chnique is just a fraction of producing an
appealing play."

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But _I've memorized all 38 books_. What's more,
I've been reading and memorizing plays, novels, poetry and history since
I was 13. I have a storehouse of--"

"Memorizing?"

"Yes, sir. I'm a student of _mnemonics_, you know, the art of memory
perfection. My real ambition is to develop absolute recall. All my
reading and memorizing have been just exercises to expand my power of
complete recall."

"You mean that playwriting is just a hobby?"

"Not--exactly. I need money, lots of it, to continue my research.
Psychiatrists come high."

Well, I suppose good plays have been written for screwier reasons, and I
was in no mood to look a gift-author in the mouth. I did pass _Updraft_
around to a brace of critics, and none of them could hang a plagiarism
charge on Hardy. So I wrote out his check and started the wheels going
on the production.

The boy prodigy dropped out of sight for the time being, taking no
further interest in his brain-child. _Updraft_ did all right in the
sticks, but it was when we opened on Broadway that it began to coin
money.

* * * * *

In ten performances we were playing to capacity crowds, and within a
month we had to take in the S. R. O. sign. A lucky hit? I thought so at
the time. _Updraft_ had a dash of humor, a bit of adventure, a dollop of
romance and a gentle little heart tug at the conclusion, but damned if
the critics could put their fingers on its money-making essence. They
gave it pleasant little reviews and mild compliments, but no more. The
cash customers, however, came and kept coming and _kept coming_!

The morning after the 100th performance I told Ellie to hunt up Hardy
and see what he was doing about another play. I could stand to have
another hit ready when _Updraft_ petered out.

That afternoon my secretary reported, "He's in a sanitarium over in
Hoboken."

"Nuts! I knew we should have held back on his royalties," I exclaimed.
"I suppose he's drunk himself into a--"

"It's a mental hospital," Ellie said, "but Mr. Hardy told me he is just
there for some experimental psycho-therapy. He sounded quite normal and
cheerful."

Hillary Hardy showed up next morning at my request, and he did, indeed,
appear in good spirits. I demanded, "What's this business of locking
yourself up in a looney-bin? Don't you realize that's bad public
relations?"

He chuckled. "I