10432	----	Aunt Jane's Nieces Out West By Edith Van Dyne 1914 CONTENTS CHAPTER I CAUGHT BY THE CAMERA II AN OBJECT LESSON III AN ATTRACTIVE GIRL IV AUNT JANE'S NIECES V A THRILLING RESCUE VI A. JONES VII THE INVALID VIII THE MAGIC OF A NAME IX DOCTOR PATSY X STILL A MYSTERY XI A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS XII PICTURES, GIRLS AND NONSENSE XIII A FOOLISH BOY XIV ISIDORE LE DRIEUX XV A FEW PEARLS XVI TROUBLE XVII UNCLE JOHN IS PUZZLED XVIII DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES XIX MAUD MAKES A MEMORANDUM XX A GIRLISH NOTION XXI THE YACHT "ARABELLA" XXII MASCULINE AND FEMININE XXIII THE ADVANTAGE OF A DAY XXIV PICTURE NUMBER NINETEEN XXV JUDGMENT XXVI SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN CHAPTER I CAUGHT BY THE CAMERA "This is getting to be an amazing old world," said a young girl, still in her "teens," as she musingly leaned her chin on her hand. "It has always been an amazing old world, Beth," said another girl who was sitting on the porch railing and swinging her feet in the air. "True, Patsy," was the reply; "but the people are doing such peculiar things nowadays." "Yes, yes!" exclaimed a little man who occupied a reclining chair within hearing distance; "that is the way with you young folks--always confounding the world with its people." "Don't the people make the world, Uncle John?" asked Patricia Doyle, looking at him quizzically. "No, indeed; the world could get along very well without its people; but the people--" "To be sure; they need the world," laughed Patsy, her blue eyes twinkling so that they glorified her plain, freckled face. "Nevertheless," said Beth de Graf, soberly, "I think the people have struck a rapid pace these days and are growing bold and impudent. The law appears to allow them too much liberty. After our experience of this morning I shall not be surprised at anything that happens--especially in this cranky state of California." "To what experience do you allude, Beth?" asked Uncle John, sitting up straight and glancing from one to another of his two nieces. He was a genial looking, round-faced man, quite bald and inclined to be a trifle stout; yet his fifty-odd years sat lightly upon him. "Why, we had quite an adventure this morning," said Patsy, laughing again at the recollection, and answering her uncle because Beth hesitated to. "For my part, I think it was fun, and harmless fun, at that; but Beth was scared out of a year's growth. I admit feeling a little creepy at the time, myself; but it was all a joke and really we ought not to mind it at all." "Tell me all about it, my dear!" said Mr. Merrick, earnestly, for whatever affected his beloved nieces was of prime importance to him. "We were taking our morning stroll along the streets," began Patsy, "when on turning a corner we came upon a crowd of people who seemed to be greatly excited. Most of them were workmen in flannel shirts, their sleeves rolled up, their hands grimy with toil. These stood before a brick building that seemed like a factory, while from its doors other crowds of workmen and some shopgirls were rushing into the street and several policemen were shaking their clubs and running here and there in a sort of panic. At first Beth and I stopped and hesitated to go on, but as the sidewalk seemed open and fairly free I pulled Beth along, thinking we might discover what the row was about. Just as we got opposite the building a big workman rushed at us and shouted: 'Go back--go back! The wall is falling.' "Well, Uncle, you can imagine our dismay. We both screamed, for we thought our time had come, for sure. My legs were so weak that Beth had to drag me away and her face was white as a sheet and full of terror. Somehow we managed to stagger into the street, where a dozen men caught us and hurried us away. I hardly thought we were in a safe place when the big workman cried: 'There, young ladies; that will do. Your expression was simply immense and if this doesn't turn out to be the best film of the year, I'll miss my guess! Your terror-stricken features will make a regular hit, for the terror wasn't assumed, you know. Thank you very much for happening along just then.'" Patsy stopped her recital to laugh once more, with genuine merriment, but her cousin Beth seemed annoyed and Uncle John was frankly bewildered. "But--what--what--was it all about?" he inquired. "Why, they were taking a moving picture, that was all, and the workmen and shopgirls and policemen were all actors. There must have been a hundred of them, all told, and when we recovered from our scare I could hear the machine beside me clicking away as it took the picture." "Did the wall fall?" asked Uncle John. "Not just then. They first got the picture of the rush-out and the panic, and then they stopped the camera and moved the people to a safe distance away. We watched them set up some dummy figures of girls and workmen, closer in, and then in some way they toppled over the big brick wall. It fell into the street with a thundering crash, but only the dummies were buried under the debris." Mr. Merrick drew a long breath. "It's wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Why, it must have cost a lot of money to ruin such a building--and all for the sake of a picture!" "That's what I said to the manager," replied Patsy; "but he told us the building was going to be pulled down, anyhow, and a better one built in its place; so he invented a picture story to fit the falling walls and it didn't cost him so much as one might think. So you see, Uncle, we are in that picture--big as life and scared stiff--and I'd give a lot to see how we look when we're positively terror-stricken." "It will cost you just ten cents," remarked Beth, with a shrug; "that is, if the picture proves good enough to be displayed at one of those horrid little theatres." "One?" said Uncle John. "One thousand little theatres, most likely, will show the picture, and perhaps millions of spectators will see you and Patsy running from the falling wall." "Dear me!" wailed Patsy. "That's more fame than I bargained for. Do millions go to see motion pictures, Uncle?" "I believe so. The making of these pictures is getting to be an enormous industry. I was introduced to Otis Werner, the other day, and he told me a good deal about it. Werner is with one of the big concerns here--the Continental, I think--and he's a very nice and gentlemanly fellow. I'll introduce you to him, some time, and he'll tell you all the wonders of the motion picture business." "I haven't witnessed one of those atrocious exhibitions for months," announced Beth; "nor have I any desire to see one again." "Not our own special picture?" asked Patsy reproachfully. "They had no right to force us into their dreadful drama," protested Beth. "Motion pictures are dreadfully tiresome things--comedies and tragedies alike. They are wild and weird in conception, quite unreal and wholly impossible. Of course the scenic pictures, and those recording historical events, are well enough in their way, but I cannot understand how so many cheap little picture theatres thrive." "They are the poor people's solace and recreation," declared Mr. Merrick. "The picture theatre has become the laboring man's favorite resort. It costs him but five or ten cents and it's the sort of show he can appreciate. I'm told the motion picture is considered the saloon's worst enemy, for many a man is taking his wife and children to a picture theatre evenings instead of joining a gang of his fellows before the bar, as he formerly did." "That is the best argument in their favor I have ever heard," admitted Beth, who was strong on temperance; "but I hope, Uncle, you are not defending the insolent methods of those picture-makers." "Not at all, my dear. I consider the trapping of innocent bystanders to be--eh--er--highly reprehensible, and perhaps worse. If I can discover what picture manager was guilty of the act, I shall--shall--" "What, Uncle?" "I shall hint that he owes you an apology," he concluded, rather lamely. Beth smiled scornfully. "Meantime," said she, "two very respectable girls, who are not actresses, will be exhibited before the critical eyes of millions of stupid workmen, reformed drunkards, sad-faced women and wiggling children--not in dignified attitudes, mind you, but scurrying from what they supposed was an imminent danger." "I hope it will do the poor things good to see us," retorted Patsy. "To be strictly honest, Beth, we were not trapped at all; we were the victims of circumstances. When I remember how quick-witted and alert that manager was, to catch us unawares and so add to the value of his picture, I can quite forgive the fellow his audacity." "It wasn't audacity so much as downright impudence!" persisted Beth. "I quite agree with you," said Mr. Merrick. "Do you wish me to buy that film and prevent the picture's being shown?" "Oh, no!" cried Patsy in protest. "I'm dying to see how we look. I wouldn't have that picture sidetracked for anything." "And you, Beth?" "Really, Uncle John, the thing is not worth worrying over," replied his niece. "I am naturally indignant at being drawn into such a thing against my will, but I doubt if anyone who knows us, or whose opinion we value, will ever visit a moving picture theatre or see this film. The common people will not recognize us, of course." You must not think Beth de Graf was snobbish or aristocratic because of this speech, which her cousin Patsy promptly denounced as "snippy." Beth was really a lovable and sunny-tempered girl, very democratic in her tastes in spite of the fact that she was the possessor of an unusual fortune. She was out of sorts to-day, resentful of the fright she had endured that morning and in the mood to say harsh things. Even Patricia Doyle had been indignant, at first; but Patsy's judgment was clearer than her cousin's and her nature more responsive. She quickly saw the humorous side of their adventure and could enjoy the recollection of her momentary fear. These two girls were spending the winter months in the glorious climate of Southern California, chaperoned by their uncle and guardian, John Merrick. They had recently established themselves at a cosy hotel in Hollywood, which is a typical California village, yet a suburb of the great city of Los Angeles. A third niece, older and now married--Louise Merrick Weldon--lived on a ranch between Los Angeles and San Diego, which was one reason why Uncle John and his wards had located in this pleasant neighborhood. To observe this trio--the simple, complacent little man and his two young nieces--no stranger would suspect them to be other than ordinary tourists, bent on escaping the severe Eastern winter; but in New York the name of John Merrick was spoken with awe in financial circles, where his many millions made him an important figure. He had practically retired from active business and his large investments were managed by his brother-in-law, Major Gregory Doyle, who was Miss Patsy's father and sole surviving parent. All of Mr. Merrick's present interest in life centered in his three nieces, and because Louise was happily married and had now an establishment of her own--including a rather new but very remarkable baby--Uncle John was drawn closer to the two younger nieces and devoted himself wholly to their welfare. The girls had not been rich when their fairy godfather first found them. Indeed, each of them had been energetically earning, or preparing to earn, a livelihood. Now, when their uncle's generosity had made them wealthy, they almost regretted those former busy days of poverty, being obliged to discover new interests in life in order to keep themselves occupied and contented. All three were open-handed and open-hearted, sympathetic to the unfortunate and eager to assist those who needed money, as many a poor girl and worthy young fellow could testify. In all their charities they were strongly supported by Mr. Merrick, whose enormous income permitted him to indulge in many benevolences. None gave ostentatiously, for they were simple, kindly folk who gave for the pure joy of giving and begrudged all knowledge of their acts to anyone outside their own little circle. There is no doubt that John Merrick was eccentric. It is generally conceded that a rich man may indulge in eccentricities, provided he maintains a useful position in society, and Mr. Merrick's peculiarities only served to render him the more interesting to those who knew him best. He did astonishing things in a most matter-of-fact way and acted more on impulse than on calm reflection; so it is not to be wondered at that the queer little man's nieces had imbibed some of his queerness. Being by nature lively and aggressive young women, whose eager interest in life would not permit them to be idle, they encountered many interesting experiences. They had just come from a long visit to Louise at the ranch and after conferring gravely together had decided to hide themselves in Hollywood, where they might spend a quiet and happy winter in wandering over the hills, in boating or bathing in the ocean or motoring over the hundreds of miles of splendid boulevards of this section. Singularly enough, their choice of a retreat was also the choice of a score or more of motion picture makers, who had discovered Hollywood before them and were utilizing the brilliant sunshine and clear atmosphere in the production of their films, which were supplied to picture theatres throughout the United States and Europe. Appreciating the value of such a monster industry, the authorities permitted the cameras to be set up on the public streets or wherever there was an appropriate scene to serve for a background to the photo-plays. It was no unusual sight to see troops of cowboys and Indians racing through the pretty village or to find the cameraman busy before the imposing residence of a millionaire or the vine-covered bungalow of a more modest citizen. No one seemed to resent such action, for Californians admire the motion picture as enthusiastically as do the inhabitants of the Eastern states, so the girls' "adventure" was really a common incident. CHAPTER II AN OBJECT LESSON It was the following afternoon when Uncle John captured his casual acquaintance, Mr. Otis Werner, in the office of the hotel and dragged the motion picture man away to his rooms to be introduced to his nieces. "Here, my dears, is Mr. Werner," he began, as he threw open the door of their apartment and escorted his companion in. "He is one of those picture makers, you'll remember, and--and--" He paused abruptly, for Beth was staring at Mr. Werner with a frown on her usually placid features, while Patsy was giggling hysterically. Mr. Werner, a twinkle of amusement in his eye, bowed with exaggerated deference. "Dear me!" said Uncle John. "Is--is anything wrong!" "No; it's all right, Uncle," declared Patsy, striving to control a fresh convulsion of laughter. "Only--this is the same dreadful manager who dragged us into his picture yesterday." "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Werner; "I'm not a manager; I'm merely what is called in our profession a 'producer,' or a 'stage director.'" "Well, you're the man, anyhow," asserted Patsy. "So what have you to say for yourself, sir?" "If you were annoyed, I humbly apologize," he returned. "Perhaps I was unintentionally rude to frighten you in that way, but my excuse lies in our subservience to the demands of our art. We seldom hesitate at anything which tends to give our pictures the semblance of reality." "_Art_, did you say, Mr. Werner?" It was Beth who asked this and there was a bit of a sneer in her tone. "It is really art--art of the highest character," he replied warmly. "Do you question it, Miss--Miss--" "Miss de Graf. I suppose, to be fair, I must admit that the photography is art; but the subjects of your pictures, I have observed, are far from artistic. Such a picture, for instance, as you made yesterday can have little value to anyone." "Little value! Why, Miss de Graf, you astonish me," he exclaimed. "I consider that picture of the falling wall one of my greatest triumphs--and I've been making pictures for years. Aside from its realism, its emotional nature--'thrills,' we call it--this picture conveys a vivid lesson that ought to prove of great benefit to humanity." Beth was looking at him curiously now. Patsy was serious and very attentive. As Uncle John asked his visitor to be seated his voice betrayed the interest he felt in the conversation. "Of course we saw only a bit of the picture," said Patsy Doyle. "What was it all about, Mr. Werner?" "We try," said he, slowly and impressively, as if in love with his theme, "to give to our pictures an educational value, as well as to render them entertaining. Some of them contain a high moral lesson; others, a warning; many, an incentive to live purer and nobler lives. All of our plots are conceived with far more thought than you may suppose. Underlying many of our romances and tragedies are moral injunctions which are involuntarily absorbed by the observers, yet of so subtle a nature that they are not suspected. We cannot preach except by suggestion, for people go to our picture shows to be amused. If we hurled righteousness at them they would soon desert us, and we would be obliged to close up shop." "I must confess that this is, to me, a most novel presentation of the subject," said Beth, more graciously. "Personally, I care little for your pictures; but I can understand how travel scenes and scientific or educational subjects might be of real benefit to the people." "I can't understand anyone's being indifferent to the charm of motion pictures," he responded, somewhat reproachfully. "Why, at first they struck me as wonderful," said the girl. "They were such a novel invention that I went to see them from pure curiosity. But, afterward, the subjects presented in the pictures bored me. The drama pictures were cheap and common, the comedy scenes worse; so I kept away from the picture theatres." "Educational pictures," said Mr. Werner, musingly, "have proved a failure, as I hinted, except when liberally interspersed with scenes of action and human interest. The only financial failures among the host of motion picture theatres, so far as I have observed, are those that have attempted to run travel scenes and educational films exclusively. There are so few people with your--eh--culture and--and--elevated tastes, you see, when compared with the masses." "But tell us about _our_ picture," pleaded Patsy. "What lesson can that falling wall possibly convey?" "I'll be glad to explain that," he eagerly replied, "for I am quite proud of it, I assure you. There are many buildings throughout our larger cities that were erected as cheaply as possible and without a single thought for the safety of their tenants. So many disasters have resulted from this that of late years building inspectors have been appointed in every locality to insist on proper materials and mechanical efficiency in the erection of all classes of buildings. These inspectors, however, cannot tear the old buildings down to see if they are safe, and paint and plaster cover a multitude of sins of unscrupulous builders. Usually the landlord or owner knows well the condition of his property and in many cases refuses to put it into such shape as to insure the safety of his tenants. Greed, false economy and heartless indifference to the welfare of others are unfortunately too prevalent among the wealthy class. No ordinary argument could induce owners to expend money in strengthening or rebuilding their income-producing properties. But I get after them in my picture with a prod that ought to rouse them to action. "The picture opens with a scene in the interior of a factory. Men, girls and boys are employed. The foreman observes a warning crack in the wall and calls the proprietor's attention to it. In this case the manufacturer is the owner of the building, but he refuses to make repairs. His argument is that the wall has stood for many years and so is likely to stand for many more; it would be a waste of money to repair the old shell. Next day the foreman shows him that the crack has spread and extended along the wall in an alarming manner but still the owner will not act. The workmen counsel together seriously. They dare not desert their jobs, for they must have money to live. They send a petition to the owner, who becomes angry and swears he won't be driven to a useless expense by his own employees. In the next scene the manufacturer's daughter--his only child--having heard that the building was unsafe, comes to her father's office to plead with him to change his mind and make the needed repairs. Although he loves this daughter next to his money he resents her interference in a business matter, and refuses. Her words, however, impress him so strongly that he calls her back from the door to kiss her and say that he will give the matter further thought, for her sake. "As she leaves the office there is a cry of terror from the factory and the working people come rushing out of the now tottering building. That was when you two young ladies came walking up the street and were dragged out of danger by the foreman of the shop--in other words, by myself. The owner's daughter, bewildered by the confusion, hesitates what to do or which way to turn, and as she stands upon the sidewalk she is crushed by the falling wall, together with several of her father's employees." "How dreadful!" exclaimed Patsy. "Of course no one was actually hurt," he hastened to say; "for we used dummy figures for the wall to fall upon. In the final scene the bereaved father suddenly realizes that he has been working and accumulating only for this beloved child--the child whose life he has sacrificed by his miserly refusal to protect his workmen. His grief is so intense that no one who follows the story of this picture will ever hesitate to repair a building promptly, if he learns it is unsafe. Do you now understand the lesson taught, young ladies?" Mr. Werner's dramatic recital had strongly impressed the two girls, while Uncle John was visibly affected. "I'm very glad," said the little man fervently, "that none of my money is in factories or other buildings that might prove unsafe. It would make my life miserable if I thought I was in any way responsible for such a catastrophe as you have pictured." "It seems to me," observed Patsy, "that your story is unnecessarily cruel, Mr. Werner." "Then you do not understand human nature," he retorted; "or, at least, that phase of human nature I have aimed at. Those indifferent rich men are very hard to move and you must figuratively hit them squarely between the eyes to make them even wink." They were silent for a time, considering this novel aspect of the picture business. Then Beth asked: "Can you tell us, sir, when and where we shall be able to see this picture?" "It will be released next Monday." "What does that mean?" "It means that we, as manufacturers, supply certain agencies in all the large cities, who in turn rent our films to the many picture theatres. When a picture is ready, we send copies to all our agencies and set a day when they may release it, or give it to their customers to use. In this way the picture will be shown in all parts of the United States on the same day--in this case, next Monday." "Isn't that very quick?" "Yes. The picture we took yesterday will to-night be shipped, all complete and ready to run, to forty-four different centers." "And will any picture theatre in Hollywood or Los Angeles show it?" "Certainly. It will be at the Globe Theatre in Los Angeles and at the Isis Theatre in Hollywood, for the entire week." "We shall certainly see it," announced Uncle John. When Mr. Werner had gone they conversed for some time on the subject of motion pictures, and the man's remarkable statement concerning them. "I had no idea," Beth confessed, "that the industry of making pictures is so extensive and involves so much thought and detail." "And money," added Uncle John. "It must be a great expense just to employ that army of actors." "I suppose Mr. Werner, being a theatrical man, has drawn the long bow in his effort to impress us," said Patsy. "I've been thinking over some of the pictures I've seen recently and I can't imagine a moral, however intangible or illusive, in connection with any of them. But perhaps I wasn't observant enough. The next time I go to a picture show I shall study the plays more carefully." CHAPTER III AN ATTRACTIVE GIRL On Saturday they were treated to a genuine surprise, for when the omnibus drew up before the hotel entrance it brought Arthur Weldon and his girl-wife, Louise, who was Uncle John's eldest niece. It also brought "the Cherub," a wee dimpled baby hugged closely in the arms of Inez, its Mexican nurse. Patsy and Beth shrieked in ecstasy as they rushed forward to smother "Toodlums," as they irreverently called the Cherub, with kisses. Inez, a handsome, dark-eyed girl, relinquished her burden cheerfully to the two adoring "aunties," while Uncle John kissed Louise and warmly shook the hand of her youthful husband. "What in the world induced you to abandon your beloved ranch?" inquired Mr. Merrick. "Don't ask me, sir!" replied Arthur, laughing at the elder gentleman's astonishment. He was a trim young fellow, with a clean-cut, manly face and frank, winning manners. "It's sort of between hay and grass with us, you know," he explained. "Walnuts all marketed and oranges not ready for the pickers. All our neighbors have migrated, this way or that, for their regular winter vacations, and after you all left, Louise and I began to feel lonely. So at breakfast this morning we decided to flit. At ten o'clock we caught the express, and here we are--in time for lunch. I hope it's ready, Uncle John." It was; but they must get their rooms and settle the baby in her new quarters before venturing to enter the dining room. So they were late for the midday meal and found themselves almost the only guests in the great dining hall. As they sat at table, chatting merrily together, Arthur asked: "What are you staring at, Patsy?" "A lovely girl," said she. "One of the loveliest girls I have ever seen. Don't look around, Arthur; it might attract their attention." "How many girls are there?" "Two; and a lady who seems to be their mother. The other girl is pretty, too, but much younger than her sister--or friend, for they do not resemble one another much. They came in a few minutes ago and are seated at the table in the opposite corner." "New arrivals, I suppose," remarked Uncle John, who from his position could observe the group. "No," said Patsy; "their waitress seems to know them well. But I've never before seen them in the hotel." "We are always early at meal time," explained Beth, "and to-day these people are certainly late. But they _are_ pretty girls, Patsy. For once I concur in your judgment." "You arouse my curiosity," said Arthur, speaking quietly, so as not to be overheard in the far corner. "If I hear more ecstatic praises of these girls I shall turn around and stare them out of countenance." "Don't," said Louise. "I'm glad your back is toward them, Arthur, for it preserves you from the temptation to flirt." "Oh, as for that, I do not need to turn around in order to see pretty girls," he replied. "Thank you, Arthur," said Patsy, making a face at him. "Look me over all you like, and flirt if you want to. I'm sure Louise won't object." "Really, Patsy, you're not bad to look at," he retorted, eyeing her critically. "Aside from your red hair, the pug nose and the freckles, you have many excellent qualities. If you didn't squint--" "Squint!" "What do you call that affection of your eyes?" "That," she said, calmly eating her dessert, "was a glance of scorn--burning, bitter scorn!" "I maintain it was a squint," declared Arthur. "That isn't her only expression," announced Uncle John, who loved these little exchanges of good-humored banter. "On Monday I will show you Patsy as a terror-stricken damsel in distress." "Also Beth, still more distressful," added Patsy; and then they told Louise and Arthur about the picture. "Fine!" he cried. "I'm deeply gratified that my own relatives--" "By marriage." "I am gratified that my secondhand cousins have been so highly honored. I'd rather see a good moving picture than the best play ever produced." "You'll see a good one this time," asserted Patsy, "for we are the stars." "I think that unscrupulous Mr. Werner deserves a reprimand," said Louise. "Oh, he apologized," explained Beth. "But I'm sure he'd take the same liberty again if he had the chance." "He admits that his love of art destroys his sense of propriety," said Patsy. As they rose from the table Arthur deliberately turned to view the party in the other corner, and then to the amazement of his friends he coolly walked over and shook the elder lady's hand with evident pleasure. Next moment he was being introduced to the two girls. The three cousins and their Uncle John walked out of the dining hall and awaited Arthur Weldon in the lobby. "It is some old acquaintance, of course," said Louise. "Arthur knows a tremendous lot of people and remembers everyone he ever has met." When he rejoined them he brought the lady and the two beautiful girls with him, introducing Mrs. Montrose as one of his former acquaintances in New York, where she had been a near neighbor to the Weldons. The girls, who proved to be her nieces instead of her daughters, were named Maud and Florence Stanton, Maud being about eighteen years of age and Florence perhaps fifteen. Maud's beauty was striking, as proved by Patsy's admiration at first sight; Florence was smaller and darker, yet very dainty and witching, like a Dresden shepherdess. The sisters proved rather shy at this first meeting, being content to exchange smiles with the other girls, but their aunt was an easy conversationalist and rambled on about the delights of Hollywood and southern California until they were all in a friendly mood. Among other things Mrs. Montrose volunteered the statement that they had been at the hotel for several weeks, but aside from that remark disclosed little of their personal affairs. Presently the three left the hotel and drove away in an automobile, having expressed a wish to meet their new friends again and become better acquainted with them. "I was almost startled at running across Mrs. Montrose out here," said Arthur. "After father's death, when I gave up the old home, I lost track of the Montroses; but I seem to remember that old Montrose went to the happy hunting grounds and left a widow, but no children. I imagine these people are wealthy, as Montrose was considered a successful banker. I'll write to Duggins and inquire about them." "Duggins seems to know everything," remarked Louise. "He keeps pretty good track of New York people, especially of the old families," replied her husband. "I can't see what their history matters to us," observed Patsy. "I like to take folks as I find them, without regard to their antecedents or finances. Certainly those Stanton girls are wonderfully attractive and ladylike." But now the baby claimed their attention and the rest of that day was passed in "visiting" and cuddling the wee Toodlums, who seemed to know her girl aunties and greeted them with friendly coos and dimpled smiles. On Sunday they took a motor trip through the mountain boulevards and on their way home passed the extensive enclosure of the Continental Film Company. A thriving village has been built up at this place, known as Film City, for many of those employed by the firm prefer to live close to their work. Another large "plant" of the same concern is located in the heart of Hollywood. As they passed through Film City Uncle John remarked: "We are invited to visit this place and witness the making of a motion picture. I believe it would prove an interesting sight." "Let us go, by all means," replied Arthur. "I am greatly interested in this new industry, which seems to me to be still in its infancy. The development of the moving picture is bound to lead to some remarkable things in the future, I firmly believe." "So do I," said Uncle John. "They'll combine the phonograph with the pictures, for one thing, so that the players, instead of being silent, will speak as clearly as in real life. Then we'll have the grand operas, by all the most famous singers, elaborately staged; and we'll be able to see and hear them