Why, yes. . . . This spoken with surprise.
Why a Persian costume?
It's a Persian picture, isn't it?
How do you know that?
Why, Mr. Deacon, everybody knows that—this, reproachfully. . . . It's in the Barometer this morning?
In the Barometer! Ambrose was shouting. I'm sick, he reiterated. I can't see any one. I've got measles.
O Mr. Deacon, I've had 'em! I don't care. If I could only see you . . .
But I have nothing to do with the casting. . . . He summoned enough wit to hang up the receiver.
Returning, considerably shaken, to his breakfast, he was again interrupted presently by a boy with his bags and a large package. He requested the boy to return with a copy of the Barometer. The package when opened proved to contain a hundred Meridiana Kohinoor cigars. There was a card from Ben Griesheimer.
The telephone bell tinkled. A voice at the other end of the line informed him sweetly that Miss Henrietta Ritchie of the Writers' Club was conversing with him. Had he received an invitation from the Club this morning? Was he coming to speak? Be-
