And he did not have the five — he feared that this particular five was forever out of range. Other means must be found to keep the wolf from the two doors of his coupe. Pat left the lot with despair in his heart, stopping only momentarily to get gas for the car and gin for himself, possibly the last of many drinks they had had together.

Next morning he awoke with an aggravated¹ problem. For once he did not want to go to the studio. It was not merely Gyp McCarthy he feared — it was the whole corporate² might of a moving picture company, nay³ of an industry. Actually to have interfered⁴ with the shooting of a movie was somehow a major delinquency, compared to which expensive fumblings on the part of producers or writers went comparatively unpunished.

On the other hand zero hour for the car was the day after tomorrow and Louie, the studio bookie, seemed positively⁵ the last resource and a poor one at that.

Nerving himself with an unpalatable snack from the bottom of the bottle, he went to the studio at ten with his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled low over his ears. He knew a sort of underground railway through the make-up department and the commissary kitchen which might get him to Louie’s suite⁶ unobserved.

Two studio policemen seized him as he rounded the corner by the barber shop.

‘Hey, I got a pass!’ he protested, ‘Good for a week — signed by Jack⁷ Berners.’

‘Mr Berners specially⁸ wants to see you.’

Here it was then — he would be barred from the lot.

‘We could sue you!’ cried Jack Berners. ‘But we couldn’t recover.’

‘What’s one take?’ demanded Pat. ‘You can use another.’

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