for ten cents, instead of ten dollars. It will be the same with the plays of the greatest actors." "That would open up a curious complication," asserted Louise. "The operas would only be given once, before the camera and the recorder. Then what would happen to all the high-priced opera singers?" "They would draw royalties on all their productions, instead of salaries," replied Arthur. "Rather easy for the great artists!" observed Patsy. "One performance--and the money rolling in for all time to come." "Well, they deserve it," declared Beth. "And think of what the public would gain! Instead of having to suffer during the performances of incompetent actors and singers, as we do to-day, the whole world would be able to see and hear the best talent of the ages for an insignificant fee. I hope your prediction will come true, Uncle John." "It's bound to," he replied, with confidence. "I've read somewhere that Edison and others have been working on these lines for years, and although they haven't succeeded yet, anything possible in mechanics is bound to be produced in time." CHAPTER IV AUNT JANE'S NIECES The picture, which was entitled "The Sacrifice," proved--to use Patsy's words--"a howling success." On Monday afternoons the little theatres are seldom crowded, so Mr. Merrick's party secured choice seats where they could observe every detail of the photography. The girls could not wait for a later performance, so eager were they to see themselves in a motion picture, nor were they disappointed to find they were a mere incident in the long roll of film. The story of the photo-play was gripping in its intensity, and since Mr. Werner had clearly explained the lesson it conveyed, they followed the plot with rapt attention. In the last scene their entrance and exit was transitory, but they were obliged to admit that their features were really expressive of fear. The next instant the wall fell, burying its victims, and this rather bewildered them when they remembered that fully half an hour had elapsed while the dummies were being placed in position, the real people removed from danger and preparations made to topple over the wall from the inside of the building. But the camera had been inactive during that period and so cleverly had the parts of the picture been united that no pause whatever was observable to the spectators. "My! what a stuffy place," exclaimed Louise, as they emerged into the light of day. "I cannot understand why it is necessary to have these moving picture theatres so gloomy and uncomfortable." "It isn't necessary," replied Uncle John. "It's merely a habit the builders have acquired. There seemed to be a total lack of ventilation in that place." "No one expects much for ten cents," Arthur reminded him. "If the pictures are good the public will stand for anything in the matter of discomfort." "Did you notice," said Patsy, slowly, "how many children there were in that theatre?" "Yes, indeed," answered Beth. "The pictures seem to be an ideal amusement for children. I do not suppose they can understand all the dramas and love stories, but the pictures entertain them, whatever the theme may be." "They are not allowed to go unless accompanied by a parent or guardian," Arthur stated; "but I saw a group of eleven under the care of one cheery-looking old lady, so I suppose the little ones evade the law in that way." On Tuesday forenoon they drove to the office of the Continental Film Manufacturing Company and inquired for Mr. Werner. Every approach to the interior of the big stockade was closely guarded in order to prevent the curious from intruding, but Werner at once hurried out to greet them and escorted them into the enclosure. "You are just in time," said he, "to witness one of the scenes in our great picture, 'Samson and Delilah.' They're getting it on now, so you must hurry if you want to see the work. It's really the biggest thing our firm has ever turned out." They passed a group of low but extensive frame buildings, threading their way between them until finally they emerged within a large open space where huge frames covered with canvas were propped up in broad daylight and apparently in great disorder. Huddled here and there were groups of people wearing Oriental costumes of the Bible days, their skins stained brown, the make-up on their faces showing hideously in the strong light. A herd of meek donkeys, bearing burdens of faggots, was tethered near by. "Follow me closely," cautioned their guide, "so you will not step over the 'dead line' and get yourselves in the picture." "What is the 'dead line'?" inquired Uncle John. "The line that marks the limit of the camera's scope. Outside of that you are quite safe. You will notice it is plainly marked in chalk." They passed around to the front and were amazed at the picture disclosed by the reverse of the gaunt, skeleton-like framework. For now was displayed Solomon's temple in all its magnificence, with huge pillars supporting a roof that seemed as solid and substantial as stone and mortar could make it. The perspective was wonderful, for they could follow a line of vision through the broad temple to a passage beyond, along which was approaching a procession of priests, headed by dancing girls and musicians beating tomtoms and playing upon reeds. The entire scene was barbaric in its splendor and so impressive that they watched it spellbound, awed and silent. Yet here beside them was the motion-picture camera, clicking steadily away and operated by a man in his shirt-sleeves who watched the scene with sharp eyes, now frowning and now nodding approval. Beside him at times, but rushing from one point to another just outside the chalk-marks that indicated the "dead line," was the director of this production, who shouted commands in a nervous, excited manner and raged and tore his hair when anything went wrong. Something went very wrong presently, for the director blew a shrill blast on his whistle and suddenly everything stopped short. The camera man threw a cloth over his lenses and calmly lighted a cigarette. The procession halted in uncertainty and became a disordered rabble; but the director sprang into the open space and shouted at his actors and actresses in evident ill temper. "There it is again!" he cried. "Five hundred feet of good film, ruined by the stupidity of one person. Get out of that priest's robe, Higgins, and let Jackson take your place. Where's Jackson, anyhow?" "Here," answered a young man, stepping out from a group of spectators. "Do you know the work? Can you lead that procession into the temple so they will leave room for Delilah to enter, and not crowd her off the platform?" asked the director. Jackson merely nodded as he scrambled into the priest's robe which the discomfited Higgins resigned to him. Evidently the bungling actor was in disgrace, for he was told to go to the office and get his pay and then "clear out." So now the procession was sent back into the passage and rearranged in proper order; the signal was given to begin and in an instant the camera renewed its clicking as the operator slowly revolved the handle that carried the long strip of film past the lenses. The musicians played, the girls danced, the procession slowly emerged from the passage. This time it advanced properly and came to a halt just at the head of the staircase leading up to the entrance to the temple. "Delilah!" shouted the director, and now appeared a beautiful girl who made a low obeisance to the chief priest. "Why--goodness me!" cried Patsy. "It's--it's Maud Stanton!" "Nonsense!" returned Arthur, sharply; and then he looked again and drew a long breath; for unless it were indeed the elder niece of Mrs. Montrose, there must be two girls in the world identically alike. Mr. Werner settled the question by quietly remarking: "Of course it's Maud Stanton. She's our bright, particular star, you know, and the public would resent it if she didn't appear as the heroine of all our best pictures." "An actress!" exclaimed Arthur. "I--I didn't know that." "She and her sister Flo are engaged by us regularly," replied Werner, with an air of pride. "They cost us a lot of money, as you may imagine, but we can't afford to let any competitor have them." If Arthur Weldon felt any chagrin at this, discovery it was not in the least shared by the others of his party. Beth was admiring the young girl's grace and dignity; Patsy was delighted by her loveliness in the fleecy, picturesque costume she wore; Louise felt pride in the fact that she had been introduced to "a real actress," while Uncle John wondered what adverse fortune had driven this beautiful, refined girl to pose before a motion picture camera. They soon discovered Florence Stanton in the picture, too, among the dancing girls; so there could be no mistake of identity. Mrs. Montrose was not visible during the performance; but afterward, when Samson had pulled down the pillars of the temple and it had fallen in ruins, when the "show" was over and the actors trooping away to their dressing-rooms, then the visitors were ushered into the main office of the establishment to meet Mr. Goldstein, the manager, and seated by the window was the aunt of the two girls, placidly reading a book. She looked up with a smile as they entered. "Did you see the play?" she asked. "And isn't it grand and impressive? I hope you liked Maud's 'Delilah.' The poor child has worked so hard to create the character." They assured her the girl was perfect in her part, after which Mr. Merrick added: "I'm astonished you did not go out to see the play yourself." She laughed at his earnestness. "It's an old story to me," she replied, "for I have watched Maud rehearse her part many times. Also it is probable that some--if not all--of the scenes of 'Samson and Delilah' will be taken over and over, half a dozen times, before the director is satisfied." "The performance seemed quite perfect to-day," said Uncle John. "I suppose, Mrs. Montrose, you do not--er--er--act, yourself?" "Oh. I have helped out, sometimes, when a matronly personation is required, but my regular duties keep me busily engaged in the office." "May we ask what those duties are?" said Louise. "I'm the reader of scenarios." "Dear me!" exclaimed Patsy. "I'm sure we don't know any more than we did before." "A 'scenario,'" said the lady, "is a description of the plot for a photo-play. It is in manuscript form and hundreds of scenarios are submitted to us from every part of the country, and by people in all walks of life." "I shouldn't think you could use so many," said Beth. "We can't, my dear," responded the lady, laughing at her simplicity. "The majority of the scenarios we receive haven't a single idea that is worth considering. In most of the others the ideas are stolen, or duplicated from some other picture-play. Once in a while, however, we find a plot of real merit, and then we accept it and pay the author for it." "How much?" inquired Arthur. "So little that I am ashamed to tell you. Ideas are the foundation of our business, and without them we could not make successful films; but when Mr. Goldstein buys an idea he pays as little for it as possible, and the poor author usually accepts the pittance with gratitude." "We were a little surprised," Uncle John ventured to say, "to find you connected with this--er--institution. I suppose it's all right; but those girls--your nieces--" "Yes, they are motion picture actresses, and I am a play reader. It is our profession, Mr. Merrick, and we earn our living in this way. To be frank with you, I am very proud of the fact that my girls are popular favorites with the picture theatre audiences." "That they are, Mrs. Montrose!" said Goldstein, the manager, a lean little man, earnestly endorsing the statement; "and that makes them the highest priced stars in all our fourteen companies of players. But they're worth every cent we pay 'em--and I hope ev'rybody's satisfied." Mrs. Montrose paid little deference to the manager. "He is only a detail man," she explained when Goldstein had gone way, "but of course it is necessary to keep these vast and diverse interests running smoothly, and the manager has enough details on his mind to drive an ordinary mortal crazy. The successful scenario writers, who conceive our best plays, are the real heart of this business, and the next to them in importance are the directors, or producers, who exercise marvelous cleverness in staging the work of the authors." "I suppose," remarked Arthur Weldon, "it is very like a theatre." "Not so like as you might imagine," was the reply. "We employ scenery, costumes and actors, but not in ways theatrical, for all our work is subservient to the camera's eye and the requirements of photography." While they were conversing, the two Stanton girls entered the office, having exchanged their costumes for street clothes and washed the make-up from their faces, which were now fresh and animated. "Oh, Aunt Jane!" cried Flo, running to Mrs. Montrose, "we're dismissed for the day. Mr. McNeil intends to develop the films before we do anything more, and Maud and I want to spend the afternoon at the beach." The lady smiled indulgently as Maud quietly supported her sister's appeal, the while greeting her acquaintances of yesterday with her sweet, girlish charm of manner. "A half-holiday is quite unusual with us," she explained, "for it is the custom to hold us in readiness from sunrise to sunset, in case our services are required. An actress in a motion picture concern is the slave of her profession, but we don't mind the work so much as we do waiting around for orders." "Suppose we all drive to the beach together," suggested Mr. Merrick. "We will try to help you enjoy your holiday and it will be a rich treat to us to have your society." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Patsy Doyle. "I'm just crazy over this motion picture business and I want to ask you girls a thousand questions about it." They graciously agreed to the proposition and at once made preparations for the drive. Mrs. Montrose had her own automobile, but the party divided, the four young girls being driven by Mr. Merrick's chauffeur in his machine, while Uncle John, Arthur and Louise rode with Mrs. Montrose. It did not take the young people long to become acquainted, and the air of restraint that naturally obtained in the first moments gradually wore away. They were all in good spirits, anticipating a jolly afternoon at the ocean resorts, so when they discovered themselves to be congenial companions they lost no time in stilted phrases but were soon chattering away as if they had known one another for years. CHAPTER V A THRILLING RESCUE "It must be fine to be an actress," said Patsy Doyle, with enthusiasm. "If I had the face or the figure or the ability--all of which I sadly lack--I'd be an actress myself." "I suppose," replied Maud Stanton, thoughtfully, "it is as good a profession for a girl as any other. But the life is not one of play, by any means. We work very hard during the rehearsals and often I have become so weary that I feared I would drop to the ground in sheer exhaustion. Flo did faint, once or twice, during our first engagement with the Pictograph Company; but we find our present employers more considerate, and we have gained more importance than we had in the beginning." "It is dreadfully confining, though," remarked Florence, with a sigh. "Our hours are worse than those of shopgirls, for the early morning sun is the best part of the day for our work. Often we are obliged to reach the studio at dawn. To be sure, we have the evenings to ourselves, but we are then too tired to enjoy them." "Did you choose, this profession for amusement, or from necessity?" inquired Beth, wondering if the question sounded impertinent. "Stern necessity," answered Maud with a smile. "We had our living to earn." "Could not your aunt assist you?" asked Patsy. "Aunt Jane? Why, she is as poor as we are." "Arthur Weldon used to know the Montroses," said Beth, "and be believed Mr. Montrose left his widow a fortune." "He didn't leave a penny," asserted Florence. "Uncle was a stock gambler, and when he died he was discovered to be bankrupt." "I must explain to you," said Maud, "that our father and mother were both killed years ago in a dreadful automobile accident. Father left a small fortune to be divided between Flo and me, and appointed Uncle George our guardian. We were sent to a girls' school and nicely provided for until uncle's death, when it was found he had squandered our little inheritance as well as his own money." "That was hard luck," said Patsy sympathetically. "I am not so sure of that," returned the girl musingly. "Perhaps we are happier now than if we had money. Our poverty gave us dear Aunt Jane for a companion and brought us into a field of endeavor that has proved delightful." "But how in the world did you ever decide to become actresses, when so many better occupations are open to women?" inquired Beth. "Are other occupations so much better? A motion picture actress is quite different from the stage variety, you know. Our performances are all privately conducted, and although the camera is recording our actions it is not like being stared at by a thousand critical eyes." "A million eyes stare at the pictures," asserted Patsy. "But we are not there to be embarrassed by them," laughed Flo. "We have but one person to please," continued Maud, "and that is the director. If at first the scene is not satisfactory, we play it again and again, until it is quite correct. To us this striving for perfection is an art. We actors are mere details of an artistic conception. We have now been in Hollywood for five months, yet few people who casually notice us at the hotel or on the streets have any idea that we act for the 'movies.' Sometimes we appear publicly in the streets, in characteristic costume, and proceed to enact our play where all may observe us; but there are so many picture companies in this neighborhood that we are no longer looked upon as a novelty and the people passing by pay little attention to us." "Were you in that picture of the falling wall?" asked Beth. "No. We were rehearsing for 'Samson and Delilah.' But sometimes we are called upon to do curious things. One night, not long ago, a big residence burned down in the foothills back of our hotel. At the first alarm of fire one of the directors wakened us and we jumped into our clothes and were whisked in an automobile to the scene of the conflagration. The camera-man was already there and, while we had to dodge the fire-fighters and the hose men, both Flo and I managed to be 'saved from the flames' by some of our actors--not once, but several times." "It must have been thrilling!" gasped Patsy. "It was exciting, at the moment," confessed Maud. "One of the pictures proved very dramatic, so an author wrote a story where at the climax a girl was rescued from the flames by her lover, and we took our time to act the several scenes that led up to the fire. The completed picture was a great success, I'm told." "Those directors must be wonderfully enterprising fellows," said Beth. "They are, indeed, constantly on the lookout for effects. Every incident that occurs in real life is promptly taken advantage of. The camera-men are everywhere, waiting for their chance. Often their pictures prove of no value and are destroyed, but sometimes the scenes they catch are very useful to work into a picture play. A few weeks ago I was shipwrecked on the ocean and saved by clinging to a raft. That was not pleasant and I caught a severe cold by being in the water too long; but I was chosen because I can swim. Such incidents are merely a part of our game--a game where personal comfort is frequently sacrificed to art. Once Flo leaped over a thirty-foot precipice and was caught in a net at the bottom. The net was, of course, necessary, but when the picture was displayed her terrible leap was followed by a view of her mangled body at the bottom of the canyon." "How did they manage to do that?" asked Patsy. "Stopped the camera, cut off the piece of film showing her caught by the net, and substituted a strip on which was recorded Flo's body lying among the jagged rocks, where it had been carefully and comfortably arranged. We do a lot of deceptive tricks of that sort, and sometimes I myself marvel at the natural effects obtained." "It must be more interesting than stage acting." "I believe it is. But we've never been on the stage," said Maud. "How did you happen to get started in such a queer business?" inquired Patsy. "Well, after we found ourselves poor and without resources we began wondering what we could do to earn money. A friend of Aunt Jane's knew a motion picture maker who wanted fifty young girls for a certain picture and would pay each of them five dollars a day. Flo and I applied for the job and earned thirty dollars between us; but then the manager thought he would like to employ us regularly, and with Auntie to chaperon us we accepted the engagement. The first few weeks we merely appeared among the rabble--something like chorus girls, you see--but then we were given small parts and afterward more important ones. When we discovered our own value to the film makers Auntie managed to get us better engagements, so we've acted for three different concerns during the past two years, while Aunt Jane has become noted as a clever judge of the merits of scenarios." "Do both of you girls play star parts?" Beth inquired. "Usually. Flo is considered the best 'child actress' in the business, but when there is no child part she makes herself useful in all sorts of ways. To-day, for instance, you saw her among the dancing girls. I do the ingenue, or young girl parts, which are very popular just now. I did not want to act 'Delilah,' for I thought I was not old enough; but Mr. McNeil wanted me in the picture and so I made myself took as mature as possible." "You were ideal!" cried Patsy, admiringly. The young girl blushed at this praise, but said deprecatingly: "I doubt if I could ever be a really great actress; but then, I do not intend to act for many more years. Our salary is very liberal at present, as Goldstein grudgingly informed you, and we are saving money. As soon as we think we have acquired enough to live on comfortably we shall abandon acting and live as other girls do." "The fact is," added Flo, "no one will employ us when we have lost our youth. So we are taking advantage of these few fleeting years to make hay while the sun shines." "Do many stage actresses go into the motion picture business?" asked Beth. "A few, but all are not competent," replied Maud. "In the 'silent drama' facial expression and the art of conveying information by a gesture is of paramount importance. In other words, action must do the talking and explain everything. I am told that some comedians, like 'Bunny' and Sterling Mace, were failures on the stage, yet in motion pictures they are great favorites. On the other hand, some famous stage actors can do nothing in motion pictures." On their arrival at Santa Monica Mr. Merrick invited the party to be his guests at luncheon, which was served in a cosy restaurant overlooking the ocean. And then, although at this season it was bleak winter back East, all but Uncle John and Aunt Jane took a bath in the surf of the blue Pacific, mingling with hundreds of other bathers who were enjoying the sport. Mrs. Montrose and Uncle John sat on the sands to watch the merry scene, while the young people swam and splashed about, and they seemed--as Miss Patsy slyly observed--to "get on very well together." "And that is very creditable to your aunt," she observed to Maud Stanton, who was beside her in the water, "for Uncle John is rather shy in the society of ladies and they find him hard to entertain." "He seems like a dear old gentleman," said Maud. "He is, indeed, the dearest in all the world. And, if he likes your Aunt Jane, that is evidence that she is all right, too; for Uncle John's intuition never fails him in the selection of friends. He--" "Dear me!" cried Maud; "there's someone in trouble, I'm sure." She was looking out across the waves, which were fairly high to-day, and Patsy saw her lean forward and strike out to sea with strokes of remarkable swiftness. Bathers were scattered thickly along the coast, but only a few had ventured far out beyond the life-lines, so Patsy naturally sought an explanation by gazing at those farthest out. At first she was puzzled, for all the venturesome seemed to be swimming strongly and composedly; but presently a dark form showed on the crest of a wave--a struggling form that tossed up its arms despairingly and then disappeared. She looked for Maud Stanton and saw her swimming straight out, but still a long way from the person in distress. Then Patsy, always quick-witted in emergencies, made a dash for the shore where a small boat was drawn up on the beach. "Come, Arthur, quick!" she cried to the young man, who was calmly wading near the beach, and he caught the note of terror in her voice and hastened to help push the little craft into the water. "Jump in!" she panted, "and row as hard as you ever rowed in all your life." Young Weldon was prompt to obey. He asked no useless questions but, realizing that someone was in danger, he pulled a strong, steady oar and let Patsy steer the boat. The laughter and merry shouts of the bathers, who were all unaware that a tragedy was developing close at hand, rang in the girl's ears as she peered eagerly ahead for a sign to guide her. Now she espied Maud Stanton, far out beyond the others, circling around and diving into this wave or that as it passed her. "Whoever it was," she muttered, half aloud, "is surely done for by this time. Hurry, Arthur! I'm afraid Maud has exhausted all her strength." But just then Maud dived again and when she reappeared was holding fast to something dark and inanimate. A moment later the boat swept to her side and she said: "Get him aboard, if you can. Don't mind me; I'm all right." Arthur reached down and drew a slight, boyish form over the gunwale, while Patsy clasped Maud's hand and helped the girl over the side. She was still strong, but panted from her exertions to support the boy. "Who is it?" inquired Patsy, as Arthur headed the boat for the shore. Maud shook her head, leaning forward to look at the face of the rescued one for the first time. "I've never seen him before," she said. "Isn't it too bad that I reached him too late?" Patsy nodded, gazing at the white, delicate profile of the young fellow as he lay lifeless at her feet. Too late, undoubtedly; and he was a mere boy, with all the interests of life just unfolding for him. Their adventure had now been noticed by some of the bathers, who crowded forward to meet the boat as it grounded on the beach. Uncle John, always keeping an eye on his beloved nieces, had noted every detail of the rescue and as a dozen strong men pulled the boat across the sands, beyond the reach of the surf, the Merrick automobile rolled up beside it. "Now, then!" cried the little man energetically, and with the assistance of his chauffeur he lifted the lifeless form into the car. "The hospital?" said Patsy, nodding approval. "Yes," he answered. "No; you girls can't come in your wet bathing suits. I'll do all that can be done." Even as he spoke the machine whirled away, and looking after it Maud said, shaking her head mildly: "I fear he's right. Little can be done for the poor fellow now." "Oh, lots can be done," returned Patsy; "but perhaps it won't bring him back to life. Anyhow, it's right to make every attempt, as promptly as possible, and certainly Uncle John didn't waste any time." Beth and Florence now joined them and Louise came running up to ask eager questions. "Who was it, Patsy?" "We don't know. Some poor fellow who got too far out and had a cramp, perhaps. Or his strength may have given out. He didn't seem very rugged." "He was struggling when first I saw him," said Maud. "It seemed dreadful to watch the poor boy drowning when hundreds of people were laughing and playing in the water within earshot of him." "That was the trouble," declared Arthur Weldon. "All those people were intent on themselves and made so much noise that his cries for help could not be heard." The tragedy, now generally known, had the effect of sobering the bathers and most of them left the water and trooped to the bathhouses to dress. Mrs. Montrose advised the girls to get their clothes on, as all were shivering--partly from nervousness--in their wet bathing suits. They were ready an hour before Mr. Merrick returned, and his long absence surprised them until they saw his smiling face as he drove up in his car. It gave them a thrill of hope as in chorus they cried: "Well--Uncle John?" "I think he will live," returned the little man, with an air of great satisfaction. "Anyway, he's alive and breathing now, and the doctors say there's every reason to expect a rapid recovery." "Who is he?" they asked, crowding around him. "A. Jones." "A--what?" This from Patsy, in a doubtful tone. "Jones. A. Jones." "Why, he must have given you an assumed name!" "He didn't give us any name. As soon as he recovered consciousness he fell asleep, and I left him slumbering as peacefully as a baby. But we went through his clothes, hoping to get a trace of his friends, so they could be notified. His bathing suit is his own, not rented, and the name 'A. Jones' is embroidered on tape and sewn to each piece. Also the key to bathhouse number twenty-six was tied to his wrist. The superintendent sent a man for his clothing and we examined that, too. The letters 'A.J.' were stamped in gold on his pocketbook, and in his cardcase were a number of cards engraved: 'A. Jones, Sangoa.' But there were no letters, or any other papers." "Where is Sangoa?" inquired Beth. "No one seems to know," confessed Uncle John. "There was plenty of money in his pocket-book and he has a valuable watch, but no other jewelry. His clothes were made by a Los Angeles tailor, but when they called him up by telephone he knew nothing about his customer except that he had ordered his suit and paid for it in advance. He called for it three days ago, and carried it away with him, so we have no clue to the boy's dwelling place." "Isn't that a little strange--perhaps a little suspicious?" asked Mrs. Montrose. "I think not, ma'am," answered Mr. Merrick. "We made these investigations at the time we still feared he would die, so as to communicate with any friends or relatives he might have. But after he passed the crisis so well and fell asleep, the hospital people stopped worrying about him. He seems like any ordinary, well-to-do young fellow, and a couple of days in the hospital ought to put him upon his feet again." "But Sangoa, Uncle; is that a town or a country?" "Some out-of-the-way village, I suppose. People are here from every crack and corner of America, you know." "It sounds a bit Spanish," commented Arthur. "Maybe he is from Mexico." "Maybe," agreed Uncle John. "Anyhow, Maud has saved his life, and if it's worth anything to him he ought to be grateful." "Never mind that," said Maud, flushing prettily with embarrassment as all eyes turned upon her, "I'm glad I noticed him in time; but now that he is all right he need never know who it was that rescued him. And, for that matter, sir, Patsy Doyle and Mr. Weldon did as much for him as I. Perhaps they saved us both, while your promptness in getting him to the hospital was the main factor in saving his life." "Well, it's all marked down in the hospital books," remarked Uncle John. "I had to tell the whole story, you see, as a matter of record, and all our names are there, so none can escape the credit due her--or him." "In truth," said Mrs. Montrose with a smile, "it really required four of you to save one slender boy." "Yes, he needed a lot of saving," laughed Flo. "But," her pretty face growing more serious, "I believe it was all Fate, and nothing else. Had we not come to the beach this afternoon, the boy might have drowned; so, as I suggested the trip, I'm going to take a little credit myself." "Looking at it in that light," said Patsy, "the moving picture man saved the boy's life by giving you a half-holiday." This caused a laugh, for their spirits were now restored to normal. To celebrate the occasion, Mr. Merrick proposed to take them all into Los Angeles to dine at a "swell restaurant" before returning to Hollywood. This little event, in conjunction