“I’m sorry, Mr. Chaplin, I just thought that since we had friends in common, and since you’ve spoken so highly about my little endeavors …”

He stopped. “I don’t know you.”

The man’s face went keen with embarrassment. “I thought someone might have pointed me out to you. Gee.” It was odd to hear a grown man say “gee,” but not as odd as what he said next. “My name is Bill McAdoo. I’m the secretary of the treasury. I sign the dollar bills.”

His hand went out, so Chaplin could shake it. Which he did.

“You’re William McAdoo?”

“Speaking.”

Chaplin felt lightheaded, as if the ocean air had thinned and he were standing on a mountaintop. “I’m … I’m a fan of yours,” he said with trepidation.

“I was in my office last week, and the darnedest thing happened. My phone rang, and it was Douglas Fairbanks. I mean, well, anyone can say he’s Douglas Fairbanks, how are you going to know, right? After we cleared that up, he said I was a hero of yours, and that was my second moment where I told him to stop it right there and let’s he and I straighten it out. I mean, why would I be a hero of yours? When Mr. Fairbanks explained the context, I realized you were being a little facetious. I mean, is that right? Just a little bit?”

Chaplin nodded, reconsidered, and then nodded again. “I have a sincere respect for money,” he said, as if he were testifying in court; he still had no idea where this was going.

“Me, too. Well, anyway, your friend seems to like to josh as much as the next guy, and maybe he wanted me to surprise you and whatnot. But then he asked me what I actually did for a living, and we fell to talking, and it turns out we might all have more in common than you know. Are you okay?”

Chaplin and McAdoo had halted twenty feet from the house, and McAdoo was facing east, toward the bluffs of Santa Monica proper. The darkened wing of bedrooms was in Chaplin’s immediate field of vision. As McAdoo talked, Chaplin noticed a light flick on in the bedroom closest to them, which was, if his sense of geography was correct, the same room in which he had almost bedded Frances.

“Mr. Fairbanks said you and he were discussing the war effort, and he said that you thought doing something outside of your normal activities might cheer you up, and—are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m very fine, yes. I’m just chuckling because Douglas has a way of putting things very boldly.”

McAdoo straightened his glasses. “Do I have it wrong?”