Uncle John removed his cigar and looked reflectively at the ash.

“You mean that the boy is not what he seems?”

“Scarcely that, sir.  He seems like a good boy, in the main.  But his story is—­such as one might invent if he were loath to tell the truth.”

Uncle John struck a match and relit his cigar.

“I believe in A. Jones, and I see no reason to doubt his story,” he asserted.  “If real life was not full of romance and surprises, the novelists would be unable to interest us in their books.”

CHAPTER XI

A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

The day had not started auspiciously for the Stanton sisters.  Soon after they arrived at the Continental Film Company’s plant Maud had wrenched her ankle by stumbling over some loose planks which had been carelessly left on the open-air stage, and she was now lying upon a sofa in the manager’s room with her limb bandaged and soaked with liniment.

Flo was having troubles, too.  A girl who had been selected by the producer to fall from an aeroplane in mid-air had sent word she was ill and could not work to-day, and the producer had ordered Flo to prepare for the part.  Indignantly she sought the manager, to file a protest, and while she waited in the anteroom for an audience, Mr. A. Jones of Sangoa came in and greeted her with a bow and a smile.

“Good gracious!  Where did you come from?” she inquired.

“My hotel.  I’ve just driven over to see Goldstein,” he replied.

“You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” she warned him.  “The manager is busy just now.  I’ve been wiggling on this bench half an hour, and haven’t seen him yet—­and my business is very important.”

“So is mine, Miss Flo,” he rejoined, looking at her with an odd expression.  Then, as a stenographer came hurrying from the inner room, he stopped the girl and said: 

“Please take my card to Mr. Goldstein.”

“Oh, he won’t see anybody now, for he’s busy talking with one of our producers.  You’ll have to call again,” she said flippantly.  But even as she spoke she glanced at the card, started and turned red.  “Oh, pardon me!” she added hastily and fled back to the managerial sanctum.

“That’s funny!” muttered Flo, half to herself.

“Yes,” he said, laughing, “my cards are charged with electricity, and they’re bound to galvanize anyone in this establishment.  Come in, Miss Flo,” he added, as Goldstein rushed out of his office to greet the boy effusively; “your business takes precedence to mine, you know.”

The manager ushered them into his office, a big room with a busy aspect.  At one end were two or three girls industriously thumping typewriters; McNeil, the producer, was sorting manuscript on Goldstein’s own desk; a young man who served as the manager’s private secretary was poring over a voluminous record-book, wherein were listed all the films ever made by the manufacturers of the world.  On a sofa in a far corner reclined the injured “star” of the company, Maud Stanton, who—­being half asleep at the moment—­did not notice the entrance of her sister and young Jones.