with the afternoon's adventure, made them all more intimate, so that when they finally reached home and separated for the night they felt like old friends rather than recent acquaintances. CHAPTER VI A. JONES There was work for the Stanton girls at the "film factory," as they called it, next morning, so they had left the hotel before Mr. Merrick's party assembled at the breakfast table. "I must telephone the Santa Monica hospital and find out how our patient is," remarked Uncle John, when the meal was over; but presently he returned from the telephone booth with a puzzled expression upon his face. "A. Jones has disappeared!" he announced. "Disappeared! What do you mean, Uncle?" asked Beth. "He woke early and declared he was himself again, paid his bill, said 'good morning' to the hospital superintendent and walked away. He wouldn't answer questions, but kept asking them. The nurse showed him the book with the record of how he was saved, but she couldn't induce him to say who he was, where he came from nor where he was going. Seems a little queer, doesn't it?" They all confessed that it did. "However," said Patsy Doyle, "I'm glad he recovered, and I'm sure Maud will be when she hears the news. The boy has a perfect right to keep his own counsel, but he might have had the grace to tell us what that initial 'A.' stands for, and where on earth Sangoa is." "I've been inquiring about Sangoa," announced Arthur, just then joining the group, "and no one seems wiser than we are. There's no record of such a town or state in Mexico, or in the United States--so far as I can discover. The clerk has sent for a map of Alaska, and perhaps we'll find Sangoa there." "What does it matter?" inquired Louise. "Why, we don't like to be stumped," asserted Patsy, "that's all. Here is a young man from Sangoa, and--" "Really," interrupted Beth, who was gazing through the window, "I believe here _is_ the young man from Sangoa!" "Where?" they all cried, crowding forward to look. "Coming up the walk. See! Isn't that the same mysterious individual whose life Maud saved?" "That's the identical mystery," declared Uncle John. "I suppose he has come here to look us up and thank us." "Then, for heaven's sake, girls, pump him and find out where Sangoa is," said Arthur hastily, and the next moment a bell boy approached their party with a card. They looked at the young fellow curiously as he came toward them. He seemed not more than eighteen years of age and his thin features wore a tired expression that was not the result of his recent experience but proved to be habitual. His manner was not languid, however, but rather composed; at the same time he held himself alert, as if constantly on his guard. His dress was simple but in good taste and he displayed no embarrassment as he greeted the party with a low bow. "Ah," said Uncle John, heartily shaking his hand, "I am delighted to find you so perfectly recovered." A slight smile, sad and deprecating, flickered for an instant over his lips. It gave the boyish face a patient and rather sweet expression as he slowly replied: "I am quite myself to-day, sir, and I have come to assure you of my gratitude for your rescue of me yesterday. Perhaps it wasn't worth all your bother, but since you generously took the trouble to save me, the least I can do is to tender you my thanks." Here he looked from one to another of the three girls and continued: "Please tell me which young lady swam to my assistance." "Oh, it was none of us," said Patsy. "Miss Stanton--Maud Stanton--swam out to you, when she noticed you were struggling, and kept you afloat until we--until help came." "And Miss Stanton is not here?" "Not at present, although she is staying at this hotel." He gravely considered this information for a moment. As he stood there, swaying slightly, he appeared so frail and delicate that Uncle John seized his arm and made him sit down in a big easy chair. The boy sighed, took a memorandum from his pocket and glanced at it. "Miss Doyle and Mr. Weldon pulled out in a boat and rescued both Miss Stanton and me, just as we were about to sink," he said. "Tell me, please, if either Miss Doyle or Mr. Weldon is present." "I am Arthur Weldon," said that young gentleman; "but I was merely the boatman, under command of Miss Doyle, whom I beg to present to you." A. Jones looked earnestly into Patsy's face. Holding out his hand he said with his odd smile: "Thank you." Then he turned to shake Arthur's hand, after which he continued: "I also am indebted to Mr. Merrick for carrying me to the hospital. The doctor told me that only this prompt action enabled them to resuscitate me at all. And now, I believe it would be courteous for me to tell you who I am and how I came to be in such dire peril." He paused to look around him questioningly and the interest on every face was clearly evident. Arthur took this opportunity to introduce Jones to Louise and Beth and then they all sat down again. Said Uncle John to the stranger, in his frank and friendly way: "Tell us as much or as little as you like, my boy. We are not unduly inquisitive, I assure you." "Thank you, sir. I am an American, and my name is Jones. That is, I may claim American parentage, although I was born upon a scarcely known island in the Pacific which my father purchased from the government of Uruguay some thirty years ago." "Sangoa?" asked Arthur. He seemed surprised at the question but readily answered: "Yes; Sangoa. My father was a grandnephew of John Paul Jones and very proud of the connection; but instead of being a sailor he was a scientist, and he chose to pass his life in retirement from the world." "Your father is no longer living, then?" said Mr. Merrick. "He passed away a year ago, on his beloved island. My mother died several years before him. I began to feel lonely at Sangoa and I was anxious to visit America, of which my mother had so often told me. So some months ago I reached San Francisco, since when I have been traveling over your country--my country, may I call it?--and studying your modern civilization. In New York I remained fully three months. It is only about ten days since I returned to this coast." He stopped abruptly, as if he considered he had told enough. The brief recital had interested his auditors, but the ensuing pause was rather embarrassing. "I suppose you have been visiting relatives of your parents," remarked Uncle John, to ease the situation. "They--had no relatives that I know of," he returned. "I am quite alone in the world. You must not suppose I am unaccustomed to the water," he hastened to add, as if to retreat from an unpleasant subject. "At Sangoa I have bathed in the sea ever since I can remember anything; but--I am not in good health. I suffer from indigestion, a chronic condition, which is my incubus. Yesterday my strength suddenly deserted me and I became helpless." "How fortunate it was that Maud noticed you!" exclaimed Patsy, with generous sympathy. Again the half sad smile softened his face as he looked at her. "I am not sure it was wholly fortunate for me," he said, "although I admit I have no wish to end my uninteresting life by drowning. I am not a misanthrope, in spite of my bad stomach. The world is more useful to me than I am to the world, but that is not my fault. Pardon me for talking so much about myself." "Oh, we are intensely interested, I assure you," replied Patsy. "If some of us were indeed the instruments that saved you yesterday, it is a pleasure to us to know something of the--the man--we saved." She had almost said "boy," he was such a youthful person, and he knew it as well as she did. "I would like to meet Miss Stanton and thank her personally," he presently resumed. "So, if you have no objection, I think I shall register at this hotel and take a room. I--I am not very strong yet, but perhaps Miss Stanton will see me when I have rested a little." "She won't return before five o'clock," explained Mr. Merrick. "Miss Stanton is--er--connected with a motion picture company, you know, and is busy during the day." He seemed both surprised and perplexed, at first, but after a moment's thought he said: "She is an actress, then?" "Yes; she and her sister. They have with them an aunt, Mrs. Montrose, for companion." "Thank you. Then I will try to meet them this evening." As he spoke he rose with some difficulty and bade them adieu. Arthur went with him to the desk and proffered his assistance, but the young man said he needed nothing but rest. "And just think of it," said Patsy, when he had gone. "We don't know yet what that 'A' stands for!" "Arthur," suggested Louise. "Albert," said Beth. "Or Algernon," added Uncle John with a chuckle. "But we haven't seen the last of him yet," declared Miss Doyle. "I've a romance all plotted, of which A. Jones is to be the hero. He will fall in love with Maud and carry her away to his island!" "I'm not so sure of that result," observed Uncle John thoughtfully. "It wouldn't astonish me to have him fall in love with Maud Stanton; we've all done that, you know; but could Maud--could any girl--be attracted by a lean, dismal boy with a weak stomach, such as A. Jones?" "Even with these drawbacks he is quite interesting," asserted Beth. "He is sure to win her sympathy," said Louise. "But, above all," declared Patsy, "he has an island, inherited from his royal daddy. That island would count for a lot, with any girl!" CHAPTER VII THE INVALID The girls intercepted Maud Stanton when she returned to the hotel that evening, and told her all about A. Jones. The tale was finished long before that dyspeptic youth had wakened from his slumbers. Then they all dressed for dinner and afterward met in the lobby, where Uncle John told them he had arranged to have a big round table prepared for the entire party, including a seat for A. Jones, who might like to join them. However, the young man did not make his appearance, and as they trooped into the dining room Patsy said resentfully: "I believe A. Jones is in a trance and needs rolling on a barrel again." "He probably found himself too weak to appear in public," replied Flo Stanton. "I'm sure if I had been all but drowned a few hours ago, I would prefer bed to society." "I'm astonished that he summoned energy to visit us at all," declared Mrs. Montrose. "He may be weak and ill, but at least he is grateful." "Jones seems a vary gentlemanly young fellow," said Mr. Merrick. "He is a bit shy and retiring, which is perhaps due to his lonely life on his island; but I think he has been well brought up." As they came out from dinner they observed the porters wheeling several big trunks up the east corridor. The end of each trunk was lettered: "A. Jones." "Well," said Beth, with an amused smile, "he intends to stay a while, anyhow. You'll have a chance to meet him yet, Maud." "I'm glad of that," answered Maud, "for I am anxious to calculate the worth of the life I helped to save. Your reports are ambiguous, and I am undecided whether you are taking the boy seriously or as a joke. From your description of his personal appearance, I incline to the belief that under ordinary circumstances I would not look twice at Mr. Jones, but having been partly instrumental in preserving him to the world, I naturally feel a proprietary interest in him." "Of course," said Flo. "He's worth one look, out of pure curiosity; but it would be dreadful to have him tagging you around, expressing his everlasting gratitude." "I don't imagine he'll do that," observed Patsy Doyle. "A. Jones strikes me as having a fair intellect in a shipwrecked body, and I'll wager a hatpin against a glove-buttoner that he won't bore you. At the same time he may not interest you--or any of us--for long, unless he develops talents we have not discovered. I wonder why he doesn't use his whole name. That mystic 'A' puzzles me." "It's an English notion, I suppose," said Mrs. Montrose. "But he isn't English; he's American." "Sangoese," corrected Beth. "Perhaps he doesn't like his name, or is ashamed of it," suggested Uncle John. "It may be 'Absalom,'" said Flo. "We once knew an actor named Absalom, and he always called himself 'A. Judson Keith.' He was a dignified chap, and when we girls one day called him 'Ab,' he nearly had hysterics." "Mr. Werner had hysterics to-day," asserted Maud, gravely; "but I didn't blame him. He sent out a party to ride down a steep hill on horseback, as part of a film story, and a bad accident resulted. One of the horses stepped in a gopher hole and fell, and a dozen others piled up on him, including their riders." "How dreadful!" was the general exclamation. "Several of the horses broke their legs and had to be shot," continued Maud; "but none of the riders was seriously injured except little Sadie Martin, who was riding a bronco. The poor thing was caught under one of the animals and the doctor says she won't be able to work again for months." "Goodness me! And all for the sake of a picture?" cried Patsy indignantly. "I hope you don't take such risks, Maud." "No; Flo and I have graduated from what is called 'the bronco bunch,' and now do platform work entirely. To be sure we assume some minor risks in that, but nothing to compare with the other lines of business." "I hope the little girl you mentioned will get well, and has enough money to tide her over this trouble," said Uncle John anxiously. "The manager will look after her," returned Mrs. Montrose. "Our people are very good about that and probably Sadie Martin's salary will continue regularly until she is able to work again." "Well," said Beth, drawing a long breath, "I suppose we shall read all about it in the morning papers." "Oh, no!" exclaimed Maud and added: "These accidents never get into the papers. They happen quite often, around Los Angeles, where ten thousand or more people make their living from motion pictures; but the public is protected from all knowledge of such disasters, which would detract from their pleasure in pictures and perhaps render all films unpopular." "I thought the dear public loved the dare-devil acts," remarked Arthur Weldon. "Oh, it does," agreed Mrs. Montrose; "yet those who attend the picture theatres seem not to consider the action taking place before their eyes to be real. Here are pictures only--a sort of amplified story book--and the spectators like them exciting; but if they stopped to reflect that men and women in the flesh were required to do these dangerous feats for their entertainment, many would be too horrified to enjoy the scenes. Of course the makers of the pictures guard their actors in all possible ways; yet, even so, casualties are bound to occur." They had retired to a cosy corner of the public drawing room and were conversing on this interesting topic when they espied A. Jones walking toward them. The youth was attired in immaculate evening dress, but his step was slow and dragging and his face pallid. Arthur and Uncle John drew up an easy chair for him while Patsy performed the introductions to Mrs. Montrose and her nieces. Very earnestly the boy grasped the hand of the young girl who had been chiefly responsible for his rescue, thanking her more by his manner than in his few carefully chosen words. As for Maud, she smilingly belittled her effort, saying lightly: "I know I must not claim that it didn't amount to anything, for your life is valuable, Mr. Jones, I'm sure. But I had almost nothing to do beyond calling Patsy Doyle's attention to you and then swimming out to keep you afloat until help came. I'm a good swimmer, so it was not at all difficult." "Moreover," he added, "you would have done the same thing for anyone in distress." "Certainly." "I realize that. I am quite a stranger to you. Nevertheless, my gratitude is your due and I hope you will accept it as the least tribute I can pay you. Of all that throng of bathers, only you noticed my peril and came to my assistance." "Fate!" whispered Flo impressively. "Nonsense," retorted her sister. "I happened to be the only one looking out to sea. I think, Mr. Jones, you owe us apologies more than gratitude, for your folly was responsible for the incident. You were altogether too venturesome. Such action on this coast, where the surf rolls high and creates an undertow, is nothing less than foolhardy." "I'm sure you are right," he admitted. "I did not know this coast, and foolishly imagined the old Pacific, in which I have sported and played since babyhood, was my friend wherever I found it." "I hope you are feeling better and stronger this evening," said Mr. Merrick. "We expected you to join us at dinner." "I--I seldom dine in public," he explained, flushing slightly. "My bill-of-fare is very limited, you know, owing to my--my condition; and so I carry my food-tablets around with me, wherever I go, and eat them in my own room." "Food-tablets!" cried Patsy, horrified. "Yes. They are really wafers--very harmless--and I am permitted to eat nothing else." "No wonder your stomach is bad and you're a living skeleton!" asserted the girl, with scorn. "My dear," said Uncle John, gently chiding her, "we must give Mr. Jones the credit for knowing what is best for him." "Not me, sir!" protested the boy, in haste. "I'm very ignorant about--about health, and medicine and the like. But in New York I consulted a famous doctor, and he told me what to do." "That's right," nodded the old gentleman, who had never been ill in his life. "Always take the advice of a doctor, listen to the advice of a lawyer, and refuse the advise of a banker. That's worldly wisdom." "Were you ill when you left your home?" inquired Mrs. Montrose, looking at the young man with motherly sympathy. "Not when I left the island," he said. "I was pretty well up to that time. But during the long ocean voyage I was terribly sick, and by the time we got to San Francisco my stomach was a wreck. Then I tried to eat the rich food at your restaurants and hotels--we live very plainly in Sangoa, you know--and by the time I got to New York I was a confirmed dyspeptic and suffering tortures. Everything I ate disagreed with me. So I went to a great specialist, who has invented these food tablets for cases just like mine, and he ordered me to eat nothing else." "And are you better?" asked Maud. He hesitated. "Sometimes I imagine I am. I do not suffer so much pain, but I--I seem to grow weaker all the time." "No wonder!" cried Patsy. "If you starve yourself you can't grow strong." He looked at her with an expression of surprise. Then he asked abruptly: "What would you advise me to do, Miss Doyle?" A chorus of laughter greeted this question. Patsy flushed a trifle but covered her confusion by demanding: "Would you follow my advice?" He made a little grimace. There was humor in the boy, despite his dyspepsia. "I understand there is a law forbidding suicide," he replied. "But I asked your advice in an attempt to discover what you thought of my absurd condition. Now that you call my attention to it, I believe I _am_ starving myself. I need stronger and more nourishing food; and yet the best specialist in your progressive country has regulated my diet." "I don't believe much in specialists," asserted Patsy. "If _you_ do, go ahead and kill yourself, in defiance of the law. According to common sense you ought to eat plenty of good, wholesome food, but you may be so disordered--in your interior--that even that would prove fatal. So I won't recommend it." "I'm doomed, either way," he said quietly. "I know that." "_How_ do you know it?" demanded Maud in a tone of resentment. He was silent a moment. Then he replied: "I cannot remember how we drifted into this very personal argument. It seems wrong for me to be talking about myself to those who are practically strangers, and you will realize how unused I am to the society of ladies by considering my rudeness in this interview." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Uncle John; "we are merely considering you as a friend. You must believe that we are really interested in you," he continued, laying a kindly hand on the young fellow's shoulder. "You seem in a bad way, it's true, but your condition is far from desperate. Patsy's frankness--it's her one fault and her chief virtue--led you to talk about yourself, and I'm surprised to find you so despondent and--and--what do you call it, Beth?" "Pessimistic?" "That's it--pessimistic." "But you're wrong, sir!" said the boy with a smile; "I may not be elated over my fatal disease, but neither am I despondent. I force myself to keep going when I wonder how the miserable machine responds to my urging, and I shall keep it going, after a fashion, until the final breakdown. Fate weaves the thread of our lives, I truly believe, and she didn't use very good material when she started mine. But that doesn't matter," he added quickly. "I'm trying to do a little good as I go along and not waste my opportunities. I'm obeying my doctor's orders and facing the future with all the philosophy I can summon. So now, if you--who have given me a new lease of life--think I can use it to any better advantage, I am willing to follow your counsel." His tone was more pathetic than his words. Maud, as she looked at the boy and tried to realize that his days were numbered, felt her eyes fill with tears. Patsy sniffed scornfully, but said nothing. It was Beth who remarked with an air of unconcern that surprised those who knew her unsympathetic nature: "It would be presumptuous for us to interfere, either with Fate or with Nature. You're probably dead wrong about your condition, for a sick person has no judgment whatever, but I've noticed the mind has a good deal to do with one's health. If you firmly believe you're going to die, why, what can you expect?" No one cared to contradict this and a pause followed that was growing awkward when they were all aroused by the sound of hasty footsteps approaching their corner. CHAPTER VIII THE MAGIC OF A NAME The newcomer proved to be Goldstein, the manager of the Continental. His face was frowning and severe as he rudely marched up to the group and, without the formality of a greeting, pointedly addressed the Stanton girls. "What does it mean?" he demanded in evident excitement, for his voice shook and the accusing finger he held out trembled. "How does it happen that my people, under contract to work for the Continental, are working for other firms?" Maud paled and her eyes glistened with resentment as she rose and faced her manager. Florence pulled her sister's sleeve and said with a forced laugh: "Sit down, Maud; the man has probably been drinking." He turned on the young girl fiercely, but now it was Arthur Weldon who seized the manager's arm and whirled him around. "Sir, you are intruding," he said sternly. "If you have business with these ladies, choose the proper time and place to address them." "I have!" cried Goldstein, blusteringly. "They have treated me shamefully--unprofessionally! They have played me a trick, and I've the right to demand why they are working for a rival firm while in my pay." Mrs. Montrose now arose and said with quiet dignity: "Mr. Goldstein, you are intruding, as Mr. Weldon says. But you have said so much to defame my nieces in the eyes of our friends, here assembled, that you must explain yourself more fully." The manager seemed astonished by his reception. He looked from one to another and said more mildly: "It is easy enough for _me_ to explain, but how can the Stantons explain their conduct? They are under contract to act exclusively for the Continental Film Company and I pay them a liberal salary. Yet only yesterday, when I was kind enough to give them a holiday, they went down to the beach and posed for a picture for our rivals, the Corona Company!" "You are mistaken, sir!" retorted Arthur. "The young ladies were in our company the entire afternoon and they did not pose for any picture whatever." "Don't tell me!" cried Goldstein. "I've just seen the picture down town. I was going by one of the theatres when I noticed a placard that read: 'Sensational Film by Maud Stanton, the Queen of Motion Picture Actresses, entitled "A Gallant Rescue!" First run to-night.' I went in and saw the picture--with my own eyes!--and I saw Maud Stanton in a sea scene, rescuing a man who was drowning. Don't deny it, Miss," he added, turning upon Maud fiercely. "I saw it with my own eyes--not an hour ago!" After a moment's amazed silence his hearers broke into a chorus of laughter, led by Flo, who was almost hysterical. Even A. Jones smiled indulgently upon the irate manager, who was now fairly bristling with indignation. "The Corona people," remarked Arthur Weldon, "are quite enterprising. I did not know they had a camera-man at the beach yesterday, but he must have secured a very interesting picture. It was not posed, Mr. Goldstein, but taken from life." "It was Maud Stanton!" asserted, the manager. "Yes; she and some others. A man was really drowning and the brave girl swam to his rescue, without a thought of posing." "I don't believe it!" cried the man rudely. Here A. Jones struggled to his feet. "It is true," he said. "I was the drowning man whom Miss Stanton saved." Goldstein eyed him shrewdly. "Perhaps you were," he admitted, "for the man in the picture was about your style of make-up. But how can you prove it was not a put-up job with the Corona people? How do I know you are not all in the employ of the Corona people?" "I give you my word." "Pah! I don't know you." "I see you don't," returned the youth stiffly. "Here is my card. Perhaps you will recognize the name." He fumbled in his pocket, took out a card and handed it to the manager. Goldstein looked at it, started, turned red and then white and began bobbing his head with absurd deference to the youth. "Pardon, Mr. Jones--pardon!" he gasped. "I--I heard you were in our neighborhood, but I--I did not recognize you. I--I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Jones! I was angry at what I supposed was the treachery of an employee. You will--will--understand that, I am sure. It is my duty to protect the interests of the Continental, you know, sir. But it's all right now, of course! Isn't it all right now, Mr. Jones?" "You'd better go, Goldstein," said the boy in a weary tone, and sat down again. The manager hesitated. Then he bowed to Maud Stanton and to the others, murmuring: "All a mistake, you see; all a mistake. I--I beg everybody's pardon." With this he backed away, still bowing, and finally turned and beat a hasty retreat. But no one was noticing him especially. All eyes were regarding the boy with a new curiosity. "That Goldstein is an ill-bred boor!" remarked Uncle John in an annoyed tone. "I suppose," said Maud, slowly, "he thought he was right in demanding an explanation. There is great rivalry between the various film manufacturers and it was rather mean of the Corona to put my name on that placard." "It's wonderful!" exclaimed Patsy. "How did they get the picture, do you suppose?" "They have camera-men everywhere, looking for some picture worth while." explained Mrs. Montrose. "If there's a fire, the chances are a camera-man is on the spot before the firemen arrive. If there's an accident, it is often caught by the camera before the victim realizes what has happened. Perhaps a camera-man has been at the beach for weeks, waiting patiently for some tragedy to occur. Anyway, he was on hand yesterday and quietly ran his film during the excitement of the rescue. He was in rare luck to get Maud, because she is a favorite with the public; but it was not fair to connect her name with the picture, when they know she is employed by the Continental." Young Jones rose from his chair with a gesture of weariness. "If you will excuse me," he said, "I will go to my room. Our little conversation has given me much pleasure; I'm so alone in the world. Perhaps you will allow me to join you again--some other time?" They hastened to assure him his presence would always be welcome. Patsy even added, with her cheery smile, that they felt a certain proprietorship in him since they had dragged him from a watery grave. The boy showed, as he walked away, that he was not yet very steady on his feet, but whether the weakness was the result of his malady or his recent trying experience they could not determine. "What staggers me," said Maud, looking after him, "is the effect his name had on Goldstein, who has little respect or consideration for anyone. Who do you suppose A. Jones is?" "Why, he has told us," replied Louise. "He is an islander, on his first visit to this country." "He must be rather more than that," declared Arthur. "Do you remember what the manager said to him?" "Yes," said Beth. "He had heard that A. Jones was in this neighborhood, but had never met him. A. Jones was a person of sufficient importance to make the general manager of the Continental Film Company tremble in his boots." "He really did tremble," asserted Patsy, "and he was abject in his apologies." "Showing," added Flo Stanton, "that Goldstein is afraid of him." "I wonder why," said Maud. "It is all very easy of solution," remarked Arthur. "Goldstein believes that Jones is in the market to buy films. Perhaps he's going to open a motion picture theatre on his island. So the manager didn't want to antagonize a good customer." "That's it," said Uncle John, nodding approval. "There's no great mystery about young Jones, I'm sure." CHAPTER IX DOCTOR PATSY Next morning Uncle John and the Weldons--including the precious baby--went for a ride into the mountains, while Beth and Patsy took their embroidery into a sunny corner of the hotel lobby. It was nearly ten o'clock when A. Jones discovered the two girls and came tottering toward them. Tottering is the right word; he fairly swayed as he made his way to the secluded corner. "I wish he'd use a cane," muttered Beth in an undertone. "I have the feeling that he's liable to bump his nose any minute." Patsy drew up a chair for him, although he endeavored to prevent her. "Are you feeling better this morning?" she inquired. "I--I think so," he answered doubtfully. "I don't seem to get back my strength, you see." "Were you stronger before your accident?" asked Beth. "Yes, indeed. I went swimming, you remember. But perhaps I was not strong enough to do that. I--I'm very careful of myself, yet I seem to grow weaker all the time." There was a brief silence, during which the girls plied their needles. "Are you going to stay in this hotel?" demanded Patsy, in her blunt way. "For a time, I think. It is very pleasant here," he said. "Have you had breakfast?" "I took a food-tablet at daybreak." "Huh!" A scornful exclamation. Then she glanced at the open door of the dining-hall and laying aside her work she rose with a determined air and said: "Come with me!" "Where?" For answer she assisted him to rise. Then she took his hand and marched him across the lobby to the dining room. He seemed astonished at this proceeding but made no resistance. Seated at a small table she called a waitress and said: "Bring a cup of chocolate, a soft-boiled egg and some toast." "Pardon me, Miss Doyle," he said; "I thought you had breakfasted." "So I have," she replied. "The breakfast I've ordered is for you, and you're going to eat it if I have to ram it down your throat." "But--Miss Doyle!" "You've told us you are doomed. Well, you're going to die with a full stomach." "But the doctor--" "Bother the doctor! I'm your doctor, now, and I won't send in a bill, thank your stars." He looked at her with his sad little smile. "Isn't this a rather high-handed proceeding, Miss Doyle?" "Perhaps." "I haven't employed you as my physician, you know." "True. But you've deliberately put yourself in my power." "How?" "In the first place, you tagged us here to this hotel." "You don't mind, do you?" "Not in the least. It's a public hostelry. In the second place, you confided to us your disease and your treatment of it--which was really none of our business." "I--I was wrong to do that. But you led me on and--I'm so lonely--and you all seemed so generous and sympathetic--that I--I--" "That you unwittingly posted us concerning your real trouble. Do you realize what it is? You're a hypo--hypo--what do they call it?