon, he demanded, how much do you want?
I don't want anything. I want to go to New Mexico.
How much has Schwarzstein offered you?
He hasn't offered me anything. I haven't seen Schwarzstein. I can't write stories for you. I don't know anything about moving pictures.
Griesheimer appeared to meditate. Presently he pushed a button and his secretary again made his appearance.
