Life is largely made up of little things, but perspective in human affairs is not a gift common to youth. It had required a great effort on the part of Adele Leamington to ask a man to tea, but, once that effort was made, she had looked forward with a curious pleasure to the function.

At the moment Michael was speeding to London, she interviewed Jack Knebworth in his holy of holies.

“Certainly, my dear: you may take the afternoon off. I am not quite sure what the schedule was.”

He reached out his hand for the written timetable, but she supplied the information.

“You wanted some studio portraits of me⁠—‘stills,’ ” she said.

“So I did! Well, that can wait. Are you feeling pretty confident about the picture, eh?”

“I? No, I’m not confident, Mr. Knebworth; I’m in a state of nerves about it. You see, it doesn’t seem possible that I should make good at the first attempt. One dreams about such things, but in dreams it is easy to jump obstacles and get round dangerous corners and slur over difficulties. Every time you call ‘camera!’ I am in a state of panic, and I am so self-conscious that I am watching every movement I take, and saying to myself ‘You’re raising your hands awkwardly; you’re turning your head with a jerk.’ ”

“But that doesn’t last?” he said sharply, so sharply that she smiled.

“No: the moment I hear the camera turning, I feel that I am the character I’m supposed to be.”

He patted her on the shoulder.

“That is how you should feel,” he said, and went on: “Seen nothing of Mendoza, have you? She isn’t annoying you? Or Foss?”

“I’ve not seen Miss Mendoza for days⁠—but I saw Mr. Foss last night.”

She did not explain the curious circumstances, and Jack Knebworth was so incurious that he did not ask. So that he learnt nothing of Lawley Foss’s mysterious interview with the man in the closed car at the corner of Arundel Road, an incident she had witnessed on the previous night. Nor of the white and womanly hand that had waved him farewell, nor of the great diamond which had sparkled lustrously on the little finger of the unknown motorist.

Going home, Adele stopped at a confectioner’s and a florist’s, collected the cakes and flowers that were to adorn the table of Mrs. Watson’s parlour. She wondered more than a little just what attraction she offered to this man of affairs. She had a trick of getting outside and examining herself with an impartial eye, and she knew that, by self-repression and almost self-obliteration, she had succeeded in making of Adele Leamington a very colourless, characterless young lady. That she was pretty she knew, but prettiness in itself attracts only the superficial. Men who are worth knowing require something more than beauty. And Michael was not philandering⁠—he was not that kind. He wanted her for a friend at least: she had no thought that he desired amusement during his enforced stay in a very dull town.

Half-past four came and found the girl waiting. At a quarter to five she was at the door, scanning the street. At five, angry but philosophical, she had her tea and ordered the little maid of all work to clear the table.

Michael had forgotten!

Of course, she made excuses for him, only to demolish them and build again. She was hurt, amused and hurt again. Going upstairs to her room, she lit the gas, took the script from her bag and tried to study the scenes that were to be shot on the following day, but all manner of distractions interposed between her receptive mind and the typewritten paper. Michael bulked largely, and the closed car, and Lawley Foss, and that waving white hand as the car drove off. Curiously enough, her speculations came back again and again to the car. It was new and its woodwork was highly polished and it moved so noiselessly.

At last she threw the manuscript down and rose, with a doubtful eye on the bed. She was not tired; the hour was nine. Chichester offered few attractions by night. There were two cinemas, and she was not in the mood for cinemas. She put on her hat and went down, calling en route at the kitchen door.

“I am going out for a quarter of an hour,” she told her landlady, who was in an approving mood.

The house was situate in a street of small villas. It was economically illuminated, and there were dark patches where the light of the street lamps scarcely reached. In one of these a motorcar was standing⁠—she saw the bulk of it before she identified its character. She wondered if the owner knew that its tail light was extinguished. As she came up to the machine she identified the car she had seen on the previous night⁠—Foss had spoken to its occupant.

Glancing to the left, she could see nothing of its interior. The blinds on the road side were drawn, and she thought it was empty, and then⁠ ⁠…

“Pretty lady⁠—come with me!”

The voice was a whisper: she caught the flash and sparkle of a precious stone, saw the white hand on the edge of the half-closed window, and, in a fit of unreasoning terror, hurried forward.

She heard a whirr of electric starter and the purring of engines. The machine was following her, and she broke into a run. At the corner of the street she saw a man and flew toward him, as she made out the helmet of a policeman.

“What’s wrong, miss?”

As he spoke, the car flashed past, spun round the corner and was out of sight instantly.

“A man spoke to me⁠—in that car,” she said breathlessly.

The stolid constable gazed vacantly at the place where the car had been.

“He didn’t have lights,” he said stupidly. “I ought to have taken his number. Did he insult you, miss?”

She shook her head, for she was already ashamed of her fears.

“I’m nervy, officer,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think I will go any farther.”

She turned back and hurried to her lodgings. There were disadvantages in starring⁠—even on Jack Knebworth’s modest lot. It was nervous work, she thought.

She went to sleep that night and dreamt that the man in the car was Michael Brixan and he wanted her to come in to tea.

It was past midnight when Michael rang up Jack Knebworth with the news.

“Foss!” he gasped. “Good God! You don’t mean that, Brixan? Shall I come round and see you?”

“I’ll come to you,” said Michael. “There are one or two things I want to know about the man, and it will create less of a fuss than if I have to admit you to the hotel.”

Jack Knebworth rented a house on the Arundel Road, and he was waiting at the garden door to admit his visitor when Michael arrived.

Michael told the story of the discovery of the head, and felt that he might so far take the director into his confidence as to retail his visit to Sir Gregory Penne.

“That beats everything,” said Jack in a hushed tone. “Poor old Foss! You think that Penne did this? But why? You don’t cut up a man because he wants to borrow money.”

“My views have been switching round a little,” said Michael. “You remember a sheet of manuscript that was found amongst some of your script, and which I told you must have been written by the Headhunter?”

Jack nodded.

“I’m perfectly sure,” Michael went on, “and particularly after seeing the erasure in the scenario book, that Foss knew who was the author of that manuscript, and I’m equally certain that he resolved upon the desperate expedient of blackmailing the writer. If that is the case, and if Sir Gregory is the man⁠—again I am very uncertain on this point⁠—there is a good reason why he should be put out of the way. There is one person who can help us, and that is⁠—”

“Mendoza,” said Jack, and the two men’s eyes met.