--hypochondriac!" "I am not!" "And your doctor--your famous specialist--is a fool." "Oh, Miss Doyle!" "Also you are a--a chump, to follow his fool advice. You don't need sympathy, Mr. A. Jones. What you need is a slapstick." "A--a--" "A slapstick. And that's what you're going to get if you don't obey orders." Here the maid set down the breakfast, ranging the dishes invitingly before the invalid. His face had expressed all the emotions from amazement to terror during Patsy's tirade and now he gazed from her firm, determined features to the eggs and toast, in an uncertain, helpless way that caused the girl a severe effort to curb a burst of laughter. "Now, then," she said, "get busy. I'll fix your egg. Do you want more sugar in your chocolate? Taste it and see. And if you don't butter that toast before it gets cold it won't be fit to eat." He looked at her steadily now, again smiling. "You're not joking, Miss Doyle?" "I'm in dead earnest." "Of course you realize this is the--the end?" "Of your foolishness? I hope so. You used to eat like a sensible boy, didn't you?" "When I was well." "You're well now. Your only need is sustaining, strengthening food. I came near ordering you a beefsteak, but I'll reserve that for lunch." He sipped the chocolate. "Yes; it needs more sugar," he said quietly. "Will you please butter my toast? It seems to me such a breakfast is worth months of suffering. How delicious this egg is! It was the fragrance of the egg and toast that conquered me. That, and--" "And one sensible, determined girl. Don't look at me as if I were a murderess! I'm your best friend--a friend in need. And don't choke down your food. Eat slowly. Fletcherize--chew your food, you know. I know you're nearly famished, but you must gradually accustom yourself to a proper diet." He obeyed meekly. Patsy's face was calm, but her heart beat fast, with a thrill of fear she could not repress. Acting on impulse, as she had, the girl now began to consider that she was personally responsible for whatever result might follow this radical treatment for dyspepsia. Had she been positive it _was_ dyspepsia, she would never have dared interfere with a doctor's orders; but she felt that the boy needed food and would die unless he had it. He might die from the effect of this unusual repast, in which case she would never forgive herself. Meantime, the boy had cast aside all fear. He had protested, indeed, but his protests being overruled he accepted his food and its possible consequences with philosophic resignation and a growing satisfaction. Patsy balked on the third slice of toast and took it away from him. She also denied him a second cup of chocolate. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh of content and said: "Bless the hen that laid that egg! No dainty was ever more delicious. And now," he added, rising, "let us go and inquire the address of a good undertaker. I have made my will, and I'd like to be cremated--it's so much nicer than the old-fashioned burial, don't you think?" "I'll attend to all that, if you wish," she replied, trying to repress a shudder as she followed him from the room. "Do you smoke?" "I used to, but the doctor forbade it; so I gave it up entirely." "Go over to that stand and buy a cigar. Then you may sit beside Beth and me and smoke it." The girl did not wholly approve of smoking and had often chided Uncle John and her father and Arthur Weldon for indulging in the habit; but this advice to young Jones was given in desperation, because all the men of her family stoutly affirmed that a cigar after a meal assisted digestion. She resumed her former seat beside Beth, and her cousin quickly read the anxiety on her face. "What did you do, Patricia?" "I fed him." "Did he really eat?" "Like a starved cat." "Hm-m-m," said Beth. "What next, I wonder?" Patsy wondered, too, the cold shivers chasing one another up and down her back. The boy was coming toward them, coolly puffing a cigar. He did not seem to totter quite so much as before, but he was glad to sink into an easy chair. "How do you feel?" asked Beth, regarding him curiously. "Like one of those criminals who are pampered with all the good things of life before being led to the scaffold." "Any pains?" He shook his head. "Not yet. I've asked the clerk, whenever I signal him, to send someone to carry me to my room. If I'm not able to say good-bye to you, please accept now my thanks for all your kindness to a stranger. You see, I'm not sure whether I'll have a sudden seizure or the pains will come on gradually." "What pains?" demanded Patsy. "I can't explain them. Don't you believe something is bound to happen?" he inquired, nervously removing the ash from his cigar. "To be sure. You're going to get well." He made no reply, but sat watching Beth's nimble fingers. Patsy was too excited to resume her embroidery. "I wonder if you are old enough to smoke?" remarked Beth. "I'm over twenty-one." "Indeed! We decided you were about eighteen." "I suppose I look younger than my age. At home, in Sangoa, I am still regarded as a mere child. That is because I had no brothers and sisters, and my father never could realize that I was growing up. The people still call me--" He paused, in an embarrassed way, till Patsy asked: "Call you what?" "By my old childish name." Both the girls were distinctly disappointed. But bluff Patsy Doyle would not be denied the satisfaction of her curiosity. Within the last hour she had felt as if she had adopted this friendless boy, and some information concerning him was her due. "Your name is A. Jones?" she aid. "Yes." "What does the 'A' stand for?" There! The question was out, at last. He hesitated, flushing read. Then he replied slowly: "It stands for one of my father's peculiarities. I think I have told you how proud he was that we are direct descendants of John Paul Jones. 'John Paul,'" he would often say, 'has ennobled the name of Jones, so that to be a Jones is to bear the proudest name known to mankind.' When I was born they were undecided what to name me. 'There is no hurry about it,' said my father; 'whatever we call him, he is a Jones.' My mother must have been something of a humorist. She kept referring to her baby as 'a Jones' until father caught the absurd idea of letting it go at that, and had me christened merely 'A. Jones.'" "How delightful?" cried Patsy, clapping her hands gleefully. "Then 'A' doesn't stand for anything at all?" "Oh, yes; it stands for _a_ Jones," said the boy, making a wry face. "I think it is dreadful." "But what did they call you, afterward? What was the childish name you referred to?" "Another of my mother's humorous fancies. She called me 'Ajo,' and others quickly caught up the horrid nickname. It is merely a contraction of A. Jones, and in Sangoa I am called nothing else." "Ajo," repeated Beth, her sweet voice giving the title a pleasant sound. "In Spanish it would be pronounced 'Ah-ho.'" "But we are not Spanish in Sangoa." "What are your people?" "Formerly all Americans. The younger generation are, like myself I suppose, Sangoans by birth. But there isn't a black or yellow or brown man on our island." "How many inhabitants has Sangoa?" "About six hundred, all told." There was silence for a while. "Any pains yet?" inquired Beth. "Not yet. But I'm feeling drowsy. With your permission I'll lie down and take a nap. I slept very little last night." He threw away his cigar, which he had smoked nearly to the end, and rising without assistance, bowed and walked away. "Will he ever waken, I wonder?" said Beth softly. "Of course," declared Patsy. "He has crossed the Rubicon and is going to get well. I feel it in my bones!" "Let us hope," responded Beth, "that Ajo also feels it in his bones, rather than in his stomach." CHAPTER X STILL A MYSTERY The day advanced to luncheon time and Uncle John and the Weldons came back from their mountain trip. Hollywood is in the foothills and over the passes are superb automobile roads into the fruitful valleys of San Fernando and La Canada. "Seen anything of the boy--A. Jones?" inquired Arthur. "Yes; and perhaps we've seen the last of him," answered Beth. "Oh. Has he gone?" "No one knows. Patsy fed him and he went to sleep. What has happened since we cannot tell." The girls then related the experiences of the morning, at which both Uncle John and Arthur looked solemn and uncomfortable. But Louise said calmly: "I think Patsy was quite right. I wouldn't have dared such a thing myself, but I'm sure that boy needed a square meal more than anything. If he dies, that breakfast has merely hastened his end; but if he doesn't die it will do him good." "There's another possibility," remarked Uncle John. "He may be suffering agonies with no one to help him." Patsy's face was white as chalk. The last hour or two had brought her considerable anxiety and her uncle's horrible suggestion quite unnerved her. She stole away to the office and inquired the number of Mr. Jones' room. It was on the ground floor and easily reached by a passage. The girl tiptoed up to the door and putting her ear to the panel listened intently. A moment later a smile broke over her face; she chuckled delightedly and then turned and ran buck to her friends. "He's snoring like a walrus!" she cried triumphantly. "Are you sure they are not groans?" asked Arthur. "Pah! Can't I recognize a snore when I hear it? And I'll bet it's the first sound sleep he's had in a month." Mr. Merrick and Arthur went to the door of the boy's room to satisfy themselves that Patsy was not mistaken, and the regularity of the sounds quickly convinced them the girl was right. So they had a merry party at luncheon, calling Patsy "Doctor" with grave deference and telling her she had probably saved the life of A. Jones for a second time. "And now," proposed Uncle John, when the repast was over, "let us drive down to the sea and have a look at that beautiful launch that came in yesterday. Everyone is talking about it and they say it belongs to some foreign prince." So they motored to Santa Monica and spent the afternoon on the sands, watching the bathers and admiring the graceful outlines of the big yacht lying at anchor a half mile from the shore. The boat was something of a mystery to everybody. It was named the "Arabella" and had come from Hawaii via San Francisco; but what it was doing here and who the owner might be were questions no one seemed able to answer. Rumor had it that a Japanese prince had come in it to inspect the coast line, but newspaper reporters were forbidden to scale the side and no satisfaction was given their eager questioning by the bluff old captain who commanded the craft. So the girls snapped a few kodak pictures of the handsome yacht and then lost interest in it. That evening they met Mrs. Montrose and the Stanton girls at dinner and told them about the boy, who still remained invisible. Uncle John had listened at his door again, but the snores had ceased and a deathlike silence seemed to pervade the apartment. This rendered them all a trifle uneasy and when they left the dining room Arthur went to the hotel clerk and asked: "Have you seen Mr. Jones this evening?" "No," was the reply. "Do you know him?" "Very slightly." "Well, he's the queerest guest we've ever had. The first day he ate nothing at all. This morning I hear he had a late breakfast. Wasn't around to lunch, but a little while ago we sent a meal to his room that would surprise you." "Indeed!" "Yes. A strange order it was! Broiled mushrooms, pancakes with maple syrup and ice cream. How is that for a mix-up--and at dinner time, too!" said the clerk, disgustedly. Arthur went back and reported. "All right," said Patsy, much relieved. "We've got him started and now he can take care of himself. Come, Uncle; let's all go down town and see the picture that drove Mr. Goldstein crazy." "He was very decent to us to-day," asserted Flo Stanton. "Did he ask any explanation about Maud's appearing in the picture of a rival company?" inquired Arthur. "No, not a word." "Did he mention Mr. Jones, who conquered him so mysteriously?" asked Beth. "Not at all. Goldstein confined himself strictly to business; but he treated us with unusual courtesy," explained Maud. They were curious to see the films of the rescue, and the entire party rode to the down-town theatre where the Corona picture was being run. Outside the entrance they found the audacious placard, worded just as Goldstein had reported, and they all agreed it was a mean trick to claim another firm's star as their own. "I do not think the Corona Company is responsible for this announcement," said Uncle John. "It is probably an idea of the theatre proprietor, who hoped to attract big business in that way." "He has succeeded," grumbled Arthur, as he took his place at the end of a long line of ticket buyers. The picture, as it flashed on the screen, positively thrilled them. First was shown the crowd of merry bathers, with Patsy and Maud standing in the water a little apart from the others. Then the boy--far out beyond the rest--threw up his arms, struggling desperately. Maud swam swiftly toward him, Patsy making for the shore. The launching of the boat, the race to rescue, Maud's effort to keep the drowning one afloat, and the return to the shore, where an excited crowd surrounded them--all was clearly shown in the picture. Now they had the advantage of observing the expressions on the faces of the bathers when they discovered a tragedy was being enacted in their midst. The photographs were so full of action that the participants now looked upon their adventure in a new light and regarded it far more seriously than before. The picture concluded with the scene where Uncle John lifted the body into the automobile and dashed away with it to the hospital. Maud Stanton, used as she was to seeing herself in motion pictures, was even more impressed than the others when observing her own actions at a time when she was wholly unconscious that a camera-man had his lens focused upon her. "It's a great picture!" whispered Flo, as they made their way out of the crowded theatre. "Why can't all our films be as natural and absorbing as this one?" "Because," said her sister, "in this case there is no acting. The picture carries conviction with a force that no carefully rehearsed scene could ever accomplish." "That is true," agreed her Aunt Jane. "The nature scenes are the best, after all." "The most unsatisfactory pictures I have ever seen," remarked Uncle John, "were those of prominent men, and foreign kings, and the like, who stop before the camera and bow as awkwardly as a camel. They know they are posing, and in spite of their public experience they're as bashful as schoolboys or as arrogant as policemen, according to their personal characteristics." "Did you notice the mob of children in that theatre?" asked Patsy, as they proceeded homeward. "I wish there were more pictures made that are suitable to their understandings." "They enjoy anything in the way of a picture," said Arthur. "It isn't necessary to cater to children; they'll go anyhow, whatever is shown." "That may be, to an extent, true," said Beth. "Children are fascinated by any sort of motion pictures, but a lot of them must be wholly incomprehensible to the child mind. I agree with Patsy that the little ones ought to have their own theatres and their own pictures." "That will come, in time," prophesied Aunt Jane. "Already the film makers are recognizing the value of the children's patronage and are trying to find subjects that especially appeal to them." They reached the hotel soon after ten o'clock and found "Ajo" seated in the lobby. He appeared much brighter and stronger than the day before and rose to greet Patsy with a smile that had lost much of its former sad expression. "Congratulate me, Dr. Doyle," said he. "I'm still alive, and--thanks to your prescription--going as well as could be expected." "I'm glad I did the right thing," she replied; "but we were all a little worried for fear I'd make a mistake." "I have just thrown away about a thousand of those food-tablets," he informed her with an air of pride. "I am positive there is no substitute for real food, whatever the specialists may say. In fact," he continued more soberly, "I believe you have rescued me a second time from certain death, for now I have acquired a new hope and have made up my mind to get well." "Be careful not to overdo it," cautioned Uncle John. "You ordered a queer supper, we hear." "But it seemed to agree with me. I've had a delightful sleep--the first sound sleep in a month--and already I feel like a new man. I waited up to tell you this, hoping you would be interested." "We are!" exclaimed Patsy, who felt both pride and pleasure. "This evening we have been to see the motion picture of your rescue from drowning." "Oh. How did you like it?" "It's a splendid picture. I'm not sure it will interest others as much as ourselves, yet the people present seemed to like it." "Well it was their last chance to observe my desperate peril and my heroic rescue," said the boy. "The picture will not be shown after to-night." "Why not?" they asked, in surprise. "I bought the thing this afternoon. It didn't seem to me quite modest to exploit our little adventure in public." This was a new phase of the strange boy's character and the girls did not know whether to approve it or not. "It must have cost you something!" remarked Flo, the irrepressible. "Besides, how could you do it while you were asleep?" "Why, I wakened long enough to use the telephone," he replied with a smile. "There are more wonderful inventions in the world than motion pictures, you know." "But you like motion pictures, don't you?" asked Maud, wondering why he had suppressed the film in question. "Very much. In fact, I am more interested in them than in anything else, not excepting the telephone--which makes Aladdin's lamp look like a firefly in the sunshine." "I suppose," said Flo, staring into his face with curious interest, "that you will introduce motion pictures into your island of Sangoa, when you return?" "I suppose so," he answered, a little absently. "I had not considered that seriously, as yet, but my people would appreciate such a treat, I'm sure." This speech seemed to destroy, in a manner, their shrewd conjecture that he was in America to purchase large quantities of films. Why, then, should Goldstein have paid such abject deference to this unknown islander? In his own room, after the party had separated for the night, Mr. Merrick remarked to Arthur Weldon as they sat smoking their cigars: "Young Jones is evidently possessed of some means." "So it seems," replied Arthur. "Perhaps his father, the scientific recluse, had accumulated some money, and the boy came to America to get rid of it. He will be extravagant and wasteful for awhile, and then go back to his island with the idea that he has seen the world." Uncle John nodded. "He is a rather clean-cut young fellow," said he, "and the chances are he won't become dissipated, even though he loses his money through lack of worldly knowledge or business experience. A boy brought up and educated on an island can't be expected to prove very shrewd, and whatever the extent of his fortune it is liable to melt like snow in the sunshine." "After all," returned Arthur, "this experience won't hurt him. He will still have his island to return to." They smoked for a time in silence. "Has it ever occurred to you, sir," said Arthur, "that the story Jones has related to us, meager though it is, bears somewhat the stamp of a fairy tale?" Uncle John removed his cigar and looked reflectively at the ash. "You mean that the boy is not what he seems?" "Scarcely that, sir. He seems like a good boy, in the main. But his story is--such as one might invent if he were loath to tell the truth." Uncle John struck a match and relit his cigar. "I believe in A. Jones, and I see no reason to doubt his story," he asserted. "If real life was not full of romance and surprises, the novelists would be unable to interest us in their books." CHAPTER XI A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS The day had not started auspiciously for the Stanton sisters. Soon after they arrived at the Continental Film Company's plant Maud had wrenched her ankle by stumbling over some loose planks which had been carelessly left on the open-air stage, and she was now lying upon a sofa in the manager's room with her limb bandaged and soaked with liniment. Flo was having troubles, too. A girl who had been selected by the producer to fall from an aeroplane in mid-air had sent word she was ill and could not work to-day, and the producer had ordered Flo to prepare for the part. Indignantly she sought the manager, to file a protest, and while she waited in the anteroom for an audience, Mr. A. Jones of Sangoa came in and greeted her with a bow and a smile. "Good gracious! Where did _you_ come from?" she inquired. "My hotel. I've just driven over to see Goldstein," he replied. "You'll have to wait, I'm afraid," she warned him. "The manager is busy just now. I've been wiggling on this bench half an hour, and haven't seen him yet--and my business is very important." "So is mine, Miss Flo," he rejoined, looking at her with an odd expression. Then, as a stenographer came hurrying from the inner room, he stopped the girl and said: "Please take my card to Mr. Goldstein." "Oh, he won't see anybody now, for he's busy talking with one of our producers. You'll have to call again," she said flippantly. But even as she spoke she glanced at the card, started and turned red. "Oh, pardon me!" she added hastily and fled back to the managerial sanctum. "That's funny!" muttered Flo, half to herself. "Yes," he said, laughing, "my cards are charged with electricity, and they're bound to galvanize anyone in this establishment. Come in, Miss Flo," he added, as Goldstein rushed out of his office to greet the boy effusively; "your business takes precedence to mine, you know." The manager ushered them into his office, a big room with a busy aspect. At one end were two or three girls industriously thumping typewriters; McNeil, the producer, was sorting manuscript on Goldstein's own desk; a young man who served as the manager's private secretary was poring over a voluminous record-book, wherein were listed all the films ever made by the manufacturers of the world. On a sofa in a far corner reclined the injured "star" of the company, Maud Stanton, who--being half asleep at the moment--did not notice the entrance of her sister and young Jones. "Sit down, Mr. Jones; pray sit down!" exclaimed Goldstein eagerly, pointing to his own chair. "Would you like me to clear the room, so that our conversation may be private?" "Not yet," replied the boy, refusing the seat of honor and taking a vacant chair. "Miss Stanton has precedence, and I believe she wishes to speak with you." Goldstein took his seat at the desk and cast an inquiring glance at Flo. "Well?" he demanded, impatiently. "Mr. Werner has ordered me to do the airship stunt for his picture, because Nance Holden isn't here to-day," began the girl. "Well, why annoy me with such trifles? Werner knows what he wants, and you'll do as well as the Holden girl." "But I don't want to tumble out of that airship," she protested. "There's no danger. Life nets will be spread underneath the aeroplane," said the manager. "The camera merely catches you as you are falling, so the thing won't be more than twenty or thirty feet from the ground. Now run away and don't bother. I must speak with Mr. Jones." "But I'm afraid, Mr. Goldstein!" pleaded the girl. "I don't want to go up in the aeroplane, and these stunts are not in my line, or what I was engaged to do." "You'll do what I tell you!" asserted the manager, with marked irritation. "I won't stand for any rebellion among my actors, and you'll do as Werner orders or you'll forfeit your week's pay." Here Maud half rose from her sofa to address her employer. "Please, Mr. Goldstein," she said, "don't make Flo do that fall. There are plenty of other girls to take her place, and she--" "Silence, Miss Stanton!" roared the manager. "You'll disrupt all discipline if you interfere. A nice time we'd have here, if we allowed our actors to choose their own parts! I insist that your sister obey my producer's orders." "Quite right, Goldstein," remarked young Jones, in his quiet voice. "You've carried your point and maintained discipline. I like that. Miss Flo Stanton will do exactly what you request her to do. But you're going to change your mind and think better of her protest. I'm almost sure, Goldstein, from the expression of your face, that you intend to issue prompt orders that another girl must take her place." Goldstein looked at him steadily a moment and the arrogant expression changed to one of meek subservience. "To be sure!" he muttered. "You have read my mind accurately, Mr. Jones. Here, Judd," to his secretary, "find Werner and tell him I don't approve his choice of Flo Stanton as a substitute for Nance Holden. Let's see; tell him to put that Moore girl in her place." The young fellow bowed and left the room. McNeil smiled slyly to himself as he bent over his manuscript. Jones had gone to Maud's side to inquire anxiously after her injury. "I don't imagine it will amount to much," she said reassuringly. "Mr. Goldstein wants me to rest quietly until this afternoon, when our new photo-play is to be produced. I'm to do the leading part, you know, and he thinks I'll be able by that time to get through all right." Goldstein overheard this and came toward them, rubbing his hands together nervously. "That seems unwise, Miss Maud," objected Jones. "To use your foot so soon might make it much worse. Let us postpone the play until some other time." Goldstein's face was a study. His body twitched spasmodically. "Oh, Mr. Jones!" he exclaimed; "that's impossible; it wouldn't do at all! We've been rehearsing this play and preparing for its production for the last two weeks, and to-day all our actors and assistants are here and ready to make the picture. I've already postponed it four hours--until this afternoon--to favor Miss Stanton, but, really--" "Never mind the details," interrupted the boy. "I do not consider Miss Stanton able to do her work to-day. Send her back to her hotel at once and order the play postponed until she is able to attend." Goldstein was greatly disturbed by this order, issued quietly but in a tone of command that brooked no opposition. Again he glanced shrewdly at the young man, and in the manager's face astonishment and fear were intermingled. "Sir," he said in repressed tones, for he was really angry and had been accustomed to wield the power of an autocrat in this establishment, "you are placing me in an embarrassing position. I am expected to make every day count, so that the Continental may pay a liberal profit to its owners. To follow your instructions would burden us with an enormous expense, quite useless, I assure you, and--" "Very well. Incur the expense, Goldstein." "All right, Mr. Jones. Excuse me a moment while I issue instructions for the postponement." McNeil rose and faced the manager. "Are you really going to postpone this important play?" he demanded, in a voice of wonder. Goldstein was glad to vent his chagrin on the producer. "No insolence, sir!" he roared. "Come with me, and," as he dragged McNeil to the door and paused there, "if you dare lisp a word of what you've overheard, I'll fire you like a shot!" When they had left the room Maud said with a puzzled air: "I can't understand your power over Goldstein, Mr. Jones. He is a dictator--almost a tyrant--and in this place his word is law. At least, it was until you came, and--and--" "Don't try to understand it, Miss Stanton," he answered in a careless manner. "Do you think you can manage to crawl to the automobile, or shall we carry you?" "I'll bet Goldstein has murdered someone, and Mr. Jones knows all about it!" exclaimed Flo, who had been an interested witness of the scene. Maud stood up, with her sister's support, and tested her lame ankle. "It still hurts a little," she said, "but I can manage to hobble on it." "Get your sister's wraps," the boy said to Flo, "and we'll send her straight home." "I expect Goldstein will dock my salary, as well as fine Flo," remarked Maud musingly, as she waited for her hat and coat. "He obeyed you very meekly, Mr. Jones, but I could see a wicked glitter in his eye, nevertheless." "I am sure the manager will neither dock nor fine either of you," he replied reassuringly. "On the contrary, you might sue the company for damages, for leaving that lumber where you would fall over it." "Oh, no," she returned, laughing at the idea. "We have signed contracts waiving any damages for injuries sustained while at work on the premises. We all have to do that, you know, because the business is hazardous at its best. On the other hand, Mr. Goldstein has a physician and surgeon always within call, in case of accident, and the service is quite free to all the employees." He nodded. "I know. But the fact that you signed such a contract, under compulsion, would not prevent the court from awarding damages, if you sustained them while on duty." "This hurt is nothing of importance," she said hastily. "In a day or two I shall be able to walk as well as ever." Flo came running back with Maud's things. Aunt Jane followed, saying that if Maud was to go to the hotel she would accompany her and take care of her. "I've examined the ankle," she said to young Jones, "and I assure you it is not a severe strain. But it is true that she will be better off in her own room, where she can rest quietly. So I will go with her." "How about Miss Flo?" asked the boy. "Flo is very self-reliant and will get along to-day very nicely without me," replied Mrs. Montrose. Mr. Goldstein entered, frowning and still resenting the interference of this Mr. A. Jones of Sangoa. But he ventured no further protest nor did he speak until Maud, Flo and Aunt Jane had all left the room. "You're not going, Mr. Jones?" he asked. "Only to see Miss Stanton started for home. Then I'll come back and have a little talk with you." "Thank you, sir." CHAPTER XII PICTURES, GIRLS AND NONSENSE "Well, Aunt Jane," said Maud Stanton, when their car was rolling toward the hotel and the girl had related the remarkable interview in the office, "what do you think of Ajo now?" "He is certainly an amazing young man," was the reply. "I cannot in any way figure out his connection with Goldstein, or his power over the man. The Continental Film Manufacturing Company is a great corporation, with headquarters in New York, and Mr. Goldstein is the authorized head and manager of the concern on the Pacific coast. I understand his salary is ten thousand a year. On the other hand, young Jones has only been in this country for a year, coming from an insignificant island somewhere in the South Seas, where he was born and reared. Much of the time since he arrived in America he has been an invalid. Aside from this meager information, no one seems to know anything about him." "Putting the case that way makes it all the more remarkable," observed Maud. "A big, experienced, important man, cowed by a mere boy. When Goldstein first met this callow, sallow youth, he trembled before him. When the boy enters the office of the great film company he dictates to the manager, who meekly obeys him. Remember, too, that A. Jones, by his interference, has caused a direct loss to the company, which Goldstein will have to explain, as best he may, in his weekly report to the New York office. A more astonishing state of affairs could not be imagined, Aunt Jane!" "The puzzle will solve itself presently," said the lady. "Abnormal conditions seldom last long." Maud passed the day in bed, quietly reading a book. Her injury was really slight and with rest it mended rapidly. Patsy and Beth came in to see her and in the conversation that ensued the girls were told of the latest mystery surrounding A. Jones. "It is surely queer!" admitted Miss Doyle, impressed and thoughtful. "Uncle John and Arthur were saying this noon, at lunch, that Ajo was a helpless sort of individual and easily influenced by others--as witness his caving in to me when I opposed his doctor's treatment. Arthur thinks he has come to this country to squander what little money his father left him and that his public career outside the limits of his little island will be brief. Yet according to your story the boy is no weakling but has power and knows how to use it." "He surely laid down the law to Goldstein," said Maud. "He is very young," remarked Beth, ignoring the fact that she was herself no older, "and perhaps that is why we attach so much importance to his actions. A grown-up man is seldom astonishing, however eccentric he may prove to be. In a boy