Ten minutes later found him sitting on a slab of sandstone rock, to the north. He was putting the Little Fellow through a whole range of emotions. The dog loves him. He loves the dog. The dog might as well be Mut. Together, they would have many adventures. He would rescue Mut from Ashes the wolfhound. Mut would rescue him back, somehow. He imagined training the dog to break windows so that the Tramp could come by seconds later and get work, fixing them. A film easily as good as he was.

“Mr. Chaplin?”

A stocky figure was approaching in the darkness. It was apparent he had never walked on a beach before, and found the presence of sand in his shoes unwieldy. It was the government man whose round glasses Chaplin had stolen and returned earlier.

“Hullo,” Chaplin said.

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Yes. I’m sure you are,” Chaplin said. His throat choked up. What had he done that was coming back to kill him? It was always like this in his idle musings when he was trying to sleep, a bureaucrat tracking him down and delivering him a sheaf of papers that condemned him to smash piles of rocks with the edge of his fist for the rest of his life.

“Oh,” the man said. “Apologies.” These were not the words of a gadfly in hot pursuit. Instead, he seemed homely, the pudgy sort who always wanted to be helpful and for everyone to get along peaceably. He was pleasant. “And to tell the truth, I hadn’t been to a party before. I mean, I thought I’d been to parties. But this one was eye-opening.” He had an easy laugh, a pleasant laugh, which made Chaplin distrust him even more.

Then he had a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was extending them toward Chaplin. Chaplin took them. He couldn’t see what they said. It was too dark. “Maybe we should walk back together,” Chaplin said. He barely glanced at his new companion, who toddled alongside.

“I understand you’ve become your own producer, in a sense,” he said. “That must give you tremendous freedom.”

“Which I value highly.”

“As would I. I was just curious—and if I’m being too nosy, let me know—who owns your negatives?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, I’m sure your financiers do at first, but after they’re withdrawn from circulation, what happens to them?”

What an odd question. “They own them for seven years, then I—” He had a terrible thought. “Is this about taxes?”

“What?”

“I’m curious in return about the source of your curiosity.”

“Oh. Ha! That’s pretty funny. Too nosy for my own good.”

Chaplin stepped up his pace. They were closing in on the north side of the house, the familiar, less used wing of bedrooms coming into view. It forced the other man actually to trot after him.