d hastily. "And we're
discussing contract releases, not options."

"He would give me an option if I had him here," St. Cyr growled,
torturing his cigar horribly. "Why does everything conspire against an
artist?" He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. "Now I must break in a
new writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would have
been a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible."

"I'm afraid not, Raoul," Watt said resignedly. "You really shouldn't
have hit Martin at the studio today."

"But--but he would not dare charge me with assault. In Mixo-Lydia--"

"Why, hello, Nick," DeeDee said, with a bright smile. "What are you
hiding behind those curtains for?"

Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to see
the white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like a
scared chipmunk's. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, "Oh, that
isn't Nick. It doesn't look a bit like him. You made a mistake, DeeDee."

"Did I?" DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree.

"Certainly," Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt's
hand. "Now if you'll just let me have this, I'll--"

"Stop!" cried St. Cyr in a bull's bellow. Head sunk between his heavy
shoulders, he lumbered to the window and jerked the curtains aside.

"Ha!" the director said in a sinister voice. "Martin."

"It's a lie," Martin said feebly, making a desperate attempt to conceal
his stress-triggered panic. "I've abdicated."

St. Cyr, who had stepped back a pace, was studying Martin carefully.
Slowly the cigar in his mouth began to tilt upwards. An unpleasant grin
widened the director's mouth.

He shook a finger under Martin's quivering nostrils.

"You!" he said. "Tonight it is a different tune, eh? Today you were
drunk. Now I see it all. Valorous with pots, like they say."

"Nonsense," Martin said, rallying his courage by a glance at Erika. "Who
say? Nobody but you would say a thing like that. Now what's this all
about?"

"What were you doing behind that curtain?" Watt asked.

"_I_ wasn't behind the curtain," Martin said, with great bravado. "_You_
were. All of you. I was in front of the curtain. Can I help it if the
whole lot of you conceal yourselves behind curtains in a library,
like--like conspirators?" The word was unfortunately chosen. A panicky
light flashed into Martin's eyes. "Yes, conspirators," he went on
nervously. "You think I don't know, eh? Well, I do. You're all
assassins, plo