"I have made an attempt at it," he confessed.

"Most difficult thing in the whole world to write a play," Mr. Raymond
Greene intervened, seeing an opportunity to join once more in the
conversation. "Most difficult thing in the world, I should say. Now with
pictures it's entirely different. The slightest little happening in
everyday life may give you the start, and then, there you are--the whole
thing unravels itself. Now let me give you an example," he went on,
helping himself to a little more whisky and soda. "Only yesterday
afternoon, on our way up to Liverpool, the train got pulled up somewhere
in Derbyshire, and I sat looking out of the window. It was a dreary
neighbourhood, a miserable afternoon, and we happened to be crossing a
rather high viaduct. Down below were some meadows and a canal, and by
the side of the canal, a path. At a certain point--I should think about
half a mile from where the train was standing--this path went underneath
a rude bridge, built of bricks and covered over with turf. Well, as I sat
there I could see two men, both approaching the bridge along the path
from opposite directions. One was tall, dressed in light tweeds, a
good-looking fellow--looked like one of your country squires except that
he was a little on the thin side. The other was a sombre-looking person,
dressed in dark clothes, about your height and build, I should say, Mr.
Romilly. Well, they both disappeared under that bridge at the same
moment, and I don't know why, but I leaned forward to see them come out.
The train was there for quite another two minutes, perhaps more. There
wasn't another soul anywhere in sight, and it was raining as it only can
rain in England."

Mr. Raymond Greene paused. Every one at the table had been listening
intently. He glanced around at their rapt faces with satisfaction. He was
conscious of the artist's dramatic touch. Once more it had not failed