They still came from the Academy of Artistry & Talent, but the new dean, Harvey Golod, explained in an accompanying letter that classes were being phased out in view of the overwhelming studio demand for “types.” In effect, they would be a talent agency not unlike those for the theatrical stage, only focusing on cinematic needs. Prices for models would remain the same as before, even those with extras listed under “skill sets.”

Chaplin dawdled over the book labeled “Ingénues,” noting that something subtle had changed since the days of Mrs. Dunbier. There had been a battle then for who could look the most wholesome. Some of those girls were still included, toward the back, but now the eyes of quite a few others promised a great deal more than their list of skill sets could legally describe. He turned the pages carefully, only realizing that he was still holding his orange in his hand when there was a knock at his door, which was open. He was surprised to see McAdoo.

“Oh. Bill. I was just—” He flipped shut the book.

“May I?” he asked, indicating the door.

“Certainly.”

McAdoo closed it. He sat down in the visitor’s chair of the tiny office.

Chaplin said, “You look well,” putting his fingers to his lips. McAdoo was tan. Further, he had lost several pounds and had stopped wearing suits with vests.

“I like it here,” he said. “Oh, and congratulations on your marriage, by the way.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Marriage is swell,” McAdoo said. “And here, at the studio, is everything going well?”

“Of course.” Something in McAdoo’s tone caused Chaplin to say, “Shouldn’t it be?”

“Maybe.” He wiped off his glasses, breathed on them, and wiped them again. “I just wanted to tell you that they are not going to play fair.”

“Who?”

“Your enemies.” He said this slowly, settling the glasses back on his nose. “Goldwyn, Zukor, Warner, the rest. This is going to get ugly.”

“I have six pictures left on this contract. They can’t interfere with that.”

“I have it on good authority, Charlie, that if they have it their way, they can.”

Chaplin swallowed. “What does that mean?”

“Well, gee, I don’t know.” He chewed on a knuckle. “Do you trust everyone in your studio here?”

“You keep saying these vague things, Mr. McAdoo. If you’re trying to worry me—”

“I am.” McAdoo looked at his watch. He stood. “I’m glad you trust all of your people. You’re going to need them.”

It was hard, then impossible, to work for the rest of the day. The list, his team, took on new import. He wondered who would betray him. No one seemed likely, and then everyone did. It was early when the cry of “He’s leaving” went up, and the Locomobile burst out of the gate and up the street.