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 cause so much had to be done in the way of preparation. Announcement cards had to be printed. Ambrose, to whom a public dinner was no more agreeable a prospect than an electric chair, contrived to imagine an important appointment with Griesheimer.

But we can make it any night, Miss Ritchie insisted. My time is not my own at present.

But, Mr. Deacon, I don't think you quite understand. I am speaking for the Writers' Club, the WRITERS' CLUB.

Mr. Deacon understood.

You needn't be rude, Mr. Deacon.

Whew! He hung up the receiver.

The boy returned with the newspaper and a telegram. Ambrose opened the latter first. From Jack Story, it read: Congratulations old boy. This was a reply to a wire of information he had sent Jack the night before. Turning his attention to the Barometer, with some difficulty in his present state of mind, he located the column devoted to motion picture activities. His name, he perceived, lurked in the very first paragraph:

The mysterious appearance in our midst of Ambrose Deacon, the distinguished author of the current New York stage success,