“He may have. I was in town last night. At any rate, he’s sure to call soon.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, you’d better go over to Pasadena and get hold of him—”
A truck filled with motion-picture camera men, props, and actors in weird costumes stopped before the ranch. Two other cars followed. Some one alighted to open the gate.
“What’s this?” cried Madden.
“This is Thursday,” answered Eden. “Have you forgotten—”
“Forgot it completely,” said Madden. “Thorn! Where’s Thorn?”
The secretary emerged from the house. “It’s the movies, Chief. This was the day—”
“Damnation!” growled Madden. “Well, we’ll have to go through with it. Martin, you look after things.” He went inside.
The movies were all business this morning, in contrast to the careless gaiety of the night before. The cameras were set up in the open end of the patio. The actors, in Spanish costume, stood ready. Bob Eden went over to Paula Wendell.
“Good morning,” she said. “I came along in case Madden tried to renig on his promise. You see, I know so much about him now—”
The director passed. “This will be O.K.,” he remarked to the girl.
“Pleased him for once,” she smiled to Eden. “That ought to get into the papers.”
The script was a story of old California, and presently they were grinding away at a big scene in the patio.
