“You see!” Manton confronted Kennedy grimly.  “This is only one of the things with which we have to contend in this business.  I give Millard an office but he’s a law unto himself.  It’s the artistic temperament.  If I interfere, then he says he cannot write and he doesn’t produce any manuscript.  Ordinarily he cannot be bothered to work at the studio.  But”—­philosophically—­“I know where to get him as a general thing.  He does most of his writing in his rooms downtown; says there’s more inspiration in the confusion of Broadway than in the wilds of the Bronx.  I’ll phone him.”

We followed the promoter up the stairs to the second and top floor.  Here a corridor gave access to the various executive offices.  Its windows at frequent intervals looked down upon the courtyard and the present confusion.

Werner, who had preceded us into the building, now came up.  As Manton bustled into his own office to use the telephone the director turned to Kennedy, indicating the next doorway.

“This is my place,” he explained.  “It connects with Manton, on one side, through his reception room.  You see, in addition to directing Stella Lamar I have been in general charge of production and most of the casting is up to me.”

Kennedy entered after Werner, interested, and I followed.  The door through to the reception room stood open and beyond was the one to Manton’s quarters.  I could see the promoter at his desk, receiver at his ear, an impatient expression upon his face.  In the reception room a rather pretty girl, young and of a shallow-pated type I thought, was busy at a clattering typewriter.  She rose and closed the door upon Manton, so as not to disturb him.

“The next office on this side is Millard’s,” volunteered Werner.  “He’s the only scenario writer dignified with quarters in this building.”

“Manton has other writers, hasn’t he?” Kennedy asked.

“Yes, the scenario department is on the third floor across the court, above the laboratory and cutting rooms.”

“Who else is in the building here?”

“There are six rooms on this floor,” Werner replied.  “Manton, the waiting room, myself, Millard, and the two other directors.  Below is the general reception room, the cashier, the bookkeepers and stenographers.”

As Manton probably was having trouble obtaining his connection, and as Kennedy continued to question Werner concerning the general arrangement of the different floors in the different buildings about the quadrangle, all uninteresting to me, I determined to look about a bit on my own hook.  I was still anxious to be of genuine assistance to Kennedy, for once, through my greater knowledge of the film world.

Strolling out into the corridor, I went to the door of Millard’s room.  To my disappointment, it was locked.  Continuing down the hall, I stole a glance into each of the two directors’ quarters but saw nothing to awaken my suspicion or justify my intrusion.  Beyond, I discovered a washroom, and, aware suddenly of the immense amount of dust I had acquired in the ride in from Tarrytown, I entered to freshen my hands and face at the least.  It was a stroke of luck, a fortunate impulse.