There isn't much good talking about it anyway, Ambrose explained. You see I'm really not going to Hollywood. I'm . . .
Ringrose modulated his interruption to a different key: You know perhaps that Miss Imperia Starling is on this train?
Yes, I saw . . .
A good half of that spectacular demonstration you witnessed, for which we were totally unprepared, was in my honour, the director inserted. Miss Starling, he continued suavely, would not like to miss this opportunity of meeting you.
I'd be glad to meet Miss Starling, stammered Ambrose, but you see . . .
I'll come after you directly and take you to her, Ringrose insisted. Where can I find you?
I'm in A, car 407, Ambrose replied. He sensed the hopelessness of evasion: the fellow would find him anyway.
I'll be after you in fifteen minutes, the director assured him.
Left to himself again, Ambrose made a sorry effort to dispose of his cold ham and eggs. What was he going to say? What was he going to do? Write motion pictures! Meet movie stars! Men in armour and moats! What could the fellow be thinking
