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 chief; even in November the studio was a hot-house and he was perspiring freely—, you know how little experience I've had.

She regarded him quizzically, but when she spoke her tone was careless. I hope so, she echoed, her mind apparently elsewhere. Then, more seriously, Of course you will. Even the wops can do it. Never look at the camera. Look at me. I'll make you act.

Scene, Miss O'Grady, please, cried the director.

Zimbule took Harold's arm and propelled him into the flashy Parisian apartment. Now the lights, full on his face, were blinding, suffocating. The strands of gems which hung from Zimbule's shoulders and waist flashed blue and white messages to his eyes. He seemed to have lost his vision. His head began to ache and, in the intensity of the heat, he could scarcely breathe. Behind the camera he vaguely caught a glimpse of a knot of bystanders, men and women in evening dress, waiting, probably, to appear in some ball or fête scene. Zimbule did not seem to be conscious of their presence.

I haven't the least idea what I am to do, Harold whispered in desperation. I haven't seen the scenario.

I haven't either, she laughed. It doesn't make any difference. That's what that stiff is paid for. He'll tell us what to do.

Now we'll take the temptation scene, the director shouted, in a tone suggesting that he was advis-