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 Company, Culver City, California. Grudgingly, he offered a flabby palm which Ringrose grasped with cordiality. Then the director, uninvited, seated himself opposite the playwright.

On your way to Hollywood, I presume, was his opening speech.

No, I'm not going to Hollywood, Ambrose replied.

Frank disbelief was published on the countenance of Herbert Ringrose.

I know, I know. He uttered these syllables with an air of impatience. You can't be too careful. Have you signed with any company?

I don't know what you mean, Ambrose protested, and then added, No, in a guilty manner.

Herbert Ringrose leaned forward. When he spoke his tone was both confidential and portentous.

His words were: The films need men like you.

Ambrose's terror increased.

Call it an industry, call it an art. . . Ringrose waved such unimportant distinctions away with his hand. . . Why quibble? The writer is perhaps the most essential single factor—saving always the director—in Hollywood. Stories, stories. . . he sighed. . . the cameras eat 'em up. Swallow 'em. Creation, inventive genius: that's what we need. We