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 after unknown name, he muttered, Mr. Deacon is not in. Tired at last, even of this procedure, he permitted the bell to tinkle unanswered.

A knock on his door abruptly taught him that 'there was one channel of communication he had forgotten to shut off. He called out, Come in! and awaited the entrance of a bellboy. Unexpectedly, he turned to face a strange young man with a distended brief-case under his arm.

Mr. Deacon, the intruder began, I hope you'll pardon me butting in on you like this, but they announced me at the desk and the reply was that you weren't in and I just had to see you.

Well, what. . . ?

Ambrose did not ask the young man to sit down and so he remained standing as he explained his errand. His name was Harry Galen. It seemed that he had been a New York newspaper man, but the lure of Hollywood had proven too strong for him. He had been trying unsuccessfully to place scenarios. Nobody would even look at his work.

I'm sure they're good, Harry Galen explained. You'd think so too.

What do you want me to do? Ambrose inquired.

Help me to get a break. You're the special pet of