we expect only boyishness, and young Jones has interested us because he is unique." After a little the conversation drifted to motion pictures, for both Patsy and Beth were eager to learn all about the business details of film making, which Maud, by reason of her months of experience, was able to explain to them in a comprehensive manner. Flo came home toward evening, but had little more to tell them, as the day had passed very quietly at the "studio." Jones had remained closeted with the manager for a full hour, and it was remarked that after he had gone away Goldstein was somewhat subdued and performed his duties less aggressively than usual. Maud's visitors now left her to dress for dinner, at which meal she was able to rejoin them, walking with a slight limp but otherwise recovered from her accident. To their surprise, young Jones appeared as they were entering the dining room and begged for a seat at their table. Uncle John at once ordered another place laid at the big round table, which accommodated the company of nine very nicely. Ajo sat between Patsy and Maud and although he selected his dishes with some care he partook of all the courses from soup to dessert. The morning interview with Goldstein was not mentioned. Ajo inquired about Maud's hurt but then changed the subject and conversed upon nearly everything but motion pictures. However, after they had repaired to the hotel lobby and were seated together in a cosy, informal group, Patsy broached a project very near to her heart. "Beth and I," said she, "have decided to build a Children's Picture Theatre." "Where?" asked Uncle John, rather startled by the proposition. "Here, or in Los Angeles," was the reply. "You see," explained Beth, "there is a crying need for a place where children may go and see pictures that appeal especially to them and are, at the same time, quite proper for them to witness. A great educational field is to be opened by this venture, and Patsy and I would enjoy the work of creating the first picture theatre, exclusively for children, ever established in America." "You may say, 'in the world,'" added Arthur. "I like this idea of yours, girls, and I hope you will carry it out." "Oh, they'll carry it out, all right," remarked Uncle John. "I've been expecting something of this sort, ever since we came here. My girls, Mr. Jones," he said, turning to the young man, "are always doing some quaint thing, or indulging in some queer enterprise, for they're a restless lot. Before Louise married, she was usually in these skirmishes with fate, but now--" "Oh, I shall join Patsy and Beth, of course," asserted Louise. "It will make it easier for all, to divide the expense between us, and I am as much interested in pictures as they are." "Perhaps," said Patsy musingly, "we might build two theatres, in different parts of the city. There are so many children to be amused. And we intend to make the admission price five cents." "Have you any idea what it costs to build one of these picture theatres?" asked Arthur. "We're not going to build one of 'these' theatres," retorted Patsy. "Many of the dens I've been in cost scarcely anything, being mere shelters. The city is strewn with a lot of miserable, stuffy theatres that no one can enjoy sitting in, even to see a good picture. We have talked this over and decided to erect a new style of building, roomy and sanitary, with cushioned seats and plenty of broad aisles. There are one or two of this class already in Los Angeles, but we want to make our children's theatres a little better than the best." "And the expense?" "Well, it will cost money, of course. But it will be a great delight to the children--bless their little hearts!" "This is really a business enterprise," added Beth gravely. Uncle John chuckled with amusement. "Have you figured out the profits?" he inquired. "It really ought to pay, Uncle," declared Patsy, somewhat nettled by this flaccid reception of her pet scheme. "All the children will insist on being taken to a place like that, for we shall show just the pictures they love to see. And, allowing there is no money to be made from the venture, think of the joy we shall give to innumerable little ones!" "Go ahead, my dears," said Uncle John, smiling approval. "And, if you girls find you haven't enough money to carry out your plans, come to me." "Oh, thank you, Uncle!" exclaimed Beth. "But I feel sure we can manage the cost ourselves. We will build one of the theatres first, and if that is a success we will build others." "But about those films, made especially for children," remarked Arthur. "Where will you get them?" "Why, there are lots of firms making films," replied Patsy. "We can select from all that are made the ones most suitable for our purpose." "I fear you cannot do that," said Mrs. Montrose, who had listened with wonder to this conversation. "There are three combinations, or 'trusts,' among the film makers, which are known as the Licensed, the Mutual and the Independents. If you purchase from one of these trusts, you cannot get films from the others, for that is their edict. Therefore you will have only about one-third of the films made to select from." "I thought money would buy anything--in the way of merchandise," said Louise, half laughing and half indignant. "Not from these film dictators," was the reply. "They all make a few children's pictures," announced Maud Stanton. "Even the Continental turns out one occasionally. But there are not nearly enough, taken all together, to supply an exclusive children's theatre." "Then we will have some made," declared Patsy. "We will order some fairy tales, such as the children like. They would be splendid in motion pictures." "Some have already been made and exhibited," said Mrs. Montrose. "The various manufacturers have made films of the fairy tales of Hans Andersen, Frank Baum, Lewis Carroll and other well-known writers." "And were they successful?" "Quite so, I believe; but such films are seldom put out except at holiday time." "I think, Beth," said Patsy to her cousin, in a businesslike tone, "that we must organize a company and make our own films. Then we can get exactly what we want." "Oh, yes!" replied Beth, delighted with the suggestion. "And let us get Maud and Flo to act in our pictures. Won't it be exciting?" "Pardon me, young ladies," said A. Jones, speaking for the first time since this subject had been broached. "Would it not be wise to consider the expense of making films, before you undertake it?" Patsy looked at him inquiringly. "Do you know what the things cost?" she asked. "I've some idea," said he. "Feature films of fairy tales, such as you propose, cost at least two thousand dollars each to produce. You would need about three for each performance, and you will have to change your programmes at least once a week. That would mean an outlay of not less than six thousand dollars a week, which is doubtless more money than your five-cent theatre could take in." This argument staggered the girls for a moment. Then Beth asked: "How do the ordinary theatres manage?" "The ordinary theatre simply rents its pictures, paying about three hundred dollars a week for the service. There is a 'middleman,' called the 'Exchange,' whose business is to buy the films from the makers and rent them to the theatres. He pays a big price for a film, but is able to rent it to dozens of theatres, by turns, and by this method he not only gets back the money he has expended but makes a liberal profit." "Well," said Patsy, not to be baffled, "we could sell several copies of our films to these middlemen, and so reduce the expense of making them for our use." "The middleman won't buy them," asserted Jones. "He is the thrall of one or the other of the trusts, and buys only trust pictures." "I see," said Uncle John, catching the idea; "it's a scheme to destroy competition." "Exactly," replied young Jones. "What does the Continental do, Maud?" asked Patsy. "I don't know," answered the girl; "but perhaps Aunt Jane can tell you." "I believe the Continental is a sort of trust within itself," explained Mrs. Montrose. "Since we have been connected with the company I have learned more or less of its methods. It employs a dozen or so producing companies and makes three or four pictures every week. The concern has its own Exchange, or middleman, who rents only Continental films to the theatres that patronize him." "Well, we might do the same thing," proposed Patsy, who was loath to abandon her plan. "You might, if you have the capital," assented Mrs. Montrose. "The Continental is an immense corporation, and I am told it has more than a million dollars invested." "Two millions," said A. Jones. The girls were silent a while, seriously considering this startling assertion. They had, between them, considerable money, but they realized they could not enter a field that required such an enormous investment as film making. "I suppose," said Beth regretfully, "we shall have to give up making films." "Then where are we to get the proper pictures for our theatre?" demanded Patsy. "It is quite evident we _can't_ get them," said Louise. "Therefore we may be obliged to abandon the theatre proposition." Another silence, still more grave. Uncle John was discreet enough to say nothing. The Stantons and Mrs. Montrose felt it was not their affair. Arthur Weldon was slyly enjoying the chagrin visible upon the faces of Mr. Merrick's three pretty nieces. As for A. Jones, he was industriously figuring upon the back of an envelope with a stubby bit of pencil. CHAPTER XIII A FOOLISH BOY It was the youthful Sangoan who first broke the silence. Glancing at the figures he had made he said: "It is estimated that if twenty picture theatres use any one film--copies of it, of course--that film will pay for its cost of making. Therefore, if you build twenty children's theatres, instead of the one or two you originally proposed, you would be able to manufacture your own films and they would be no expense to you." They gazed at him in bewilderment. "That is all simple enough!" laughed Arthur. "Twenty picture theatres at twenty thousand dollars each--a low estimate, my dears, for such as you require--would mean an investment of four hundred thousand dollars. A film factory, with several producing companies to keep it busy, and all the necessary paraphernalia of costumes and properties, would mean a million or so more. Say a million and a half, all told. Why, it's a mere bagatelle!" "Arthur!" Severely, from Louise. "I advise you girls to economize in other ways and devote your resources to this business, which might pay you--and might not," he continued, oblivious to stony glares. "Really, Mr. Jones," said Beth, pouting, "we were not joking, but in real earnest." "Have I questioned it, Miss De Graf?" "Mr. Jones was merely trying to show you how--er--er--how impractical your idea was," explained Uncle John mildly. "No; I am in earnest, too," said the boy. "To prove it, I will agree to establish a plant and make the pictures, if the young ladies will build the twenty theatres to show them in." Here was another suggestion of a bewildering nature. Extravagant as the offer seemed, the boy was very serious. He blushed a little as he observed Mr. Merrick eyeing him earnestly, and continued in an embarrassed, halting way: "I--I assure you, sir, that I am able to fulfill my part of the agreement. Also I would like to do it. It would serve to interest me and keep me occupied in ways that are not wholly selfish. My--my other business does not demand my personal attention, you see." To hear this weak, sickly youth speak of investing a million dollars in a doubtful enterprise, in spite of the fact that he lived on a far-away island and was a practical stranger in America, set them all to speculating anew in regard to his history and condition in life. Seeing that the boy had himself made an opening for a logical query, Uncle John asked: "Do you mind telling us what this other business is, to which you refer?" A. Jones moved uneasily in his chair. Then he glanced quickly around the circle and found every eye regarding him with eager curiosity. He blushed again, a deep red this time, but an instant later straightened up and spoke in a tone of sudden resolve. "Most people dislike to speak of themselves," he said, "and I am no exception. But you, who have kindly received me as a friend, after having generously saved me from an untimely death, have surely the right to know something about me--if, indeed, the subject interests you." "It is but natural that we should feel an interest in you, Mr. Jones," replied Mr. Merrick; "yet I assure you we have no desire to pry into your personal affairs. You have already volunteered a general statement of your antecedents and the object of your visit to America, and that, I assure you, will suffice us. Pardon me for asking an impertinent question." The boy seemed perplexed, now. "I did not consider it impertinent, sir. I made a business proposal to your nieces," he said, "and before they could accept such a proposal they would be entitled to know something of my financial standing." For a green, inexperienced youth, he spoke with rare acumen, thought Mr. Merrick; but the old gentleman had now determined to shield the boy from a forced declaration of his finances, so he said: "My nieces can hardly afford to accept your proposition. They are really able to build one or two theatres without inconveniencing themselves, but twenty would be beyond their means. You, of course, understand they were not seeking an investment, but trying, with all their hearts, to benefit the children. I thoroughly approve their original idea, but if it requires twenty picture theatres to render it practical, they will abandon the notion at once." Jones nodded absently, his eyes half closed in thought. After a brief pause he replied: "I hate to see this idea abandoned at the very moment of its birth. It's a good idea, and in no way impractical, in my opinion. So permit me to make another proposition. I will build the twenty theatres myself, and furnish the films for them, provided the young ladies will agree to assume the entire management of them when they are completed." Dead silence followed this speech. The girls did some rapid-fire mental calculations and realized that this young man was proposing to invest something like fourteen hundred thousand dollars, in order that they might carry out their philanthropic conception. Why should he do this, even if he could afford it? Both Mr. Merrick and Arthur Weldon were staring stolidly at the floor. Their attitudes expressed, for the first time, doubt--if not positive unbelief. As men of considerable financial experience, they regarded the young islander's proposition as an impossible one. Jones noted this blank reception of his offer and glanced appealingly at Patsy. It was an uncomfortable moment for the girl and to avoid meeting his eyes she looked away, across the lobby. A few paces distant stood a man who leaned against a table and held a newspaper before his face. Patsy knew, however, that he was not reading. A pair of dark, glistening eyes peered over the top of the paper and were steadfastly fixed upon the unconscious features of young Jones. Something in the attitude of the stranger, whom she had never seen before, something in the rigid pose, the intent gaze--indicating both alertness and repression--riveted the girl's attention at once and gave her a distinct shock of uneasiness. "I wish," said the boy, in his quiet, firm way, yet with much deference in his manner and tone, "that you young ladies would consider my offer seriously, and take proper time to reach a decision. I am absolutely in earnest. I want to join you in your attempt to give pleasure to children, and I am willing and--and able--to furnish the funds required. Without your cooperation, however, I could do nothing, and my health is such that I wish to leave the management of the theatres entirely in your hands, as well as all the details of their construction." "We will consider it, of course, Mr. Jones," answered Beth gravely. "We are a little startled just now, as you see; but when we grow accustomed to the immensity of the scheme--our baby, which you have transformed into a giant--we shall be able to consider it calmly and critically, and decide if we are competent to undertake the management of so many theatres." "Thank you. Then, I think, I will excuse myself for this evening and return to my room. I'm improving famously, under Dr. Doyle's instructions, but am not yet a rugged example of health." Patsy took his hand at parting, as did the others, but her attention was divided between Ajo and the strange man who had never for a moment ceased watching him. Not once did the dark eyes waver, but followed each motion of the boy as he sauntered to the desk, got his key from the clerk, and then proceeded to his room, turning up one of the corridors on the main floor. The stranger now laid his newspaper on the table and disclosed his entire face for the first time. A middle-aged man, he seemed to be, with iron-gray hair and a smoothly shaven, rather handsome face. From his dress he appeared to be a prosperous business man and it was evident that he was a guest of the hotel, for he wandered through the lobby--in which many other guests were grouped, some chatting and others playing "bridge"--and presently disappeared down the corridor traversed by young Jones. Patsy drew a deep breath, but said nothing to the others, who, when relieved of the boy's presence, began to discuss volubly his singular proposal. "The fellow is crazy," commented Arthur. "Twenty picture theatres, with a film factory to supply them, is a big order even for a multi-millionaire--and I can't imagine this boy coming under that head." "He seemed in earnest," said Maud, musingly. "What do you think, Aunt Jane?" "I am greatly perplexed," admitted Mrs. Montrose. "Had I not known of the conquest of Goldstein by this boy, who issued orders which the manager of the Continental meekly obeyed, I would have laughed at his proposition. As it is, I'm afraid to state that he won't carry out his plan to the letter of the agreement." "Would it not be a rash investment, ma'am?" inquired Uncle John. "Frankly, I do not know. While all the film makers evade any attempt to discover how prosperous--financially--they are, we know that without exception they have grown very wealthy. I am wondering if this young Jones is not one of the owners of the Continental--a large stockholder, perhaps. If so, that not only accounts for his influence with Goldstein, but it proves him able to finance this remarkable enterprise. He doubtless knows what he is undertaking, for his figures, while not accurate, were logical." "Of course!" cried Patsy. "That explains everything." "Still," said Uncle John cautiously, "this is merely surmise on our part, and before accepting it we must reconcile it with the incongruities in the case. It is possible that the elder Jones owned an interest in the Continental and bequeathed it to his son. But is it probable? Remember, he was an islander, and a recluse." "More likely," said Beth, "Ajo's father left him a great fortune, which the boy invested in the Continental stock." "I have been told," remarked Aunt Jane thoughtfully, "that Continental stock cannot be bought at any price. It pays such enormous dividends that no owner will dispose of it." "The whole thing is perplexing in the extreme," declared Arthur. "The boy tells a story that at first seems frank and straightforward, yet his statements do not dovetail, so to speak." "I think he is holding something back," said Beth; "something that would explain all the discrepancies in his story. You were wrong, Uncle John, not to let him speak when he offered to tell you all." "There was something in his manner that made me revolt from forcing his confidence," was the reply. "There was something in his manner that made me think he was about to concoct a story that would satisfy our curiosity," said Louise with a shrug. Uncle John looked around the circle of faces. "You are not questioning the young fellow's sincerity, I hope?" said he. "I don't, for a single second!" asserted Patsy, stoutly. "He may have a queer history, and he may not have told us all of it, but Ajo is honest. I'll vouch for him!" "So will I, my dear," said Uncle John. "That is more than I can do, just at present," Arthur frankly stated. "My opinion is that his preposterous offer is mere bluff. If you accepted it, you would find him unable to do his part." "Then what is his object?" asked Maud. "I can't figure it out, as yet. He might pose as a millionaire and a generous friend and philanthropist for some time, before the truth was discovered, and during that time he could carry out any secret plans he had in mind. The boy is more shrewd than he appears to be. We, by chance saved his life, and at once he attached himself to us like a barnacle, and we can't shake him off." "We don't want to," said Patsy. "My explanation is that he has fallen in love with one of us girls," suggested Flo, with a mischievous glance at her sister. "I wonder if it's me?" "It is more likely," said Louise, "that he has discovered Uncle John to be a very--prosperous--man." "Nonsense, my dear!" exclaimed that gentleman, evidently irritated by the insinuation. "Don't pick the boy to pieces. Give him a chance. So far he has asked nothing from us, but offers everything. He's a grateful fellow and is anxious to help you girls carry out your ambitious plans. That is how I read him, and I think it is absurd to prejudge him in the way you are doing." The party broke up, the Stantons and Weldons going to their rooms. Beth also rose. "Are you coming to bed, Patsy?" she inquired. "Not just now," her cousin replied. "Between us, we've rubbed Uncle John's fur the wrong way and he won't get composed until he has smoked his good-night cigar. I'll sit with him in this corner and keep him company." So the little man and his favorite niece were left together, and he did not seem in the least ruffled as he lit his cigar and settled down in a big chair, with Patsy beside him, to enjoy it. CHAPTER XIV ISIDORE LE DRIEUX Perhaps the cigar was half gone when Patsy gave a sudden start and squeezed Uncle John's hand, which she had been holding in both her own. "What is it, my dear?" "The man I told you of. There he is, just across the lobby. The man with the gray clothes and gray hair." "Oh, yes; the one lighting a cigar." "Precisely." Uncle John gazed across the lobby reflectively. The stranger's eyes roved carelessly around the big room and then he moved with deliberate steps toward their corner. He passed several vacant chairs and settees on his way and finally paused before a lounging-chair not six feet distant from the one occupied by Mr. Merrick. "Pardon me; is this seat engaged, sir?" he asked. "No," replied Uncle John, not very graciously, for it was a deliberate intrusion. The stranger sat down and for a time smoked his cigar in silence. He was so near them that Patsy forbore any conversation, knowing he would overhear it. Suddenly the man turned squarely in their direction and addressed them. "I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Merrick, if I venture to ask a question," said he. "Well, sir?" "I saw you talking with Mr. Jones this evening--A. Jones, you know, who says he came from Sangoa." "Didn't he?" demanded the old gentleman. The stranger smiled. "Perhaps; once on a time; allowing such a place exists. But his last journey was here from Austria." "Indeed!" Mr. Merrick and Patsy were both staring at the man incredulously. "I am quite sure of that statement, sir; but I cannot prove it, as yet." "Ah! I thought not." Patsy had just told her uncle how she had detected this man stealthily watching Jones, and how he had followed the boy when he retired to his room. The present interview had, they both knew, something to do with this singular action. Therefore Mr. Merrick restrained his indignation at the stranger's pointed questioning. He realized quite well that the man had come to their corner determined to catechise them and gain what information he could. Patsy realized this, too. So, being forewarned, they hoped to learn his object without granting him the satisfaction of "pumping" them. "I suppose you are friends of this Mr. A. Jones," was his next remark. "We are acquaintances," said Mr. Merrick. "Has he ever mentioned his adventures in Austria to you?" "Are _you_ a friend of Mr. Jones?" demanded uncle John. "I am not even an acquaintance," said the man, smiling. "But I am interested in him, through a friend of mine who met him abroad. Permit me to introduce myself, sir." He handed them a card which read: "ISADORE LE DRIEUX Importer of Pearls and Precious Stones 36 Maiden Lane, New York City." "I have connections abroad, in nearly all countries," continued the man, "and it is through some of them that I have knowledge of this young fellow who has taken the name of A. Jones. In fact, I have a portrait of the lad, taken in Paris, which I will show you." He searched in his pocket and produced an envelope from which he carefully removed a photograph, which he handed to Uncle John. Patsy examined it, too, with a start of surprise. The thin features, the large serious eyes, even the closely set lips were indeed those of A. Jones. But in the picture he wore a small mustache. "It can't be _our_ A. Jones," murmured Patsy. "This one is older." "That is on account of the mustache," remarked Le Drieux, who was closely watching their faces. "This portrait was taken more than a year ago." "Oh; but he was in Sangoa then," protested Patsy, who was really bewildered by the striking resemblance. The stranger smiled indulgently. "As a matter of fact, there is no Sangoa." said he; "so we may doubt the young man's assertion that he was ever there." "Why are you interested in him?" inquired Mr. Merrick. "A natural question," said Le Drieux, after a moment of hesitation. "I know you well by reputation, Mr. Merrick, and believe I am justified in speaking frankly to you and your niece, provided you regard my statements as strictly confidential. A year ago I received notice from my friend in Austria that the young man had gone to America and he was anxious I should meet him. At the time I was too busy with my own affairs to look him up, but I recently came to California for a rest, and noticed the strong resemblance between the boy, A. Jones, and the portrait sent me. So I hunted up this picture and compared the two. In my judgment they are one and the same. What do _you_ think, sir?" "I believe there is a resemblance," answered Uncle John, turning the card over. "But here is a name on the back of the photograph: 'Jack Andrews.'" "Yes; this is Jack Andrews," said Le Drieux, nodding. "Have you ever heard the name before?" "Never." "Well, Andrews is noted throughout Europe, and it is but natural he should desire to escape his notoriety by assuming another name out here. Do you note the similarity of the initials? 'J.A.' stand for Jack Andrews. Reverse them and 'A.J.' stand for A. Jones. By the way, what does he claim the 'A' means? Is it Andrew?" "It means nothing at all," said Patsy. "He told us so." "I see. You caught him unprepared. That isn't like Jack. He is always on guard." Both Patsy and Uncle John were by this time sorely perplexed. They had a feeling common to both of them, that the subject of this portrait and A. Jones were two separate and distinct persons; yet the resemblance could not be denied, if they were indeed the same, young Jones had deliberately lied to them, and recalling his various statements and the manner in which they had been made, they promptly acquitted the boy of the charge of falsehood. "For what was Jack Andrews noted throughout Europe?" inquired Mr. Merrick, after silently considering these things. "Well, he was a highflier, for one thing." answered Le Drieux. "He was known as a thorough 'sport' and, I am told, a clever gambler. He had a faculty of making friends, even among the nobility. The gilded youth of London, Paris and Vienna cultivated his acquaintance, and through them he managed to get into very good society. He was a guest at the splendid villa of Countess Ahmberg, near Vienna, when her magnificent collection of pearls disappeared. You remember that loss, and the excitement it caused, do you not?" "No, sir; I have never before heard of the Countess of Ahmberg or her pearls." "Well, the story filled the newspapers for a couple of weeks. The collection embraced the rarest and most valuable pearls known to exist." "And you accuse this man, Andrews, of stealing them?" asked Uncle John, tapping with his finger the portrait he still held. "By no means, sir; by no means!" cried Le Drieux hastily. "In fact, he was one of the few guests at the villa to whom no suspicion attached. From the moment the casket of pearls was last seen by the countess until their loss was discovered, every moment of Andrews' time was accounted for. His alibi was perfect and he was quite prominent in the unsuccessful quest of the thief." "The pearls were not recovered, then?" "No. The whole affair is still a mystery. My friend in Vienna, a pearl merchant like myself, assisted Andrews in his endeavor to discover the thief and, being much impressed by the young man's personality, sent me this photograph, asking me to meet him, as I have told you, when he reached America." "Is his home in this country?" "New York knows him, but knows nothing of his family or his history. He is popular there, spending money freely and bearing the reputation of an all-around good fellow. On his arrival there, a year ago, he led a gay life for a few days and then suddenly disappeared. No one knew what had become of him. When I found him here, under the name of A. Jones, the disappearance was solved." "I think," said Uncle John, "you are laboring under a serious, if somewhat natural, mistake. The subject of this picture is like A. Jones, indeed, but he is older and his expression more--more--" "Blase and sophisticated," said Patsy. "Thank you, my dear; I am no dictionary, and if those are real words they may convey my meaning. I feel quite sure, Mr. Le Drieux, that the story of Andrews can not be the story of young Jones." Le Drieux took the picture and replaced it in his pocket. "To err is human," said he, "and I will admit the possibility of my being mistaken in my man. But you will admit the resemblance?" "Yes. They might be brothers. But young Jones has said he has no brothers, and I believe him." Le Drieux sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he said: "I appealed to you, Mr. Merrick, because I was not thoroughly satisfied, in my own mind, of my conclusions. You have added to my doubts, I must confess, yet I cannot abandon the idea that the two men are one and the same. As my suspicion is only shared by you and your niece, in confidence, I shall devote myself for a few days to studying young Jones and observing his actions. In that way I may get a clue that will set all doubt at rest." "We will introduce you to him," said Patsy. "and then you may question him as much as you like." "Oh, no; I prefer not to make his acquaintance until I am quite sure," was the reply. "If he is not Jack Andrews he would be likely to resent the insinuation that he is here trading under a false name. Good night, Mr. Merrick. Good night, Miss Doyle. I thank you for your courteous consideration." He had risen, and now bowed and walked away. "Well," said Patsy. "what was he after? And did he learn anything from us?" "He did most of the talking himself," replied Uncle John, looking after Le Drieux with a puzzled expression. "Of course he is not a jewel merchant." "No," said Patsy, "he's a detective, and I'll bet a toothpick to a match that he's on the wrong scent." "He surely is. Unfortunately, we cannot warn Ajo against him." "It isn't necessary, Uncle. Why, the whole thing is absurd. Our boy is not a gambler or roysterer, nor do I think he has ever been in Europe. Mr. Le Drieux will have to guess again!" CHAPTER XV A FEW PEARLS The next morning Patsy, Beth and Louise met in earnest conference over the important proposition made them by young Jones, and although Uncle John and Arthur Weldon were both present the men took no part in the discussion. "Some doubt has been expressed," said Beth judicially, "that Ajo is really able to finance this big venture. But he says he