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 Ambrose fled from the shop.

As Wilhelmina was working on the L.L.B. lot and would drive directly from Culver City, it had been arranged between them that they should meet at the Montmartre at one o'clock. Arriving a few minutes early, Ambrose made his way up the crowded staircase to the ante-room separated by a rope from the dining-room. A mob of men and women already surged against this rope, but Paul, the suave maitre d'hotel, in spite of pleading and tears, permitted no one to pass who had not already engaged a table. However, the name of Wilhelmina Ford, murmured by Ambrose, lifted the rope aside.

Nearly every table in the large room was already occupied. A band was playing and the space in the icentre of the floor was filled with dancers. As a waiter ushered him to the table reserved for Wilhelmina, he passed many dazzling girls. Several of these brilliant women were stars whose pictures he recalled having seen in the newspapers; others, probably, were persons who had come to stare at the cinema actresses. Ambrose sensed suddenly that they were staring at him. Embarrassed, he averted his eyes. He could understand how the announcement of the imminent production of Spider Boy might create