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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 220 pages of information about The Cinema Murder.

“He picked you out, sir, all right,” he remarked as he disappeared in the companionway.

Philip turned away with a little final wave of the hand.

“Glad I didn’t miss him altogether,” he observed cheerfully.  “Good-afternoon, Mr. Gayes!  Good-by, England!”

CHAPTER IV

Mr. Raymond Greene, very soon after the bugle had sounded for dinner that evening, took his place at the head of one of the small tables in the saloon and wished every one good evening.  It was perfectly apparent that he meant to enjoy the trip, that he was prepared to like his fellow passengers and that he wished them to know it.  Even the somewhat melancholy-looking steward, who had been waiting for his arrival, cheered up at the sight of his beaming face, and the other four occupants of the table returned his salutation according to their lights.

“Two vacant places, I am sorry to see,” Mr. Greene observed.  “One of them I can answer for, though.  The young lady who is to sit on my right will be down directly—­Miss Elizabeth Dalstan, the great actress, you know.  She is by way of being under my charge.  Very charming and talented young lady she is.  Let us see who our other absentee is.”

He stretched across and glanced at the name upon the card.

“Mr. Douglas Romilly,” he read out.  “Quite a good name—­English, without a doubt.  I have crossed with you before, haven’t I, sir?” he went on affably, turning to his nearest neighbour on the left.

A burly, many-chinned American signified his assent.

“Why, I should say so,” he admitted, “and I’d like a five-dollar bill, Mr. Greene, for every film I’ve seen of yours in the United States.”

Mr. Greene beamed with satisfaction.

“Well, I am glad to hear you’ve come across my stuff,” he declared.  “I’ve made some name for myself on the films and I am proud of it.  Raymond Greene it is, at your service.”

“Joseph P. Hyam’s mine,” the large American announced, watching the disappearance of his soup plate with an air of regret.  “I’m in the clothing business.  If my wife were here, she’d say you wouldn’t think it to look at me.  Never was faddy about myself, though,” he added, with a glance at Mr. Greene’s very correct dinner attire.

“You ought to remember me, Mr. Greene,” one of the two men remarked from the right-hand side of the table.  “I’ve played golf with you at Baltusrol more than once.”

Mr. Greene glanced surreptitiously at the card and smiled.

“Why, it’s James P. Busby, of course!” he exclaimed.  “Your father’s the Busby Iron Works, isn’t he?”

The young man nodded.

“And this is Mr. Caroll, one of our engineers,” he said, indicating a rather rough-looking personage by his side.

“Delighted to meet you both,” Mr. Greene assured them.  “Say, I remember your golf, Mr. Busby!  You’re some driver, eh?  And those long putts of yours—­you never took three on any green that I can remember!”

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