“I do have to leave,” Chaplin said. “I owe all of you so much, and I feel all of your love and support for this film so …”

McAdoo was oddly circumspect. “If you can stick around, I’ve been digging for the last few weeks,” McAdoo said. “And this has nothing to do with me, but there are some subterranean conversations you’ll want to know about.”

It was the word “subterranean” that caused Chaplin to listen. It was more poetic than McAdoo’s normal speech.

“Famous Players, First National, Metro, maybe a few others—they’re talking about forming a kind of trust.”

Chaplin had no idea what this meant, but he saw Sydney standing up straighter, and exhaling through his thick lips. So it meant something bad.

“How are they organizing?” Syd asked.

“They want to consolidate their business.”

“Horizontally or vertically?” Pickford asked.

“Both.”

Her eyes became fiery slits. “Damn them,” she whispered.

Syd was shaking his head. “Both,” he said.

Chaplin would never let on that he was confused, but his eye caught Doug’s. Doug, because it seemed like the right thing to do, put his hands on Mary’s shoulders.

Mary looked up toward Doug. “They want to produce, distribute, and exhibit films. Which means they’re buying up exchanges and theaters. Is that correct, Mr. McAdoo?” When McAdoo nodded, Pickford continued. “I should own theaters,” she said, but then she came back to the earth. “The troubling part—”

“The horizontal,” Syd murmured.

“There’s only one reason—”

Mary was cut off as McAdoo explained: “It won’t be a formal monopoly, but more of a gentlemen’s agreement. They want to cut you all out of it. If they all agree not to pay you, then you’re through making all this money. Oh, Warner. I forgot them, they’re involved, too.”

“They’ll never …” Chaplin said. But he didn’t finish. “I have to go.”

“What, is it three o’clock?” Pickford asked, like jabbing him with the point of a knife. “It behooves you to—”

“It behooves me? It behooves me?” Chaplin began to laugh, and, continuing with laughter, left the room.

He trotted back to his office, where he freshened up with a splash of water and a spray of breath mist, murmuring, “It behooooves me,” and he combed his hair again. When he was finished, the assistant secretary was standing awkwardly near her desk.

“Yes?” He checked his watch again. He was late.

“The Russians,” she said.

“They’re not still here, surely?”

“No, I sent them away,” she said. “They might come back.”

“What’s the trouble, then?”

She was biting down on her lip. “They have some pride,” she said, “but finally they asked if there might be paying work, too. They all felt they might be supporting players.”

“Oh.” He froze, his hands straightening out his cap. “Honestly?”