is, and that he will carry it through to the end, so I propose we let him do it." "Why not?" asked Louise. "If he succeeds, it will be glorious. If he fails, we will suffer in no way except through disappointment." "Well, shall we accept this offer, girls?" "First," said Louise, "let us consider what we will have to do, on our part, when the twenty theatres are built and the film factory is in operation." "We are to be the general managers," returned Patsy. "We must select the subjects, or plots, for the pictures, and order them made under our direction. Then we must see that all of our theatres present them in a proper manner, and we must invite children to come and see the shows. I guess that's all." "That will be enough to keep us busy, I'm sure," said Beth. "But we will gladly undertake it, and I am sure we shall prove good managers, as soon as we get acquainted with the details of the business." "It will give us the sort of employment we like," Patsy assured them. "Our first duty will be to plan these theatres for children, and make them as cosy and comfortable as possible, regardless of expense. Ajo will pay the bills, and when all the buildings are ready we will set to work in earnest." So, when A. Jones appeared he was told that the girls would gladly accept his proposition. The young man seemed greatly pleased by this verdict. He appeared to be much better and stronger to-day and he entered eagerly into a discussion of the plans in detail. Together they made a list of a string of twenty theatres, to be built in towns reaching from Santa Barbara on the north to San Diego in the south. The film factory was to be located in the San Fernando Valley, just north of Hollywood. This consumed the entire forenoon, and after lunch they met a prominent real estate man whom Jones had summoned to the hotel. This gentleman was given a copy of the list of locations and instructed to purchase in each town the best site that could be secured for a motion picture theatre. This big order made the real estate man open his eyes in surprise. "Do you wish me to secure options, or to purchase the land outright?" he asked. "Be sure of your locations and then close the deals at once," replied Jones. "We do not wish to waste time in useless dickering, and a location in the heart of each town, perhaps on the main street, is more important than the price. You will, of course, protect me from robbery to the best of your ability; but buy, even if the price is exorbitant. I will this afternoon place a hundred thousand dollars to your credit in the bank, with which to make advance payments, and when you notify me how much more is required I will forward my checks at once." "That is satisfactory, sir. I will do the best I can to guard your interests," said the man. When he had gone the girls accompanied Ajo in a motorcar to Los Angeles, to consult an architect. They visited several offices before the boy, who seemed to estimate men at a glance, found one that satisfied him. The girls explained with care to the architect their idea of a luxurious picture theatre for children, and when he had grasped their conception, which he did with enthusiasm, he suggested several improvements on their immature plans and promised to have complete drawings ready to submit to them in a few days. From the architect's office they drove to the German-American Bank, where Ajo gave his check for a hundred thousand dollars, to be placed to the credit of Mr. Wilcox, the real estate agent. The deference shown him by the cashier seemed to indicate that this big check was not the extent of A. Jones' credit there, by any means. As they drove back to Hollywood, Patsy could not help eyeing this youthful capitalist with wonder. During this day of exciting business deals the boy had behaved admirably, and there was no longer a shadow of doubt in the minds of any of Uncle John's nieces that he was both able and anxious to carry out his part of the agreement. Patsy almost giggled outright as she thought of Le Drieux and his ridiculous suspicions. One would have to steal a good many pearls in order to acquire a fortune to match that of the Sangoan. He was speaking of Sangoa now, in answer to a question of Beth's. "Yes, indeed," said he, "Sangoa is very beautiful, and the climate is even more mild than that of your Southern California. The north coast is a high bluff, on which is a splendid forest of rosewood and mahogany. My father would never allow any of these magnificent trees to be cut, except a few that were used in building our house." "But how do your people live? What is the principal industry of your islanders?" asked Beth. "My people are--fishermen," he said, and then the automobile drew up before the hotel entrance and the conversation ended. It was on the following afternoon, as they all met in the hotel lobby after lunch, that a messenger handed young Jones a neat parcel, for which a receipt was demanded. Ajo held the parcel in his hand a while, listening to the chatter of the girls, who were earnestly discussing plans for the new picture enterprise. Then very quietly and unobtrusively he unwrapped the package and laid upon the table beside him several small boxes bearing the name of a prominent jeweler. "I hope," said he, taking advantage of a pause caused by the girls observing this action, and growing visibly confused by their involuntary stares of curiosity; "I--I hope that you, my new friends, will pardon a liberty I have taken. I wanted to--to present those who were instrumental in saving my life with--with a--a slight token of my gratitude--a sort of--of--memento of a brave and generous act that gave me back the life I had carelessly jeopardized. No," as he saw surprise and protest written on their faces, "don't refuse me this pleasure, I implore you! The little--eh--eh--mementos are from my own Island of Sangoa, with the necessary mountings by a Los Angeles jeweler, and--please accept them!" As he spoke he handed to each of the girls a box, afterward giving one to Uncle John and another to Arthur. There remained upon the table three others. He penciled a name upon the bottom of each and then handed them to Patsy, saying: "Will you kindly present these, with my compliments, to the Misses Stanton, and to their aunt, when they return this evening? Thank you!" And then, before they could recover from their astonishment, he turned abruptly and fled to his room. The girls stared at one another a moment and then began laughing. Arthur seemed crestfallen, while Uncle John handled his small box as gingerly as if he suspected it contained an explosive. "How ridiculous!" cried Patsy, her blue eyes dancing. "And did you notice how scared poor Ajo was, and how he skipped as fearfully as though he had committed some crime? But I'm sure the poor boy meant well. Let's open our boxes, girls, and see what foolishness Ajo has been up to." Slipping off the cover of her box, Beth uttered a low cry of amazement and admiration. Then she held up a dainty lavalliere, with a pendant containing a superb pearl. Louise had the mate to this, but the one Patsy found had a pearl of immense size, its color being an exquisite shade of pink, such as is rarely seen. Arthur displayed a ring set with a splendid white pearl, while Uncle John's box contained a stick pin set with a huge black pearl of remarkable luster. Indeed, they saw at a glance that the size and beauty of all these pearls were very uncommon, and while the others expressed their enthusiastic delight, the faces of Mr. Merrick and Patsy Doyle were solemn and perplexed. They stared at the pearls with feelings of dismay, rather than joy, and chancing to meet one another's eyes they quickly dropped their gaze to avoid exchanging the ugly suspicion that had forced itself upon their minds. With a sudden thought Patsy raised her head to cast a searching glance around the lobby, for although their party was seated in an alcove they were visible to all in the big room of which it formed a part. Yes, Mr. Isidore Le Drieux was standing near them, as she had feared, and the slight sneer upon his lips proved that he had observed the transfer of the pearls. So the girl promptly clasped her lavalliere around her neck and openly displayed it, as a proud defiance, if not a direct challenge, to that detestable sneer. Arthur, admiring his ring in spite of his chagrin at receiving such a gift from a comparative stranger, placed the token on his finger. "It is a beauty, indeed," said he, "but I don't think we ought to accept such valuable gifts from this boy." "I do not see why," returned his wife Louise. "I think these pretty tributes for saving Mr. Jones' life are very appropriate. Of course neither Beth nor I had anything to do with that affair, but we are included in the distribution because it would be more embarrassing to leave us out of it." "And the pearls came from Sangoa," added Beth, "so all these precious gifts have cost Ajo nothing, except for their settings." "If Sangoa can furnish many such pearls as these," remarked Arthur, reflectively, "the island ought to be famous, instead of unknown. Their size and beauty render the gems priceless." "Well," said Patsy soberly, "we know now where A. Jones got his money, which is so plentiful that he can build any number of film factories and picture theatres. Sangoa must have wonderful pearl fisheries--don't you remember, girls, that he told us his people were fishermen?--for each of these specimens is worth a small fortune. Mine, especially, is the largest and finest pearl I have ever seen." "I beg your pardon!" sternly exclaimed Uncle John, as he whirled swiftly around. "Can I do anything for you, sir?" For Mr. Le Drieux had stealthily advanced to the alcove and was glaring at the display of pearls and making notes in a small book. He bowed, without apparent resentment, as he answered Mr. Merrick: "Thank you, sir; you have already served me admirably. Pardon my intrusion." Then he closed the book, slipped it into his pocket and with another low bow walked away. "What rank impertinence!" cried Arthur, staring after him. "Some newspaper reporter, I suppose. Do you know him, Uncle John?" "He forced an introduction, a few evenings ago. It is a pearl merchant from New York, named Le Drieux, so I suppose his curiosity is but natural." "Shall we keep our pearls, Uncle?" asked Beth. "I shall keep mine," replied the little man, who never wore any ornament of jewelry. "It was generous and thoughtful in young Jones to present these things and we ought not offend him by refusing his 'mementos,' as he calls them." Perhaps all the nieces were relieved to hear this verdict, for already they loved their beautiful gifts. That evening the Stanton girls and their Aunt Jane received their parcels, being fully as much surprised as the others had been, and their boxes also contained pearls. Flo and Maud had lavallieres, the latter receiving one as large and beautiful as that of Patsy Doyle, while Mrs. Montrose found a brooch set with numerous smaller pearls. Patsy urged them all to wear the ornaments to dinner that evening, which they did, and although Jones was not there to observe the effect of the splendid pearls, Mr. Le Drieux was at his place in the dining room and made more notes in his little book. That was exactly what Patsy wanted. "I can't stand the suspense of this thing," she whispered to Uncle John, "and if that man wants any information about these pearls I propose we give it to him. In that way he will soon discover he is wrong in suspecting the identity of Jack Andrews and A. Jones." Mr. Merrick nodded absently and went to his corner for a smoke. Arthur soon after joined him, while Aunt Jane took her bevy of girls to another part of the loge. "Le Drieux will be here presently," said Uncle John to young Weldon. "Oh, the fellow with the book. Why, sir?" "He's a detective, I think. Anyhow, he is shadowing Jones, whom he suspects is a thief." He then told Arthur frankly of his former conversation with Le Drieux, and of the puzzling photograph. "It really resembles the boy," he admitted, with a frown of perplexity, "yet at the same time I realized the whole thing was absurd. Neither Patsy nor I can believe that Jones is the man who robbed an Austrian countess. It's preposterous! And let me say right now, Arthur, that I'm going to stand by this young fellow, with all my influence, in case those hounds try to make him trouble." Arthur did not reply at once. He puffed his cigar silently while he revolved the startling accusation in his mind. "Both you and Patsy are staunch friends," he observed, after a while, "and I have noticed that your intuition as regards character is seldom at fault. But I advise you, in this instance, not to be hasty, for--" "I know; you are going to refer to those pearls." "Naturally. If I don't, Le Drieux will, as you have yourself prophesied. Pearls--especially such pearls as these--are rare and easy to recognize. The world does not contain many black-pearls, for instance, such as that you are wearing. An expert--a man with a photograph that strongly resembles young Jones--is tracing some stolen pearls of great value--a collection, I think you said. We find Jones, a man seemingly unknown here, giving away a number of wonderful pearls that are worthy a place in any collection. Admit it is curious, Uncle John. It may be all a coincidence, of course; but how do you account for it, sir?" "Jones has an island in the South Seas, a locality where most of the world's famous pearls have been found." "Sangoa?" "Yes." "It is not on any map. This man, Le Drieux, positively stated that there is no such island, did he not?" Uncle John rubbed his chin, a gesture that showed he was disturbed. "He was not positive. He said he thought there was no such island." "Well, sir?" "If Jones could lie about his island, he would be capable of the theft of those pearls," admitted Mr. Merrick reluctantly. "That is conclusive, sir." "But he isn't capable of the theft. Le Drieux states that Jack Andrews is a society swell, an all-around confidence man, and a gambler. Jones is a diffident and retiring, but a very manly young fellow, who loves quiet and seems to have no bad habits. You can't connect the two in any possible way." Again Arthur took time to consider. "I have no desire to suspect Jones unjustly," he said. "In fact, I have been inclined to like the fellow. And yet--his quaint stories and his foolish expenditures have made me suspicious from the first. You have scarcely done justice to his character in your description, sir. To us he appears diffident, retiring, and rather weak, in a way, while in his intercourse with Goldstein he shows a mailed fist. He can be hard as nails, on occasion, as we know, and at times he displays a surprising knowledge of the world and its ways--for one who has been brought up on an out-of-the-way island. What do we know about him, anyway? He tells a tale no one can disprove, for the South Seas are full of small islands, some of which are probably unrecorded on the charts. All this might possibly be explained by remembering that a man like Jack Andrews is undoubtedly a clever actor." "Exactly!" said a jubilant voice behind them, and Mr. Isidore Le Drieux stepped forward and calmly drew up a chair, in which he seated himself. "You will pardon me, gentlemen, for eavesdropping, but I was curious to know what you thought of this remarkable young man who calls himself 'A. Jones.'" Arthur faced the intruder with a frown. He objected to being startled in this manner. "You are a detective?" he asked. "Oh, scarcely that, sir," Le Drieux replied in a deprecating way. "My printed card indicates that I am a merchant, but in truth I am a special agent, employed by the largest pearl and gem dealers in the world, a firm with branches in every large European and American city. My name is Le Drieux, sir, at your service," and with a flourish he presented his card. The young rancher preferred to study the man's face. "I am a sort of messenger," he continued, placidly. "When valuable consignments of jewels are to be delivered, I am the carrier instead of the express companies. The method is safer. In twenty-six years of this work I have never lost a single jewel." "One firm employs you exclusively, then?" "One firm. But it has many branches." "It is a trust?" "Oh, no; we have many competitors; but none very important. Our closest rival, for instance, has headquarters on this very coast--in San Francisco--but spreads, as we do, over the civilized world. Yet Jephson's--that's the firm--do not claim to equal our business. They deal mostly in pearls." "Pearls, eh?" said Arthur, musingly. "Then it was your firm that lost the valuable collection of pearls you mentioned to Mr. Merrick?" "No. They were the property of Countess Ahmberg, of Vienna. But we had sold many of the finest specimens to the countess and have records of their weight, size, shape and color. The one you are now wearing, sir," pointing to Uncle John's scarf pin, "is one of the best black pearls ever discovered. It was found at Tremloe in 1883 and was originally purchased by our firm. In 1887 I took it to Tiffany, who sold it to Prince Godesky, of Warsaw. I carried it to him, with other valuable purchases, and after his death it was again resold to our firm. It was in October, 1904, that I again became the bearer of the pearl, delivering it safely to Countess Ahmberg at her villa. It was stolen from her, together with 188 other rare pearls, valued at a half million dollars, a little over a year ago." "This pearl, sir," said Uncle John stiffly, "is not the one you refer to. It was found on the shores of the island of Sangoa, and you have never seen it before." Le Drieux smiled sweetly as he brushed the ashes from his cigar. "I am seldom mistaken in a pearl, especially one that I have handled," said he. "Moreover, a good pearl becomes historic, and it is my business to know the history of each and every one in existence." "Even those owned by Jephson's?" asked Arthur. "Yes; unless they were acquired lately. I have spoken in this manner in order that you may understand the statements I am about to make, and I beg you to listen carefully: Three daring pearl robberies have taken place within the past two years. The first was a collection scarcely inferior to that of the Countess Ahmberg. A bank messenger was carrying it through the streets of London one evening, to be delivered to Lady Grandison, when he was stabbed to the heart and the gems stolen. Singularly enough, Jack Andrews was passing by and found the dying messenger. He called for the police, but when they arrived the messenger had expired. The fate of the pearls has always remained a mystery, although a large reward has been offered for their recovery." "Oh; a reward." "Naturally, sir. Four months later Princess Lemoine lost her wonderful pearl necklace while sitting in a box at the Grand Opera in Paris. This was one of the cleverest thefts that ever baffled the police, for the necklace was never recovered. We know, however, that Jack Andrews occupied the box next to that of the princess. A coincidence--perhaps. We now come to the robbery of the Countess Ahmberg, the third on the list. Jack Andrews was a guest at her house, as I have explained to you. No blame has ever attached to this youthful adventurer, yet my firm, always interested in the pearls they have sold, advised me to keep an eye on him when he returned to America. I did so. "Now, Mr. Merrick, I will add to the tale I told you the other night. Andrews behaved very well for a few weeks after he landed at New York; then he disposed of seven fine pearls and--disappeared. They were not notable pearls, especially, but two of them I was able to trace to the necklace of Princess Lemoine. I cabled my firm. They called attention to the various rewards offered and urged me to follow Andrews. That was impossible; he had left no clue. But chance favored me. Coming here to Los Angeles on business, I suddenly ran across my quarry: Jack Andrews. He has changed a bit. The mustache is gone, he is in poor health, and I am told he was nearly drowned in the ocean the other day. So at first I was not sure of my man. I registered at this hotel and watched him carefully. Sometimes I became positive he was Andrews; at other times I doubted. But when he began distributing pearls to you, his new friends, all doubt vanished. There, gentlemen, is my story in a nutshell. What do you think of it?" Both Mr. Merrick and young Weldon had listened with rapt interest, but their interpretation of the tale, which amounted to a positive accusation of A. Jones, showed the difference in the two men's natures. "I think you are on the wrong trail, sir," answered Mr. Merrick. "Doubtless you have been misled by a casual resemblance, coupled with the fact that Andrews is suspected of stealing pearls and Jones is known to possess pearls--the pearls being of rare worth in both cases. Still, you are wrong. For instance, if you have the weight and measurement of the Tremloe black pearl, you will find they do not fit the pearl I am now wearing." Le Drieux smiled genially. "It is unnecessary to make the test, sir," he replied. "The pearl Andrews gave to Miss Doyle is as unmistakable as your own. But I am curious to hear your opinion, Mr. Weldon." "I have been suspicious of young Jones from the first," said Arthur; "but I have been studying this boy's character, and he is positively incapable of the crimes you accuse him of, such as robbery and murder. In other words, whatever Jones may be, he is not Andrews; or, if by chance he proves to be Andrews, then Andrews is innocent of crime. All your theories are based upon a desire to secure rewards, backed by a chain of circumstantial evidence." "A chain," said Le Drieux, grimly, "that will hold Jack Andrews fast in its coils, clever though he is." "Circumstantial evidence," retorted Mr. Merrick, "doesn't amount to shucks! It is constantly getting good people into trouble and allowing rascals to escape. Nothing but direct evidence will ever convince me that a man is guilty." Le Drieux shrugged his shoulders. "The pearls are evidence enough," said he. "To be sure. Evidence enough to free the poor boy of suspicion. You may be a better messenger than you are a detective, Mr. Le Drieux, but that doesn't convince me you are a judge of pearls." The agent rose with a frown of annoyance. "I am going to have Jack Andrews arrested in the morning," he remarked. "If you warn him, in the meantime, I shall charge you with complicity." Uncle John nearly choked with anger, but he maintained his dignity. "I have no knowledge of your Jack Andrews," he replied, and turned his back. CHAPTER XVI TROUBLE Uncle John and Arthur decided not to mention to the girls this astounding charge of Isidore Le Drieux, fearing the news would make them nervous and disturb their rest, so when the men joined the merry party in the alcove they did not refer to their late interview. Afterward, however, when all but Arthur Weldon had gone to bed and he was sitting in Uncle John's room, the two discussed the matter together with much seriousness. "We ought to do something, sir," said Arthur. "This Jones is a mere boy, and in poor health at that. He has no friends, so far as we know, other than ourselves. Therefore it is our duty to see him through this trouble." Mr. Merrick nodded assent. "We cannot prevent the arrest," he replied, "for Le Drieux will not listen to reason. If we aided Jones to run away he would soon be caught. Absurd as the charge is, the youngster must face it and prove his innocence." Arthur paced the floor in a way that indicated he was disturbed by this verdict. "He ought to have no difficulty in proving he is not Jack Andrews," he remarked, reflectively; "and yet--those pearls are difficult to explain. Their similarity to the ones stolen in Europe fooled the expert, Le Drieux, and they are likely to fool a judge or jury. I hope Jones has some means of proving that he brought the pearls from Sangoa. That would settle the matter at once." "As soon as he is arrested we will get him a lawyer--the best in this country," said Mr. Merrick. "More than that we cannot do, but a good lawyer will know the proper method of freeing his client." The next morning they were up early, awaiting developments; but Le Drieux seemed in no hurry to move. He had breakfast at about nine o'clock, read his newspaper for a half hour or so, and then deliberately left the hotel. All of Mr. Merrick's party had breakfasted before this and soon after Le Drieux had gone away young Jones appeared in the lobby. He was just in time to see the Stanton girls drive away in their automobile, accompanied by their Aunt Jane. "The motion picture stars must be late to-day," said the boy, looking after them. "They are," answered Patsy, standing beside him at the window; "but Maud says this happens to be one of their days of leisure. No picture is to be taken and they have only to rehearse a new play. But it's a busy life, seems to me, and it would really prove hard work if the girls didn't enjoy it so much." "Yes," said he, "it's a fascinating profession. I understand, and nothing can be called _work_ that is interesting. When we are obliged to do something that we do not like to do, it becomes 'work.' Otherwise, what is usually called 'work' is mere play, for it furnishes its quota of amusement." He was quite unconscious of any impending misfortune and when Beth and Louise joined Patsy in thanking him for his pretty gifts of the pearls he flushed with pleasure. Evidently their expressions of delight were very grateful to his ears. Said Uncle John, in a casual way: "Those are remarkably fine pearls, to have come from such an island as Sangoa." "But we find much better ones there, I assure you," replied the boy. "I have many in my room of much greater value, but did not dare ask you to accept them as gifts." "Do many pearls come from Sangoa, then?" asked Arthur. "That is our one industry," answered the young man. "Many years ago my father discovered the pearl fisheries. It was after he had purchased the island, but he recognized the value of the pearls and brought a colony of people from America to settle at Sangoa and devote their time to pearl fishing. Once or twice every year we send a ship to market with a consignment of pearls to our agent, and--to be quite frank with you--that is why I am now able to build the picture theatres I have contracted for, as well as the film factory." "I see," said Uncle John. "But tell me this, please: Why is Sangoa so little known, or rather, so quite unknown?" "My father," Jones returned, "loved quiet and seclusion. He was willing to develop the pearl fisheries, but objected to the flock of adventurers sure to descend upon his island if its wealth of pearls became generally known. His colony he selected with great care and with few exceptions they are a sturdy, wholesome lot, enjoying the peaceful life of Sangoa and thoroughly satisfied with their condition there. It is only within the last two years that our American agents knew where our pearls came from, yet they could not locate the island if they tried. I do not feel the same desire my father did to keep the secret, although I would dislike to see Sangoa overrun with tourists or traders." He spoke so quietly and at the same time so convincingly that both Arthur and Uncle John accepted his explanation unquestioningly. Nevertheless, in the embarrassing dilemma in which Jones would presently be involved, the story would be sure to bear the stamp of unreality to any uninterested hearer. The girls had now begun to chatter over the theatre plans, and their "financial backer"--as Patsy Doyle called him--joined them with eager interest. Arthur sat at a near-by desk writing a letter; Uncle John glanced over the morning paper; Inez, the Mexican nurse, brought baby to Louise for a kiss before it went for a ride in its perambulator. An hour had passed when Le Drieux entered the lobby in company with a thin-faced, sharp-eyed man in plain clothes. They walked directly toward the group that was seated by the open alcove window, and Arthur Weldon, observing them and knowing what was about to happen, rose from the writing-desk and drew himself tensely together as he followed them. Uncle John lowered his paper, frowned at Le Drieux and then turned his eyes upon the face of young Jones. It was the thin-featured man who advanced and lightly touched the boy's arm. "Beg pardon, sir," said he, in even, unemotional tones. "You are Mr. Andrews, I believe--Mr. Jack Andrews?" The youth turned his head to look at his questioner. "No, sir," he answered with a smile. "A case of mistaken identity. My name is Jones." Then, continuing his speech to Patsy Doyle, he said: "There is no need to consider the acoustic properties of our theatres, for the architect--" "Pardon me again," interrupted the man, more sternly. "I am positive this is _not_ a case of mistaken identity. We have ample proof that Jack Andrews is parading here, under the alias of 'A. Jones.'" The boy regarded him with a puzzled expression. "What insolence!" muttered Beth in an under-tone but audible enough to be distinctly heard. The man flushed slightly and glanced at Le Drieux, who nodded his head. Then he continued firmly: "In any event, sir, I have a warrant for your arrest, and I hope you will come with me quietly and so avoid a scene." The boy grew pale and then red. His eyes narrowed as he stared fixedly at the officer. But he did not change his position, nor did he betray either fear or agitation. In a voice quite unmoved he asked: "On what charge do you arrest me?" "You are charged with stealing a valuable collection of pearls from the Countess Ahmberg, at Vienna, about a year ago." "But I have never been in Vienna." "You will have an opportunity to prove that." "And my name is not Andrews." "You must prove that, also." The boy thought for a moment. Then he asked: "Who accuses me?" "This gentleman; Mr. Le Drieux. He is an expert in pearls, knows intimately all those in the collection of the countess and has recognized several which you have recently presented to your friends, as among those you brought from Austria." Again Jones smiled. "This is absurd, sir," he remarked. The officer returned the smile, but rather grimly. "It is the usual protest, Mr. Andrews. I don't blame you for the denial, but the evidence against you is very strong. Will you come? And quietly?" "I am unable to offer physical resistance," replied the young fellow, as he slowly rose from his chair and displayed his thin figure. "Moreover," he added, with a touch of humor, "I believe there's a fine for resisting an officer. I suppose you have a legal warrant. May I be permitted to see it?" The officer produced the warrant. Jones perused it slowly and then handed it to Mr. Merrick, who read it and passed it back to the officer. "What shall I do, sir?" asked the boy. "Obey the law," answered Uncle John. "This officer is only the law's instrument and it is useless to argue with him. But I will go with you to the police station and furnish bail." Le Drieux shook his head. "Quite impossible, Mr. Merrick," he said. "This is not a bailable offense." "Are you sure?" "I am positive. This is an extradition case, of international importance. Andrews, after an examination, will be taken to New York and from there to Vienna, where his crime was committed." "But he has committed no crime!" Le Drieux shrugged his shoulders. "He is accused, and he must prove his innocence," said he. "But that is nonsense!" interposed Arthur warmly. "There is no justice in such an assertion. If I know anything of the purpose of the law, and I think I do, you must first prove this man's guilt before you carry him to Austria to be tried by a foreign court." "I don't care a snap for the purpose of the law," retorted Le Drieux. "Our treaty with Austria provides for extradition, and that settles it. This man is already under arrest. The judge who issued the warrant believes that Jones is Jack Andrews and that Jack Andrews stole the pearls from the Countess Ahmberg. Of course, the prisoner will have a formal examination, when he may defend himself as best he can, but we haven't made this move without being sure of our case, and it will be rather difficult for him to escape the penalty of his crimes, clever as he is." "Clever?" It was Jones himself who asked this, wonderingly. Le Drieux bowed to him with exaggerated