“It is estimated that if twenty picture theatres use any one film—­copies of it, of course—­that film will pay for its cost of making.  Therefore, if you build twenty children’s theatres, instead of the one or two you originally proposed, you would be able to manufacture your own films and they would be no expense to you.”

They gazed at him in bewilderment.

“That is all simple enough!” laughed Arthur.  “Twenty picture theatres at twenty thousand dollars each—­a low estimate, my dears, for such as you require—­would mean an investment of four hundred thousand dollars.  A film factory, with several producing companies to keep it busy, and all the necessary paraphernalia of costumes and properties, would mean a million or so more.  Say a million and a half, all told.  Why, it’s a mere bagatelle!”

“Arthur!” Severely, from Louise.

“I advise you girls to economize in other ways and devote your resources to this business, which might pay you—­and might not,” he continued, oblivious to stony glares.

“Really, Mr. Jones,” said Beth, pouting, “we were not joking, but in real earnest.”

“Have I questioned it, Miss De Graf?”

“Mr. Jones was merely trying to show you how—­er—­er—­how impractical your idea was,” explained Uncle John mildly.

“No; I am in earnest, too,” said the boy.  “To prove it, I will agree to establish a plant and make the pictures, if the young ladies will build the twenty theatres to show them in.”

Here was another suggestion of a bewildering nature.  Extravagant as the offer seemed, the boy was very serious.  He blushed a little as he observed Mr. Merrick eyeing him earnestly, and continued in an embarrassed, halting way:  “I—­I assure you, sir, that I am able to fulfill my part of the agreement.  Also I would like to do it.  It would serve to interest me and keep me occupied in ways that are not wholly selfish.  My—­my other business does not demand my personal attention, you see.”

To hear this weak, sickly youth speak of investing a million dollars in a doubtful enterprise, in spite of the fact that he lived on a far-away island and was a practical stranger in America, set them all to speculating anew in regard to his history and condition in life.  Seeing that the boy had himself made an opening for a logical query, Uncle John asked: 

“Do you mind telling us what this other business is, to which you refer?”

A. Jones moved uneasily in his chair.  Then he glanced quickly around the circle and found every eye regarding him with eager curiosity.  He blushed again, a deep red this time, but an instant later straightened up and spoke in a tone of sudden resolve.

“Most people dislike to speak of themselves,” he said, “and I am no exception.  But you, who have kindly received me as a friend, after having generously saved me from an untimely death, have surely the right to know something about me—­if, indeed, the subject interests you.”