"It's about the new show at the Unicorn." Surbonadier hesitated, and again Saint waited. "I—I don't know if you've seen the change in the casting."

"I have."

"Oh!"

"Well?"

"Well," said Surbonadier, with a desperate attempt at lightness, "do you approve of it, uncle?"

"I do."

"I don't."

"What the hell does that matter?" asked Jacob Saint. Surbonadier's heavy face whitened. He tried to act the part of himself dominant, himself in control of the stage. Mentally he fingered his weapon.

"Originally," he said, "I was cast for Carruthers. I can play the part and play it well. Now it's been given to Gardener—to Master Felix, whom everybody loves so much."

"Whom Stephanie Vaughan loves so much."

"That doesn't arise," said Surbonadier. His lips trembled. With a kind of miserable exultation he felt his anger welling up.

"Don't be childish, Arthur," rumbled Saint, "and don't come whining to me. Felix Gardener plays Carruthers because he is a better actor than you are. He probably gets Stephanie Vaughan for the same reason. He's got more sex appeal. You're cast for the Beaver. It's a very showy part and they've taken it away from old Barclay Crammer, who would have done it well enough."

"I tell you I'm not satisfied. I want you to make the alteration. I want 'Carruthers.'"

"You won't get it. I told you before you'd ever faced the foots that our relationship was not going to be used to jack you up into star parts. I gave you your chance, and you wouldn't have got that if I wasn't your uncle. Now it's up to you." He stared dully at his nephew and then swung his chair towards the desk. "I'm busy," he added. Surbonadier wetted his lips and crossed to him.

"You've bullied me," he said, "all my life. You paid for my education because it suited your vanity to do it, and because you like power."

"Spoken deliberately—comes down-stage slowly! Quite the little actor, aren't you?"

"You've got to get rid of Felix Gardener!"

Jacob Saint for the first time gave his nephew his whole attention. His eyes protruded slightly. He thrust his head forward—it was a trick that was strangely disconcerting and it had served him well when dealing with harder men than Surbonadier.

"Try that line of talk again," he said very quietly, "and you're finished. Now get out."

"Not yet." Surbonadier gripped the top of the desk and cleared his throat. "I know too much about you," he said at last. "More than you realise. I know why you—why you paid Mortlake two thousand." They stared at each other. A dribble of cigar smoke escaped through Saint's half-open lips. When he spoke it was with venomous restraint.

"So we thought we'd try an odd spot of blackmail, did we?" His voice had thickened. "What have you been doing, you—?"

"Did you never miss a letter you had from him last February—when—when I was—"