On the street, he leaned against a pillar in front of the Athletic Club. Saturday afternoons, foot traffic was slow, limited to locals who lived in rented rooms, actors and stagehands and others who had seen him a hundred times before. He touched his fingers to the brim of his cap for the Civil War veteran, and he raised his hands, shaking with fear, eyes trembling and shedding a bucket of tears, when a young boy pointed a wooden rifle at him. As he stood, he realized he was not actually seeing other actors. Robert Harron had moved out. So had Wallace Reid.

Syd said he no longer needed to live at the Club. Fairbanks had a house with three bedrooms. Viola Dana had three as well. Pickford had four, but lived with her mother. Chaplin could not imagine putting his books in boxes. If he had money tomorrow, he could buy a house tomorrow.

A car pulled up at the curb, honked twice, and, after a beat, honked once again. It was a long touring car, darkened windows, quite fancy at one time, the frame now dinged and pitted with mud, a society matron who did not yet know she had hit hard times. The driver popped out and loped over to Chaplin, slowing down only to run a hand through his perfectly Macassared hair. This was Eddie Sutherland, an actor whom Chaplin knew and trusted, somewhat. He wanted to direct, and he wanted a leg up, and might actually deserve it. For now, he usually played the swain who had the girl for a reel or two before losing her to the hero.

Sutherland looked over his shoulder, then back to Chaplin, and Chaplin knew there were actresses in the backseat.

“Char-lie!” Sutherland said, throwing a palm against Chaplin’s as if they were two quarterbacks in a game Sutherland’s team had won in a squeaker.

“Who’s in the car, Eddie?” Chaplin smiled broadly.

“Two girls,” he said.

“You should have brought one for yourself,” he said.

“They’re okay, Charlie,” Sutherland said, deflating to his normal size. “You’re getting in the car, right? Neither of them knew we were picking you up until now.”

“Are you sure?”

Sutherland hesitated. “The girl on the left, I know her well. She doesn’t care. The one on the right, her mother dropped her off at the studio this morning.”

“And she said, ‘Now, dear, when you meet Mr. Chaplin, don’t show how awful bad we want a role for you,’ or—”

“Nothing like that. But be careful with her.”

“Why?”

Sutherland chewed on his lower lip, helplessly. “I don’t know. Are you getting in the car? Please tell me you are.” He looked over his shoulder as if the automobile might roll over the edge of a cliff.