politeness. "I consider you the cleverest rogue in existence," said he. "But even the cleverest may be trapped, in time, and your big mistake was in disposing of those pearls so openly. See here," he added, taking from his pocket a small packet. "Here are the famous Taprobane pearls--six of them--which were found in your room a half hour ago. They, also, were a part of the countess' collection." "Oh, you have been to my room?" "Under the authority of the law." "And you have seen those pearls before?" "Several times. I am an expert in pearls and can recognize their value at a glance," said Le Drieux with much dignity. Jones gave a little chuckle and then turned deprecatingly to Mr. Merrick. "You need not come with me to the station, sir," said he; "but, if you wish to assist me, please send me a lawyer and then go to the Continental and tell Mr. Goldstein of my predicament." "I will do that," promptly replied Uncle John. Jones turned to bow to the girls. "I hope you young ladies can forgive this disgraceful scene," he remarked in a tone of regret rather then humiliation. "I do not see how any effort of mine could have avoided it. It seems to be one of the privileges of the people's guardians, in your free country, to arrest and imprison anyone on a mere suspicion of crime. Here is a case in which someone has sadly blundered, and I imagine it is the pompous gentleman who claims to know pearls and does not," with a nod toward Le Drieux, who scowled indignantly. "It is an outrage!" cried Beth. "It's worse than that," said Patsy; "but of course you can easily prove your innocence." "If I have the chance," the boy agreed. "But at present I am a prisoner and must follow my captor." He turned to the officer and bowed to indicate that he was ready to go. Arthur shook the young fellow's hand and promised to watch his interests in every possible way. "Go with him now, Arthur," proposed Louise. "It's a hard thing to be taken to jail and I'm sure he needs a friend at his side at this time." "Good advice," agreed Uncle John. "Of course they'll give him a preliminary hearing before locking him up, and if you'll stick to him I'll send on a lawyer in double-quick time." "Thank you," said the boy. "The lawyer first, Mr. Merrick, and then Goldstein." CHAPTER XVII UNCLE JOHN IS PUZZLED Uncle John was off on his errands even before Jones and Arthur Weldon had driven away from the hotel with the officer and Le Drieux. There had been no "scene" and none of the guests of the hotel had any inkling of the arrest. Uncle John had always detested lawyers and so he realized that he was sure to be a poor judge of the merits of any legal gentleman he might secure to defend Jones. "I may as well leave it to chance," he grumbled, as he drove down the main boulevard. "The rascals are all alike!" Glancing to this side and that, he encountered a sign on a building: "Fred A. Colby, Lawyer." "All right; I mustn't waste time," he said, and stopping his driver he ascended a stairway to a gloomy upper hall. Here the doors, all in a row, were alike forbidding, but one of them bore the lawyer's name, so Mr. Merrick turned the handle and abruptly entered. A sallow-faced young man, in his shirt-sleeves, was seated at a table littered with newspapers and magazines, engaged in the task of putting new strings on a battered guitar. As his visitor entered he looked up in surprise and laid down the instrument. "I want to see Colby, the lawyer," began Uncle John, regarding the disordered room with strong disapproval. "You are seeing him," retorted the young man, with a fleeting smile, "and I'll bet you two to one that if you came here on business you will presently go away and find another lawyer." "Why?" questioned Mr. Merrick, eyeing him more closely. "I don't impress people," explained Colby, picking up the guitar again. "I don't inspire confidence. As for the law, I know it as well as anyone--which is begging the question--but when I'm interviewed I have to admit I've had no experience." "No practice?" "Just a few collections, that's all I sleep on that sofa yonder, eat at a cafeteria, and so manage to keep body and soul together. Once in a while a stranger sees my sign and needs a lawyer, so he climbs the stairs. But when he meets me face to face he beats a hasty retreat." As he spoke, Colby tightened a string and began strumming it to get it tuned. Uncle John sat down on the one other chair in the room and thought a moment. "You've been admitted to the bar?" he asked. "Yes, sir. Graduate of the Penn Law School." "Then you know enough to defend an innocent man from an unjust accusation?" Colby laid down the guitar. "Ah!" said he, "this grows interesting. I really believe you have half a mind to give me your case. Sir, I know enough, I hope, to defend an innocent man; but I can't promise, offhand, to save him, even from an unjust accusation." "Why not? Doesn't law stand for justice?" "Perhaps; in the abstract. Anyhow, there's a pretty fable to that effect. But law in the abstract, and law as it is interpreted and applied, are not even second cousins. To be quite frank, I'd rather defend a guilty person than an innocent one. The chances are I'd win more easily. Are you sure your man is innocent?" Uncle John scowled. "Perhaps I'd better find another lawyer who is more optimistic," he said. "Oh, I'm full of optimism, sir. My fault is that I'm not well known in the courts and have no arrangement to divide my fees with the powers that be. But I've been observing and I know the tricks of the trade as well as any lawyer in California. My chief recommendation, however, is that I'm eager to get a case, for my rent is sadly overdue. Why not try me, just to see what I'm able to do? I'd like to find that out myself." "This is a very important matter," asserted Mr. Merrick. "Very. If I'm evicted for lack of rent-money my career is crippled." "I mean the case is a serious one." "Are you willing to pay for success?" "Liberally." "Then I'll win it for you. Don't judge my ability by my present condition, sir. Tell me your story and I'll get to work at once." Uncle John rose with sudden decision. "Put on your coat," he said, and while Colby obeyed with alacrity he gave him a brief outline of the accusation brought against Jones. "I want you to take my car," he added, "and hasten to the police station, that you may be present at the preliminary examination. There will be plenty of time to talk afterward." Colby nodded. His coat and hat made the young lawyer quite presentable and without another word he followed Mr. Merrick down the stairs and took his seat in the motorcar. Next moment he was whirling down the street and Uncle John looked after him with a half puzzled expression, as if he wondered whether or not he had blundered in his choice of a lawyer. A little later he secured a taxicab and drove to the office of the Continental Film Manufacturing Company. Mr. Goldstein was in his office but sent word that he was too busy to see visitors. Nevertheless, when Mr. Merrick declared he had been sent by A. Jones, he was promptly admitted to the manager's sanctum. "Our friend, young Jones," he began, "has just been arrested by a detective." Goldstein's nervous jump fairly raised him off his chair; but in an instant he settled back and shot an eager, interested look at his visitor. "What for, Mr. Merrick?" he demanded. "For stealing valuable pearls from some foreign woman. A trumped-up charge, of course." Goldstein rubbed the palms of his hands softly together. His face wore a look of supreme content. "Arrested! Ah, that is bad, Mr. Merrick. It is very bad indeed. And it involves us--the Continental, you know--in an embarrassing manner." "Why so?" asked Uncle John. "Can't you see, sir?" asked the manager, trying hard to restrain a smile. "If the papers get hold of this affair, and state that our president--our biggest owner--the man who controls the Continental stock--is a common thief, the story will--eh--eh--put a bad crimp in our business, so to speak." Uncle John looked at the man thoughtfully. "So Jones controls the Continental, eh?" he said. "How long since, Mr. Goldstein?" "Why, since the January meeting, a year and more ago. It was an astonishing thing, and dramatic--believe _me_! At the annual meeting of stockholders in walks this stripling--a mere kid--proves that he holds the majority of stock, elects himself president and installs a new board of directors, turning the tired and true builders of the business out in the cold. Then, without apology, promise or argument, President Jones walks out again! In an hour he upset the old conditions, turned our business topsy-turvy and disappeared with as little regard for the Continental as if it had been a turnip. That stock must have cost him millions, and how he ever got hold of it is a mystery that has kept us all guessing ever since. The only redeeming feature of the affair was that the new board of directors proved decent and Jones kept away from us all and let us alone. I'd never seen him until he came here a few days ago and began to order me around. So, there, Mr. Merrick, you know as much about Jones as I do." Mr. Merrick was perplexed. The more he heard of young Jones the more amazing; the boy seemed to be. "Has the Continental lost money since Jones took possession?" he inquired. "I think not," replied Goldstein, cautiously. "You're a business man, Mr. Merrick, and can understand that our machinery--our business system--is so perfect that it runs smoothly, regardless of who grabs the dividends. What I object to is this young fellow's impertinence in interfering with my work here. He walks in, reverses my instructions to my people, orders me to do unbusinesslike things and raises hob with the whole organization." "Well, it belongs to him, Goldstein," said Uncle John, in defense of the boy. "He is your employer and has the right to dictate. But just at present he needs your help. He asked me to come here and tell you of his arrest." Goldstein shrugged his shoulders. "His arrest is none of my business," was his reply. "If Jones stole the money to buy Continental stock he must suffer the consequences. I'm working for the stock, not for the individual." "But surely you will go to the station and see what can be done for him?" protested Uncle John. "Surely I will not," retorted the manager. "What's the use? There isn't even a foot of good picture film in so common a thing as the arrest of a thief--and the censors would forbid it if there were. Let Jones fight his own battles." "It occurs to me," suggested Mr. Merrick, who was growing indignant, "that Mr. Jones will be able to satisfy the court that he is not a thief, and so secure his freedom without your assistance. What will happen then, Mr. Goldstein?" "Then? Why, it is still none of my business. I'm the manager of a motion picture concern--one of the biggest concerns in the world--and I've nothing to do with the troubles of my stockholders." He turned to his desk and Mr. Merrick was obliged to go away without farther parley. On his way out he caught a glimpse of Maud Stanton passing through the building. She was dressed in the costume of an Indian princess and looked radiantly beautiful. Uncle John received a nod and a smile and then she was gone, without as yet a hint of the misfortune that had overtaken A. Jones of Sangoa. Returning to the hotel, rather worried and flustered by the morning's events, he found the girls quietly seated in the lobby, busy over their embroidery. "Well, Uncle," said Patsy, cheerfully, "is Ajo still in limbo?" "I suppose so," he rejoined, sinking into an easy chair beside her. "Is Arthur back yet?" "No," said Louise, answering for her husband, "he is probably staying to do all he can for the poor boy." "Did you get a lawyer?" inquired Beth. "I got a fellow who claims to be a lawyer; but I'm not sure he will be of any use." Then he related his interview with Colby, to the amusement of his nieces, all three of whom approved the course he had taken and were already prepared to vouch for the briefless barrister's ability, on the grounds that eccentricity meant talent. "You see," explained Miss Patsy, "he has nothing else to do but jump heart and soul into this case, so Ajo will be able to command his exclusive services, which with some big, bustling lawyer would be impossible." Luncheon was over before Arthur finally appeared, looking somewhat grave and perturbed. "They won't accept bail," he reported. "Jones must stay in jail until his formal examination, and if they then decide that he is really Jack Andrews he will remain in jail until his extradition papers arrive." "When will he be examined?" asked Louise. "Whenever the judge feels in the humor, it seems. Our lawyer demanded Jones' release at once, on the ground that a mistake of identity had been made; but the stupid judge is of the opinion that the charge against our friend is valid. At any rate he refused to let him go. He wouldn't even argue the case at present. He issues a warrant on a charge of larceny, claps a man in jail whether innocent or not, and refuses to let him explain anything or prove his innocence until a formal examination is held." "There is some justice in that," remarked Uncle John. "Suppose Jones is guilty; it would be a mistake to let him go free until a thorough examination had been made." "And if he is innocent, he will have spent several days in jail, been worried and disgraced, and there is no redress for the false imprisonment. The judge won't even apologize to him!" "It's all in the interests of law and order, I suppose," said Patsy; "but the law seems dreadfully inadequate to protect the innocent. I suppose it's because the courts are run by cheap and incompetent people who couldn't earn a salary in any other way." "Someone must run them, and it isn't an ambitious man's job," replied Uncle John. "What do you think of the lawyer I sent you, Arthur?" The young ranchman smiled. "He's a wonder, Uncle. He seemed to know more about the case than Jones or I did, and more about the law than the judge did. He's an irrepressible fellow, and told that rascal Le Drieux a lot about pearls that the expert never had heard before. Where did you find him, sir?" Uncle John explained. "Well," said Arthur, "I think Jones is in good hands. Colby has secured him a private room at the jail, with a bath and all the comforts of home. Meals are to be sent in from a restaurant and when I left the place the jailer had gone out to buy Jones a stock of books to while away his leisure hours--which are bound to be numerous. I'd no idea a prisoner could live in such luxury." "Money did it, I suppose," Patsy shrewdly suggested. "Yes. Jones wrote a lot of checks. Colby got a couple of hundred for a retaining fee and gleefully informed us it was more money than he had ever owned at one time in all his previous career. I think he will earn it, however." "Where is he now?" asked Uncle John. "Visiting all the newspaper offices, to 'buy white space,' as he put it. In other words, Colby will bribe the press to silence, at least until the case develops." "I'm glad of that," exclaimed Beth. "What do you think of this queer business, Arthur?" "Why, I've no doubt of the boy's innocence, if that is what you mean. I've watched him closely and am positive he is no more Jack Andrews than I am. But I fear he will have a hard task to satisfy the judge that he is falsely accused. It would be an admission of error, you see, and so the judge will prefer to find him guilty. It is this same judge--Wilton, I think his name is--who will conduct the formal examination, and to-day he openly sneered at the mention of Sangoa. On the other hand, he evidently believed every statement made by Le Drieux about the identity of the pearls found in Jones' possession. Le Drieux has a printed list of the Ahmberg pearls, and was able to check the Jones' pearls off this list with a fair degree of accuracy. It astonished even me, and I could see that Jones was equally amazed." "Wouldn't it be queer if they convicted him!" exclaimed Beth. "It would be dreadful, since he is innocent," said Patsy. "There is no need to worry about that just at present," Arthur assured them. "I am placing a great deal of confidence in the ability of Lawyer Colby." CHAPTER XVIII DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES The Stanton girls and Mrs. Montrose came in early that afternoon. They had heard rumors of the arrest of Jones and were eager to learn what had occurred. Patsy and Beth followed them to their rooms to give them every known detail and canvass the situation in all its phases. "Goldstein has been an angel all afternoon," said Flo. "He grinned and capered about like a schoolboy and some of us guessed he'd been left a fortune." "He ought to be ashamed of himself." Patsy indignantly asserted. "The man admitted to Uncle John that Ajo is the biggest stockholder in the Continental, the president, to boot; yet Goldstein wouldn't lift a finger to help him and positively refused to obey his request to go to him after he was arrested." "I know about that," said Aunt Jane, quietly. "Goldstein talked to me about the affair this afternoon and declared his conviction that young Jones is really a pearl thief. He has taken a violent dislike to the boy and is delighted to think his stock will be taken away from him." Maud had silently listened to this dialogue as she dressed for dinner. But now she impetuously broke into the conversation, saying: "Something definite ought to be done for the boy. He needs intelligent assistance. I'm afraid his situation is serious." "That is what Arthur thinks," said Beth. "He says that unless he can furnish proof that he is not Jack Andrews, and that he came by those pearls honestly, he will be shipped to Austria for trial. No one knows what those foreigners will do to him, but he would probably fare badly in their hands." "Such being the logical conclusion," said Maud, "we must make our fight now, at the examination." "Uncle John has engaged a lawyer," announced Patsy, "and if he proves bright and intelligent he ought to be able to free Ajo." "I'd like to see that lawyer, and take his measure," answered Maud, musingly, and her wish was granted soon after they had finished dinner. Colby entered the hotel, jaunty as ever, and Arthur met him and introduced him to the girls. "You must forgive me for coming on a disagreeable mission," began the young attorney, "but I have promised the judge that I would produce all the pearls Mr. Jones gave you, not later than to-morrow morning. He wants them as evidence, and to compare privately with Le Drieux's list, although he will likely have the expert at his elbow. So I can't promise that you will ever get your jewels back again." "Oh. You think, then, that Mr. Jones is guilty?" said Maud coldly. "No, indeed; I believe he is innocent. A lawyer should never suspect his client, you know. But to win I must prove my case, and opposed to me is that terrible Le Drieux, who insists he is never mistaken." "Arthur--Mr. Weldon--says you understand pearls as well as Mr. Le Drieux does," suggested Patsy. "I thank him; but he is in error. I chattered to the judge about pearls, it is true, because I found he couldn't tell a pearl from a glass bead; and I believe I even perplexed Le Drieux by hinting at a broad knowledge on the subject which I do not possess. It was all a bit of bluff on my part. But by to-morrow morning this knowledge will be a fact, for I've bought a lot of books on pearls and intend to sit up all night reading them." "That was a clever idea," said Uncle John, nodding approval. "So my mission here this evening is to get the pearls, that I may study them as I read," continued Colby. "Heretofore I've only seen the things through a plate glass window, or a show case. The success of our defense depends upon our refuting Le Drieux's assertion that the pearls found in Jones' possession are a part of the Countess Ahmberg's collection. He has a full description of the stolen gems and I must be prepared to show that none of the Jones' pearls is on the list." "Can you do that?" asked Maud. She was gazing seriously into the young man's eyes and this caused him to blush and stammer a little as he replied: "I--I hope to, Miss Stanton." "And are you following no other line of defense?" she inquired. He sat back and regarded the girl curiously for a moment. "I would like you to suggest some other line of defense," he replied. "I've tried to find one--and failed." "Can't you prove he is not Jack Andrews?" "Not if the identity of the pearls is established," said the lawyer. "If the pearls were stolen, and if Jones cannot explain how he obtained possession of them, the evidence is _prima facia_ that he _is_ Jack Andrews, or at least his accomplice. Moreover, his likeness to the photograph is somewhat bewildering, you must admit." This gloomy view made them all silent for a time, each thoughtfully considering the matter. Then Maud asked: "Do you know the cash value of Mr. Jones' stock in the Continental Film Company?" Colby shook his head, but Uncle John replied: "Goldstein told me it is worth millions." "Ah!" exclaimed the girl. "There, then, is our proof." The lawyer reflected, with knitted brows. "I confess I don't quite see your point," said he. "How much were those stolen pearls worth?" asked the girl. "I don't know." "You know they were not worth millions. Jack Andrews was an adventurer, by Le Drieux's showing; he was a fellow who lived by his wits and generally earned his livelihood by gambling with the scions of wealthy families. Even had he stolen the Countess' pearls and disposed of the collection at enormous prices--which a thief is usually unable to do--he would still have been utterly unable to purchase a controlling interest in the Continental stock." She spoke with quiet assurance, but her statement roused the group to sudden excitement. "Hooray!" cried Patsy. "There's your proof, Mr. Colby." "The logic of genius," commented Uncle John. "Why, it's proof positive!" said Beth. "It is certainly a strong argument in favor of the boy's innocence," asserted Arthur Weldon. "Maud's a wonder when she wakes up. She ought to have been a 'lady detective,'" remarked Flo, regarding her sister admiringly. Colby, at first startled, was now also regarding Maud Stanton with open admiration; but there was an odd smile on his lips, a smile of indulgent toleration. "Le Drieux's statement connects Andrews with two other pearl robberies," he reminded her. "The necklace of the Princess Lemoine is said to be priceless, and the Grandison collection stolen in London was scarcely less valuable than that of Countess Ahmberg." "Allowing all that," said Mr. Merrick, "two or three hundred thousand dollars would doubtless cover the value of the entire lot. I am quite certain, Mr. Colby, that Miss Stanton's suggestion will afford you an excellent line of defense." "I shall not neglect it, you may be sure," replied the lawyer. "Tonight I'll try to figure out, as nearly as possible, the total cash value of all the stolen pearls, and of course Jones will tell us what he paid for his stock, or how much it is worth. But I am not sure this argument will have as much weight as Miss Stanton suggests it may. A bold gambler, such as Andrews, might have obtained a huge sum at Baden Baden or Monte Carlo; and, were he indeed so clever a thief as his record indicates, he may have robbed a bank, or stolen in some way an immense sum of money. Logically, the question has weight and I shall present it as effectively as I can; but, as I said, I rely more on my ability to disprove the identity of the pearls, on which the expert Le Drieux lays so much stress. Jones will have a thorough and formal examination within a few days--perhaps to-morrow--and if the judge considers that Andrews the pearl thief has been captured, he will be held here pending the arrival from Washington of the extradition papers--say two or three weeks longer." "Then we shall have all that time to prove his innocence?" inquired Maud. "Unfortunately, no. There will be no further trial of the prisoner until he gets to Vienna and is delivered to the authorities there. All our work must be done previous to the formal examination." "You do not seem very hopeful," observed Maud, a hint of reproach in her tone. "Then appearances are against me, Miss Stanton," replied the lawyer with a smile. "This is my first important case, and if I win it my future is assured; so I mean to win. But in order to do that I must consider the charge of the prosecution, the effect of its arguments upon the judge, and then find the right means to combat them. When I am with you, the friends of the accused, I may consider the seamy side of the fabric; but the presiding judge will find me so sure of my position that he will instinctively agree with me." They brought him the pearls Jones had presented to them and then the lawyer bade them good night and went to his office to master the history of pearls in general and those famous ones stolen from Countess Ahmberg in particular. When he had gone Uncle John remarked: "Well, what do you think of him?" They seemed in doubt. "I think he will do all he can," said Patsy. "And he appears quite a clever young man," added Beth, as if to encourage them. "Allowing all that," said Maud, gravely, "he has warned us of the possibility of failure. I cannot understand how the coils of evidence have wrapped themselves so tightly around poor Ajo." "That," asserted Flo, "is because you cannot understand Ajo himself. Nor can I; nor can any of us!" CHAPTER XIX MAUD MAKES A MEMORANDUM My mother used to say to me: "Never expect to find brains in a pretty girl." Perhaps she said it because I was not a pretty girl and she wished to encourage me. In any event, that absurd notion of the ancients that when the fairies bestow the gift of beauty on a baby they withhold all other qualities has so often been disproved that we may well disregard it. Maud Stanton was a pretty girl--indeed, a beautiful girl--but she possessed brains as well as beauty and used her intellect to advantage more often than her quiet demeanor would indicate to others than her most intimate associates. From the first she had been impressed by the notion that there was something mysterious about A. Jones and that his romantic explanation of his former life and present position was intended to hide a truth that would embarrass him, were it fully known. Therefore she had secretly observed the young man, at such times as they were together, and had treasured every careless remark he had made--every admission or assertion--and made a note of it. The boy's arrest had startled her because it was so unexpected, and her first impulse was to doubt his innocence. Later, however, she had thoroughly reviewed the notes she had made and decided he was innocent. In the quiet of her own room, when she was supposed to be asleep, Maud got out her notebook and read therein again the review of all she had learned concerning A. Jones of Sangoa. "For a boy, he has a good knowledge of business; for a foreigner, he has an excellent conception of modern American methods," she murmured thoughtfully. "He is simple in little things; shrewd, if not wise, in important matters. He proved this by purchasing the control of the Continental, for its shares pay enormous dividends. "Had he stolen those pearls, I am sure he would have been too shrewd to have given a portion of them to us, knowing we would display them openly and so attract attention to them. A thief so ingenious as Andrews, for instance, would never have done so foolish a thing as that, I am positive. Therefore, Jones is not Andrews. "Now, to account for the likeness between Andrews, an American adventurer, and Jones, reared and educated in the mysterious island of Sangoa. Ajo's father must have left some near relatives in this country when he became a recluse in his far-away island. Why did he become a recluse? That's a subject I must consider carefully, for he was a man of money, a man of science, a man of affairs. Jones has told us he has no relatives here. He may have spoken honestly, if his father kept him in ignorance of the family history. I'm not going to jump at the conclusion that the man who calls himself Jack Andrews is a near relative of our Ajo--a cousin, perhaps--but I'll not forget that that might explain the likeness between them. "Ajo's father must have amassed a great fortune, during many years, from his pearl fisheries. That would explain why the boy has so much money at his disposal. He didn't get it from the sale of stolen pearls, that is certain. In addition to the money he invested in the Continental, he has enough in reserve to expend another million or so in Patsy Doyle's motion picture scheme, and he says he can spare it easily and have plenty left! This, in my opinion, is a stronger proof of Jones' innocence than Lawyer Colby seems to consider it. To me, it is conclusive. "Now, then, where is Sangoa? How can one get to the island? And, finally, how did Jones get here from Sangoa and how is he to return, if he ever wants to go back to his valuable pearl fisheries, his people and his home?" She strove earnestly to answer these questions, but could not with her present knowledge. So she tucked the notebook into a drawer of her desk, put out her light and got into bed. But sleep would not come to her. The interest she took in the fate of young Jones was quite impersonal. She liked the boy in the same way she had liked dozens of boys. The fact that she had been of material assistance in saving his life aroused no especial tenderness in her. On his own account, however, Jones was interesting to her because he was so unusual. The complications that now beset him added to this interest because they were so curious and difficult to explain. Maud had the feeling that she had encountered a puzzle to tax her best talents, and so she wanted to solve it. Suddenly she bounded out of bed and turned on the electric light. The notebook was again brought into requisition and she penciled on its pages the following words: "What was the exact date that Jack Andrews landed in America? What was the exact date that Ajo landed from Sangoa? The first question may be easily answered, for doubtless the police have the record. But--the other?" Then she replaced the book, put out the light and went to sleep very easily. That last thought, now jotted down in black and white, had effectually cleared her mind of its cobwebs. CHAPTER XX A GIRLISH NOTION Colby came around next morning just as Mr. Merrick was entering the breakfast room, and the little man took the lawyer in to have a cup of coffee. The young attorney still maintained his jaunty air, although red-eyed from his night's vigil, and when he saw the Stanton girls and their Aunt Jane having breakfast by an open window he eagerly begged permission to join them, somewhat to Uncle John's amusement. "Well?" demanded Maud, reading Colby's face with her clear eyes. "I made a night of it, as I promised," said he. "This morning I know so much about pearls that I'm tempted to go into the business." "As Jack Andrews did?" inquired Flo. "Not exactly," he answered with a smile. "But it's an interesting subject--so interesting that I only abandoned my reading when I found I was burning my electric lamp by daylight. Listen: A pearl is nothing more or less than nacre, a fluid secretion of a certain variety of oyster--not the eatable kind. A grain of sand gets between the folds of the oyster and its shell and irritates the beast. In self-defense the oyster covers the sand with a fluid which hardens and forms a pearl." "I've always known that," said Flo, with a toss of her head. "Yes; but I want you all to bear it in mind, for it will explain a discovery I have made. Before I get to that, however, I want to say that at one time the island of Ceylon supplied the world with its most famous pearls. The early Egyptians discovered them there, as well as on the Persian and Indian coasts. The pearl which Cleopatra is said to have dissolved in wine and swallowed was worth about four hundred thousand dollars in our money; but of course pearls were scarce in her day. A single pearl was cut in two and used for earrings for the statue of Venus in the Pantheon at Rome, and the sum paid for it was equal to about a quarter of a million dollars. Sir Thomas Gresham, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, had a pearl valued at about seventy-five