"I haven't much of any right here, I guess. But I had to come."
"But your key?"
"I fear my—my press-agent—stole it."
A scornful remark as to the antiquated methods of that mythical publicity promoter rose to Mr. Magee's lips, but before he spoke he looked into her eyes. And the remark was never made. For in their wonderful depths he saw worry and fear and unhappiness, as he had seen them there amid tears in the station.
"Never mind," he said very gently, "I'll see you through."
Quimby was standing over Mr. Bland. "How about you?" he asked.
"Call up Andy Rutter and ask about me," re- plied Bland, in the tone of one who prefers war to peace.
"I work for Mr. Rentley," said Quimby. "Rutter hasn't any authority here. He isn't to be manager next season, I understand. However, the professor wants me to let you stay. He says he ll be responsible." Mr. Bland looked in open- mouthed astonishment at the unexpected sponsor
