"Now listen, Reg," Mr. Patten said, in a soothing voice. "I've tried
everything but Force, and now I'm driven to that. I've got to have that
third Act. The company's got the first two acts well under way, and I'm
getting wires about every hour. I've got to have that script."

"You go to Hell!" said Mr. Beecher. You could hear him plainly through
the window, high up in the wall. And although I do not approve of an
oath, there are times when it eases the tortured Soul.

"Now be reasonable, Reg," Mr. Patten pleaded. "I've put a fortune in
this thing, and you're lying down on the job. You could do it in four
hours if you'd put your mind to it."

There was no anser to this. And he went on:

"I'll send out food or anything. But nothing to drink. There's Champane
on the ice for you when you've finished, however. And you'll find pens
and ink and paper on the table."

The anser to this was Mr. Beecher's full weight against the door. But it
held, even against the full force of his fine physic.

"Even if you do break it open," Mr. Patten said, "you can't go very far
the way you are. Now be a good fellow, and let's get this thing done.
It's for your good as well as mine. You'll make a Fortune out of it."

Then he went into his own door, and soon came out, looking like a
gentleman, unless one knew, as I did, that he was a Whited Sepulcher.