"So, so, so, now we begin," St. Cyr cried impatiently. He spoke into a
hand microphone. Instantly the screen on the ceiling flickered noisily
and began to unfold a series of rather ragged scenes in which a chorus
of mermaids danced on their tails down the street of a little Florida
fishing village.

To understand the full loathsomeness of the fate facing Nicholas Martin,
it is necessary to view a St. Cyr production. It seemed to Martin that
he was watching the most noisome movie ever put upon film. He was
conscious that St. Cyr and Watt were stealing rather mystified glances
at him. In the dark he put up two fingers and sketched a robot-like
grin. Then, feeling sublimely sure of himself, he lit a cigarette and
chuckled aloud.

"You laugh?" St. Cyr demanded with instant displeasure. "You do not
appreciate great art? What do you know about it, eh? Are you a genius?"

"This," Martin said urbanely, "is the most noisome movie ever put on
film."

In the sudden, deathly quiet which followed, Martin flicked ashes
elegantly and added, "With my help, you may yet avoid becoming the
laughing stock of the whole continent. Every foot of this picture must
be junked. Tomorrow bright and early we will start all over, and--"

Watt said quietly, "We're quite competent to make a film out of
_Angelina Noel_, Martin."

"It is artistic!" St. Cyr shouted. "And it will make money, too!"

"Bah, money!" Martin said cunningly. He flicked more ash with a lavish
gesture. "Who cares about money? Let Summit worry."

Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin in the dimness.

"Raoul," he said, glancing at St. Cyr, "I understood you were getting
your--ah--your new writers whipped into shape. This doesn't sound to me
as if--"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," St. Cyr cried excitedly. "Whipped into shape,
exactly! A brief delirium, eh? Martin, you feel well? You feel
yourself?"

Martin laughed with quiet confidence. "Never fear," he said. "The money
you spend on me is well worth what I'll bring you in prestige. I quite
understand. Our confidential talks were not to be secret from Watt, of
course."

"What confidential talks?" bellowed St. Cyr thickly, growing red.

"We need keep nothing from Watt, need we?" Martin went on imperturably.
"You hired me for prestige, and prestige you'll get, if you can only
keep your big mouth shut long enough. I'll make the name of St. Cyr
glorious for you. Naturally you may lose something at the box-office,
b