'You're alive, my son,' said Rutherford, admiringly, as he read the sheets.
At last there came the day when the play was finished, when the last line was written, and the last possible alteration made; and later, the day when Rutherford, bearing the brown-paper-covered package under his arm, called at the Players' Club to keep an appointment with Winfield Knight.
Almost from the first Rutherford had a feeling that he had met the man before, that he knew him.
Rutherford settled himself in his chair, and watched the other's face.
The chuckle from the actor and the sigh of relief from Rutherford were almost simultaneous.
Rutherford leaned back in his chair, his mind in a whirl.
It was only later that Rutherford learned craft and caution.
It might, as one critic pointed out, be more of a monologue act for Winfield Knight than a play, but that did not affect Rutherford.
He seized upon Rutherford and would not let him go.
Rutherford sat down, his chin resting in his hands.