JOHN PERCIVAL LIGGITT
IT was the second day of Michael’s visit to town, and, for a reason
which she could not analyse, Adele felt “out” with the world. And yet
the work was going splendidly, and Jack Knebworth, usually sparing of
his praise, had almost rhapsodized over a little scene which she had
acted with Connolly. So generous was he in his praise, and so
comprehensive, that even Reggie came in for his share, and was willing
and ready to revise his earlier estimate of the leading lady’s ability.
“I’ll be perfectly frank and honest, Mr. Knebworth,” he said, in this
moment of candour, “Leamington is good. Of course, I’m always on the
spot to give her tips, and there’s nothing quite so educative—if I may
use the term——”
“You may,” said Jack Knebworth.
“Thanks,” said Connolly. “——as having a finished artiste playing
opposite to you. It doesn’t do me much good, but it helps her a lot; it
inspires courage and all that sort of thing. And though I’ve had a
perfectly awful, dreadful time, I feel that she pays for the coaching.”
“Oh, do you?” growled the old man. “And I’d like to say the same about
you, Reggie! But unfortunately, all the coaching you’ve had or ever will
get is not going to improve you.”
Reggie’s superior smile would have irritated one less equable than the
director.
“You’re perfectly right, Mr. Knebworth,” he said earnestly. “I can’t
improve! I’ve touched the zenith of my power, and I doubt whether you’ll
ever look upon the like of me again. I’m certainly the best juvenile
lead in this, and possibly in any country. I’ve had three offers to go
to Hollywood, and you’ll never believe who is the lady who asked me to
play against her——”
“I don’t believe any of it,” said Jack even-temperedly, “but you’re
right to an extent about Miss Leamington. She’s fine. And I agree that
it doesn’t do you much good playing against her, because she makes you
look like a large glass of heavily diluted beer.”
Later in the day, Adele herself asked her grey-haired chief whether it
was true that Reggie would soon be leaving England for another and a
more ambitious sphere.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Jack. “There never was an actor that hadn’t
a better contract up his sleeve and was ready to take it. But when it
comes to a show-down, you find that the contracts they’re willing to
tear up in order to take something better, are locked away in a lawyer’s
office and can’t be got out. In the picture business all over the world,
there are actors and actresses who are leaving by the first boat to show
Hollywood how it’s done. I guess these liners would sail empty if they
waited for ’em! That’s all bluff, part of the artificial life of
make-believe in which actors and actresses have their being.”
“Has Mr. Brixan come back?”
He shook his head.
“No, I’ve not heard from him. There was a tough-looking fellow called at
the studio half an hour ago to ask whether he’d returned.”
“Rather an unpleasant-looking tramp?” she asked. “I spoke to him. He
said he had a letter for Mr. Brixan which he would not deliver to
anybody else.”
She looked through the window which commanded a view of the entrance
drive to the studio. Standing outside on the edge of the pavement was
the wreck of a man. Long, lank black hair, streaked with grey, fell from
beneath the soiled and dilapidated golf cap; he was apparently
shirtless, for the collar of his indescribable jacket was buttoned up to
his throat; and his bare toes showed through one gaping boot.
He might have been a man of sixty, but it was difficult to arrive at his
age. It looked as though the grey, stubbled beard had not met a razor
since he was in prison last. His eyes were red and inflamed; his nose
that crimson which is almost blue. His hands were thrust into the
pockets of his trousers, and seemed to be their only visible means of
support, until you saw the string that was tied around his lean waist;
and as he stood, he shuffled his feet rhythmically, whistling a doleful
tune. From time to time he took one of his hands from his pockets and
examined the somewhat soiled envelope it held, and then, as if satisfied
with the scrutiny, put it back again and continued his jigging vigil.
“Do you think you ought to see that letter?” asked the girl, troubled.
“It may be very important.”
“I thought that too,” said Jack Knebworth, “but when I asked him to let
me see the note, he just grinned.”
“Do you know who it’s from?”
“No more than a crow, my dear,” said Knebworth patiently. “And now let’s
get off the all-absorbing subject of Michael Brixan, and get back to the
fair Roselle. That shot I took of the tower can’t be bettered, so I’m
going to cut out the night picture, and from now on we’ll work on the
lot.”
The production was a heavy one, unusually so for one of Knebworth’s; the
settings more elaborate, the crowd bigger than ever he had handled since
he came to England. It was not an easy day for the girl, and she was
utterly fagged when she started homeward that night.
“Ain’t seen Mr. Brixan, miss?” said a high-pitched voice as she reached
the side-walk.
She turned with a start. She had forgotten the existence of the tramp.
“No, he hasn’t been,” she said. “You had better see Mr. Knebworth again.
Mr. Brixan lives with him.”
“Don’t I know it? Ain’t I got all the information possible about him? I
should say I had!”
“He is in London: I suppose you know that?”
“He ain’t in London,” said the other disappointedly. “If he was in
London, I shouldn’t be hanging around here, should I? No, he left London
yesterday. I’m going to wait till I see him.”
She was amused by his pertinacity, though it was difficult for her to be
amused at anything in the state of utter weariness into which she had
fallen.
Crossing the market square, she had to jump quickly to avoid being
knocked down by a car which she knew was Stella Mendoza’s. Stella could
be at times a little reckless, and the motto upon the golden mascot on
her radiator—“Jump or Die”—held a touch of sincerity.
She was in a desperate hurry now, and cursed fluently as she swung her
car to avoid the girl, whom she recognized. Sir Gregory had come to his
senses, and she wanted to get at him before he lost them again. She
pulled up the car with a jerk at the gates of Griff Towers, flung open
the door and jumped out.
“If I don’t return in two hours, you can go into Chichester and fetch
the police,” she said.