thousand dollars which he treated in the same manner Cleopatra did, dissolving it in wine and boasting he had given the most expensive dinner ever known." "All of which--" began Maud, impatiently. "All of which, Miss Stanton, goes to show that pearls have been of great price since the beginning of history. Nowadays we get just as valuable pearls from the South Seas, and even from Panama, St. Margarita and the Caromandel Coast, as ever came from Ceylon. But only those of rare size, shape or color are now valued at high prices. For instance, a string of matched pearls such as that owned by Princess Lemoine is estimated as worth only eighty thousand dollars, because it could be quite easily duplicated. The collection of Countess Ahmberg was noted for its variety of shapes and colors more than for its large or costly pearls; and that leads to my great discovery." "Thank heaven," said Flo, with a sigh. "I have discovered that our famous expert. Le Drieux, is an arrant humbug." "We had suspected that," remarked Maud. "Now we know it," declared Colby. "Pearls, I have learned, change their color, their degree of luster, even their weight, according to atmospheric conditions and location. A ten-penny-weight pearl in Vienna might weigh eight or nine pennyweights here in California, or it is more likely to weigh twelve. The things absorb certain moistures and chemicals from the air and sun, and shed those absorptions when kept in darkness or from the fresh air. Pearls die, so to speak; but are often restored to life by immersions in sea-water, their native element. As for color: the pink and blue pearls often grow white, at times, especially if kept long in darkness, but sun-baths restore their former tints. In the same way a white pearl, if placed near the fumes of ammonia, changes to a pinkish hue, while certain combinations of chemicals render them black, or 'smoked.' A clever man could steal a pink pearl, bleach it white, and sell it to its former owner without its being recognized. Therefore, when our expert, Le Drieux, attempts to show that the pearls found in Jones' possession are identical with those stolen from the Austrian lady, he fails to allow for climatic or other changes and cannot be accurate enough to convince anyone who knows the versatile characteristics of these gems." "Ah, but does the judge know that, Mr. Colby?" asked Maud. "I shall post him. After that, the conviction of the prisoner will be impossible." "Do you think the examination will be held to-day?" inquired Mr. Merrick. "I cannot tell that. It will depend upon the mood of Judge Wilton. If he feels grouchy or disagreeable, he is liable to postpone the case. If he is in good spirits and wants to clear his docket he may begin the examination at ten o'clock, to-day, which is the hour set for it." "Is your evidence ready, Mr. Colby?" "Such as I can command, Miss Stanton," he replied. "Last evening I wired New York for information as to the exact amount of stock Jones owns in the Continental, and I got a curious reply. The stock is valued at nineteen hundred thousand dollars, but no one believes that Jones owns it personally. It is generally thought that for politic reasons the young man was made the holder of stock for several different parties, who still own it, although it is in Jones' name. The control of stock without ownership is not unusual. It gives the real owners an opportunity to hide behind their catspaw, who simply obeys their instructions." "I do not believe that Jones is connected with anyone in that manner," said Mr. Merrick. "Nor do I," asserted Aunt Jane. "His interference with Goldstein's plans proves he is under no obligations to others, for he has acted arbitrarily, in accordance with his personal desires and against the financial interests of the concern." "Why didn't you ask him about this, instead of wiring to New York?" demanded Maud. "He might not give us exact information, under the circumstances," said Colby. The girl frowned. "Jones is not an ordinary client," continued the lawyer, coolly. "He won't tell me anything about himself, or give me what is known as 'inside information.' On the contrary, he contents himself with saying he is innocent and I must prove it. I'm going to save the young man, but I'm not looking to him for much assistance." Maud still frowned. Presently she said: "I want to see Mr. Jones. Can you arrange an interview for me, sir?" "Of course. You'd better go into town with me this morning. If the examination is held, you will see Jones then. If it's postponed, you may visit him in the jail." Maud reflected a moment. "Very well," said she, "I'll go with you." Then, turning to her aunt, she continued: "You must make my excuses to Mr. Goldstein, Aunt Jane." Mrs. Montrose eyed her niece critically. "Who will accompany you, Maud?" she asked. "Why, I'll go," said Patsy Doyle; and so it was settled, Uncle John agreeing to escort the young ladies and see them safely home again. CHAPTER XXI THE YACHT "ARABELLA" As the party drove into town Colby said: "It wouldn't be a bad idea for Jones to bribe that fellow Le Drieux. If Le Drieux, who holds a warrant for the arrest of Jack Andrews, issued by the Austrian government and vised in Washington, could be won to our side, the whole charge against our friend might be speedily dissolved." "Disgraceful!" snapped Maud indignantly. "I am positive Mr. Jones would not consider such a proposition." "Diplomatic, not disgraceful," commented the lawyer, smiling at her. "Why should Jones refuse to consider bribery?" "To use money to defeat justice would be a crime as despicable as stealing pearls," she said. "Dear me!" muttered Colby, with a puzzled frown. "What a queer way to look at it. Le Drieux has already been bribed, by a liberal reward, to run down a supposed criminal. If we bribe him with a larger sum to give up the pursuit of Jones, whom we believe innocent, we are merely defending ourselves from a possible injustice which may be brought about by an error of judgment." "Isn't this judge both able and honest?" asked Uncle John. "Wilton? Well, possibly. His ability consists in his knowledge of law, rather than of men and affairs. He believes himself honest, I suppose, but I'll venture to predict he will act upon prejudice and an assumption of personal dignity, rather than attempt to discover if his personal impressions correspond with justice. A judge, Mr. Merrick, is a mere man, with all the average man's failings; so we must expect him to be quite human." "Never mind," said Patsy resignedly. "Perhaps we shall find him a better judge than you are lawyer." "He has had more experience, anyhow," said Colby, much amused at the shot. They found, on arriving at court, that the case had already been postponed. They drove to the jail and obtained permission to see the prisoner, who was incarcerated under the name of "Jack Andrews, alias A. Jones." Maud would have liked a private audience, but the lawyer was present as well as Patsy and Mr. Merrick, and she did not like to ask them to go away. The boy greeted them with his old frank smile and did not seem in the least oppressed by the fact that he was a prisoner accused of an ugly crime. The interview was held in a parlor of the jail, a guard standing by the door but discreetly keeping out of earshot. Colby first informed the boy of the postponement of his formal examination and then submitted to his client an outline of the defense he had planned. Jones listened quietly and shook his head. "Is that the best you can do for me?" "With my present knowledge, yes," returned the lawyer. "And will it clear me from this suspicion?" was the next question. "I hope so." "You are not sure?" "This is an extraordinary case, Mr. Jones. Your friends all believe you innocent, but the judge wants facts--cold, hard facts--and only these will influence him. Mr. Le Drieux, commissioned by the Austrian government, states that you are Jack Andrews, and have escaped to America after having stolen the pearls of a noble Viennese lady. He will offer, as evidence to prove his assertion, the photograph and the pearls. You must refute this charge with counter-evidence, in order to escape extradition and a journey to the country where the crime was committed. There you will be granted a regular trial, to be sure, but even if you then secure an acquittal you will have suffered many indignities and your good name will be permanently tarnished." "Well, sir?" "I shall work unceasingly to secure your release at the examination. But I wish I had some stronger evidence to offer in rebuttal." "Go ahead and do your best," said the boy, nonchalantly. "I will abide by the result, whatever it may be." "May I ask a few questions?" Maud timidly inquired. He turned to her with an air of relief. "Most certainly you may, Miss Stanton." "And you will answer them?" "I pledge myself to do so, if I am able." "Thank you," she said. "I am not going to interfere with Mr. Colby's plans, but I'd like to help you on my own account, if I may." He gave her a quick look, at once grateful, suspicious and amused. Then he said: "Clear out, Colby. I'm sure you have a hundred things to attend to, and when you're gone I'll have a little talk with Miss Stanton." The lawyer hesitated. "If this conversation is likely to affect your case," he began, "then--" "Then Miss Stanton will give you any information she may acquire," interrupted Jones, and that left Colby no alternative but to go away. "Now, then, Miss Stanton, out with it!" said the boy. "There are a lot of things we don't know, but ought to know, in order to defend you properly," she observed, looking at him earnestly. "Question me, then." "I want to know the exact date when you landed in this country from Sangoa." "Let me see. It was the twelfth day of October, of last year." "Oh! so long ago as that? It is fifteen months. Once you told us that you had been here about a year." "I didn't stop to count the months, you see. The twelfth of October is correct." "Where did you land?" "At San Francisco." "Direct from Sangoa?" "Direct from Sangoa." "And what brought you from Sangoa to San Francisco?" "A boat." "A sailing-ship?" "No, a large yacht. Two thousand tons burden." "Whose yacht was it?" "Mine." "Then where is it now?" He reflected a moment. "I think Captain Carg must be anchored at San Pedro, by now. Or perhaps he is at Long Beach, or Santa Monica," he said quietly. "On this coast!" exclaimed Maud. "Yes." Patsy was all excitement by now and could no longer hold her tongue. "Is the yacht _Arabella_ yours?" she demanded. "It is, Miss Patsy." "Then it is lying off Santa Monica Bay. I've seen it!" she cried. "It was named for my mother," said the boy, his voice softening, "and built by my father. In the _Arabella_ I made my first voyage; so you will realize I am very fond of the little craft." Maud was busily thinking. "Is Captain Carg a Sangoan?" she asked. "Of course. The entire crew are Sangoans." "Then where has the yacht been since it landed you here fifteen months ago?" "It returned at once to the island, and at my request has now made another voyage to America." "It has been here several days." "Quite likely." "Has it brought more pearls from Sangoa?" "Perhaps. I do not know, for I have not yet asked for the captain's report." Both Uncle John and Patsy were amazed at the rapidity with which Maud was acquiring information of a really important character. Indeed, she was herself surprised and the boy's answers were already clearing away some of the mists. She stared at him thoughtfully as she considered her next question, and Jones seemed to grow thoughtful, too. "I have no desire to worry my friends over my peculiar difficulties," he presently said. "Frankly, I am not in the least worried myself. The charge against me is so preposterous that I am sure to be released after the judge has examined me; and, even at the worst--if I were sent to Vienna for trial--the Austrians would know very well that I am not the man they seek." "That trip would cause you great inconvenience, however," suggested Mr. Merrick. "I am told a prisoner is treated very well, if he is willing to pay for such consideration," said Jones. "And your good name?" asked Maud, with a touch of impatience. "My good name is precious only to me, and I know it is still untarnished. For your sake, my newly found friends, I would like the world to believe in me, but there is none save you to suffer through my disgrace, and you may easily ignore my acquaintance." "What nonsense!" cried Patsy, scornfully. "Tell me, sir, what's to become of our grand motion picture enterprise, if you allow yourself to be shipped to Vienna as a captured thief?" He winced a trifle at the blunt epithet but quickly recovered and smiled at her. "I'm sorry, Miss Patsy," said he. "I know you will be disappointed if our enterprise is abandoned. So will I. Since this latest complication arose I fear I have not given our project the consideration it deserves." The boy passed his hand wearily across his forehead and, rising from his seat, took a few nervous steps up and down the room. Then, pausing, he asked abruptly: "Are you still inclined to be my champion, Miss Stanton?" "If I can be of any help," she replied, simply. "Then I wish you would visit the yacht, make the acquaintance of Captain Carg and tell him of the trouble I am in. Will you?" "With pleasure. That is--I'll be glad to do your errand." "I'll give you a letter to him," he continued, and turning to the attendant he asked for writing material, which was promptly furnished him. At the table he wrote a brief note and enclosed it in an envelope which he handed to Maud. "You will find the captain a splendid old fellow," said he. "Will he answer any questions I may ask him?" she demanded. "That will depend upon your questions," he answered evasively. "Carg is considered a bit taciturn, I believe, but he has my best interests at heart and you will find him ready to serve me in any possible way." "Is there any objection to my going with Maud?" asked Patsy. "I'd like to visit that yacht; it looks so beautiful from a distance." "You may all go, if you wish," said he. "It might be well for Mr. Merrick to meet Captain Carg, who would prefer, I am sure, to discuss so delicate a matter as my arrest with a man. Not that he is ungallant, but with a man such as Mr. Merrick he would be more at his ease. Carg is a sailor, rather blunt and rugged, both in speech and demeanor, but wholly devoted to me because I am at present _the_ Jones of Sangoa." "I'll accompany the girls, of course," said Uncle John; "and I think we ought not to delay in seeing your man. Colby says you may be called for examination at any time." "There is one more question I want to ask," announced Maud as they rose to go. "On what date did you reach New York, after landing at San Francisco?" "Why, it must have been some time in last January. I know it was soon after Christmas, which I passed in Chicago." "Is that as near as you can recollect the date?" "Yes, at short notice." "Then perhaps you can tell me the date you took possession of the Continental Film Company by entering the stockholders' meeting and ejecting yourself president?" He seemed surprised at her information and the question drew from him an odd laugh. "How did you learn about that incident?" he asked. "Goldstein told Mr. Merrick. He said it was a coup d'etat." The boy laughed again. "It was really funny," said he. "Old Bingley, the last president, had no inkling that I controlled the stock. He was so sure of being reelected that he had a camera-man on hand to make a motion picture of the scene where all would hail him as the chief. The picture was taken, but it didn't interest Bingley any, for it showed the consternation on his face, and the faces of his favored coterie, when I rose and calmly voted him out of office with the majority of the stock." "Oh!" exclaimed Maud. "There was a picture made of that scene, then?" "To be sure. It was never shown but once to an audience of one. I sat and chuckled to myself while the film was being run." "Was it kept, or destroyed?" asked the girl, breathlessly. "I ordered it preserved amongst our archives. Probably Goldstein now has the negative out here, stored in our Hollywood vaults." "And the date--when was it?" she demanded. "Why, the annual meeting is always the last Thursday in January. Figure it out--it must have been the twenty-sixth. But is the exact date important, Miss Stanton?" "Very," she announced. "I don't know yet the exact date that Andrews landed in New York on his return from Vienna, but if it happened to be later than the twenty-sixth of January--" "I see. In that case the picture will clear me of suspicion." "Precisely. I shall now go and wire New York for the information I need." "Can't you get it of Le Drieux?" asked the young man. "Perhaps so; I'll try. But it will be better to get the date from the steamship agent direct." With this they shook the boy's hand, assuring him of their sympathy and their keen desire to aid him, and then hurried away from the jail. CHAPTER XXII MASCULINE AND FEMININE Uncle John and the girls, after consulting together, decided to stop at the Hollywood studio and pick up Flo and Mrs. Montrose. "It would be a shame to visit that lovely yacht without them," said Patsy; "and we were all invited, you know." "Yes, invited by a host who is unavoidably detained elsewhere," added Uncle John. "Still, that yacht is very exclusive," his niece stated, "and I'm sure we are the first Americans to step foot on its decks." They were all in a brighter mood since the interview at the jail, and after a hurried lunch at the hotel, during which Maud related to the others the morning's occurrences, they boarded the big Merrick seven-passenger automobile and drove to Santa Monica Bay. Louise couldn't leave the baby, who was cutting teeth, but Arthur and Beth joined the party and on arrival at the beach Uncle John had no difficulty in securing a launch to take them out to the _Arabella_. "They won't let you aboard, though," declared the boatman. "A good many have tried it, an' come back disjointed. There's something queer about that craft; but the gov'ment don't seem worried, so I guess it ain't a pirate." The beauty of the yacht grew on them as they approached it. It was painted a pure white in every part and on the stern was the one word: _Arabella_, but no name of the port from which she hailed. The ladder was hoisted and fastened to an upper rail, but as they drew up to the smooth sides a close-cropped bullet-head projected from the bulwarks and a gruff voice demanded: "Well, what's wanted?" "We want to see Captain Carg," called Arthur, in reply. The head wagged sidewise. "No one allowed aboard," said the man. "Here's a letter to the captain, from Mr. Jones," said Maud, exhibiting it. The word seemed magical. Immediately the head disappeared and an instant later the boarding ladder began to descend. But the man, a sub-officer dressed in a neat uniform of white and gold, came quickly down the steps and held out his hand for the letter. "Beg pardon," said he, touching his cap to the ladies, "but the rules are very strict aboard the _Arabella_. Will you please wait until I've taken this to the captain? Thank you!" Then he ran lightly up the steps and they remained seated in the launch until he returned. "The captain begs you to come aboard," he then said, speaking very respectfully but with a face that betrayed his wonder at the order of his superior. Then he escorted them up the side to the deck, which was marvelously neat and attractive. Some half a dozen sailors lounged here and there and these stared as wonderingly at the invasion of strangers as the subaltern had done. But their guide did not pause longer than to see that they had all reached the deck safely, when he led them into a spacious cabin. Here they faced Captain Carg, whom Patsy afterward declared was the tallest, thinnest, chilliest man she had ever encountered. His hair was grizzled and hung low on his neck; his chin was very long and ended in a point; his nose was broad, with sensitive nostrils that marked every breath he drew. As for his eyes, which instantly attracted attention, they were brown and gentle as a girl's but had that retrospective expression that suggests far-away thoughts or an utter lack of interest in one's surroundings. They never looked at but through one. The effect of Carg's eyes was distinctly disconcerting. The commander of the _Arabella_ bowed with much dignity as his guests entered and with a sweep of his long arm he muttered in distant tones: "Pray be seated." They obeyed. The cabin was luxuriously furnished and there was no lack of comfortable chairs. Somehow, despite the courteous words and attitude of Captain Carg, there was something about him that repelled confidence. Already Maud and Patsy were wondering if such a man could be loyal and true. "My young master," he was saying, as he glanced at the letter he still held in his hand, "tells me that any questions you may ask I may answer as freely as I am permitted to." "What does that mean, sir?" Maud inquired, for the speech was quite ambiguous. "That I await your queries, Miss," with another perfunctory bow in her direction. She hesitated, puzzled how to proceed. "Mr. Jones is in a little trouble," she finally began. "He has been mistaken for some other man and--they have put him in jail until he can be examined by the federal judge of this district." The captain's face exhibited no expression whatever. Even the eyes failed to express surprise at her startling news. He faced his visitors without emotion. "At the examination," Maud went on, "it will be necessary for him to prove he is from Sangoa." No reply. The captain sat like a statue. "He must also prove that certain pearls found in his possession came from Sangoa." Still no reply. Maud began to falter and fidget. Beth was amused. Patsy was fast growing indignant. Flo had a queer expression on her pretty face that denoted mischief to such an extent that it alarmed her Aunt Jane. "I'm afraid," said Maud, "that unless you come to your master's assistance, Captain Carg, he will be sent to Austria, a prisoner charged with a serious crime." She meant this assertion to be very impressive, but it did not seem to affect the man in the least. She sighed, and Flo, with a giggle, broke an awkward pause. "Well, why don't you get busy. Maud?" she asked. "I--in what way, Flo?" asked her sister, catching at the suggestion implied. "Captain Carg would make a splendid motion picture actor," declared the younger Miss Stanton, audaciously. "He sticks close to his cues, you see, and won't move till he gets one. He will answer your questions; yes, he has said he would; but you may prattle until doomsday without effect, so far as he is concerned, unless you finish your speech with an interrogation point." Mrs. Montrose gave a gasp of dismay, while Maud flushed painfully. The captain, however, allowed a gleam of admiration to soften his grim features as he stared fixedly at saucy Flo. Patsy marked this fleeting change of expression at once and said hastily: "I think. Maud, dear, the captain is waiting to be questioned." At this he cast a grateful look in Miss Doyle's direction and bowed to her. Maud began to appreciate the peculiar situation and marshalled her questions in orderly array. "Tell me, please, where _is_ Sangoa?" she began. "In the South Seas, Miss." "Will you give me the latitude and longitude?" "I cannot." "Oh, you mean that you _will_ not?" "I have been commanded to forget the latitude and longitude of Sangoa." "But this is folly!" she exclaimed, much annoyed. "Such absurd reticence may be fatal to Mr. Jones' interests." He made no reply to this and after reflection she tried again. "What is the nearest land to Sangoa?" "Toerdal," said he. "What is that, an island?" "Yes." "Is it on the maps? Is it charted?" "No, Miss." She silenced Flo's aggravating giggle with a frown. "Tell me, sir," she continued, "what is the nearest land to Sangoa that is known to the world?" He smiled faintly as he replied: "I cannot tell." Uncle John had grown very uneasy by this time and he decided he ought to attempt to assist Maud. So, addressing Captain Carg, he said in a positive tone: "We quite understand, sir, that it has been the policy of the owners of Sangoa to guard all knowledge of the island's whereabouts from the outside world, as well as the fact that its pearl fisheries are very rich. We understand that an influx of treasure-seekers would embarrass the Sangoans. But we are close friends of young Mr. Jones and have no desire to usurp his island kingdom or seize his pearls. Our only anxiety is to free him from an unjust suspicion. A foolish man named Le Drieux accuses Jones of stealing a choice collection of pearls from a lady in Austria and fleeing with them to America. He has a photograph of the real criminal, taken abroad, which curiously resembles your young master." Here the captain turned a quick look upon the speaker and for the first time his eyes lost their dull expression. But he made no remark and Uncle John continued: "This man Le Drieux found several choice pearls in the possession of Mr. Jones, which he claims are a part of the stolen collection. Hence he obtained your master's arrest. Jones says he brought the pearls from Sangoa, his home, where they were found. No one here knows anything of Sangoa, so they regard his story with suspicion. Now, sir, we believe that through you we can prove he has told the truth, and so secure his release. Here is the important question: Will you help us?" "Willingly, sir," replied the captain. "Are you forbidden to tell us where Sangoa is, or anything about the island?" "Yes, sir; I am forbidden to do that, under any circumstances," was the ready answer. "Have you been to Sangoa since you landed Mr. Jones in San Francisco, some fifteen months ago?" "Yes, sir." "And did you bring back with you, on this trip, any pearls?" "Yes, sir." "Have you already disposed of them?" "No, sir." "Why not?" "I am awaiting orders from my master." "Has he been aboard since you anchored here?" "No, sir." "What were your instructions?" "To anchor on this coast and await his coming." "Well," said Mr. Merrick, reflectively, "I believe you can prove our case without telling the location of Sangoa. An exhibition of the pearls you have brought ought to convince any reasonable judge. Are there many of them in this lot?" "Not so many as usual, sir." "Are they very choice ones?" "Not so choice as usual, sir." Uncle John was greatly disappointed, but Maud exclaimed eagerly: "Let us see them, please!" That was not a question, but the captain rose at once, bowed and left the cabin. It was some ten minutes before he returned, followed by two men who bore between them a heavy bronze chest which they placed upon the cabin floor. Then they left the room and the captain took a key from his pocket and unlocked a secret panel in the wainscoting of the cabin. A small compartment was disclosed, in which hung another key on an iron hook. He removed this and with it unlocked the chest, drawing-from its recesses several trays which he deposited upon the table. These trays were lined and padded with white velvet and when the covers were removed, the girls, who had crowded around the table, uttered cries of astonishment and delight. "They may not be as numerous or as choice 'as usual,'" murmured Mrs. Montrose, "but they are the most amazing lot of pearls I have ever beheld." "And did all these come from Sangoa?" Maud asked the captain. "They represent two months' fishing on the coast of our island," he replied; "but not the best two months of the year. The weather was bad; there were many storms." "Why, the pearls that Ajo gave us were insignificant when compared with these!" cried Beth. "This collection must be worth an enormous sum. Uncle John." Uncle John merely nodded. He had been thinking, as he studied the pearls, and now turned to Captain Carg. "Will you come ashore and testify before the judge in behalf of your master?" "Yes, if he asks me to do so." "And will you bring these pearls with you?" "If my master orders it." "Very good. We will have him send you instructions." The captain bowed, after which he turned to the table and began replacing the trays in the chest. Then he locked it, again hung the key in the secret aperture and closed the panel. A whistle summoned the two seamen, who bore away the chest, accompanied by the captain in person. When they were left alone, Maud said anxiously: "Is there anything more we can do here?" "I think not," replied Mr. Merrick. "Then let us get back. I want to complete my evidence at once, for no one knows when the judge will summon Ajo for examination." They thanked the captain when he rejoined them, but he remained as silent and undemonstrative as ever, so they took their departure without further ceremony and returned to the shore. CHAPTER XXIII THE ADVANTAGE OF A DAY That evening Le Drieux appeared in the lobby of the hotel and sat himself comfortably down, as if his sole desire in life was to read the evening paper and smoke his after-dinner cigar. He cast a self-satisfied and rather supercilious glance in the direction of the Merrick party, which on this occasion included the Stantons and their aunt, but he made no attempt to approach the corner where they were seated. Maud, however, as soon as she saw Le Drieux, asked Arthur Weldon to interview the man and endeavor to obtain from him the exact date when Jack Andrews landed in New York. Uncle John had already wired to Major Doyle, Patsy's father, to get the steamship lists and find which boat Andrews had come on and the date of its arrival, but no answer had as yet been received. Arthur made a pretext of buying a cigar at the counter and then strolled aimlessly about until he came, as if by chance, near to where Le Drieux was sitting. Making a pretense of suddenly observing the man, he remarked casually: "Ah, good evening." "Good evening, Mr. Weldon," replied Le Drieux, a note of ill-suppressed triumph in his voice. "I suppose you are now content to rest on your laurels, pending the formal examination?" said Arthur. "I am, sir. But the examination is a mere form, you know. I have already cabled the commissioner of police at Vienna and received a reply stating that the Austrian ambassador would make a prompt demand for extradition and the papers would be forwarded from Washington to the Austrian consul located in this city. The consul has also been instructed to render me aid in transporting the prisoner to Vienna. All this will require several days' time, so you see we are in no hurry to conclude the examination." "I see." said Arthur. "Is it, then, your intention to accompany the prisoner to Vienna?" "Of course. I have not mentioned the fact to you before, but I hold a commission from the Chief of Police of Vienna authorizing me to arrest Jack Andrews wherever I may find him, and deliver him up for trial. My firm procured for me this commission, as they are very anxious to recover the lost pearls." "Why?" "Well, to be frank, sir, the countess still owes our firm a large sum for purchases. She had almost her entire fortune tied up in that collection, and unless it is recovered--." "I can well appreciate the anxiety of your firm. But aside from that, Mr. Le Drieux, I suppose a big reward has been offered?" "Not big; just a fair amount. It will repay me, quite handsomely, for my trouble in this affair; but, of course, my firm gets half of the reward." "They are not too generous. You deserve it all." "Thank you. It has been an interesting episode, Mr. Weldon." "It has been more than that. I consider this escapade of Andrews quite a romance; or is it more of a tragedy, in your opinion?" "It will be a tragedy for Andrews, before he's through with it," replied Le Drieux grimly. "They're pretty severe on the long-fingered gentry, over there in Europe, and you must remember that if the fellow lives through the sentence they will undoubtedly impose upon him in Vienna, he has still to answer for the Paris robbery and the London murder. It's all up with Andrews, I guess; and it's a good thing, too, for he is too clever to remain at large." "I do not consider him so clever as his captor," said Arthur smoothly. "It did not take you long to discover where he had hidden. Why, he has only returned to America about fifteen months ago." "Eleven months ago--even less than that, I think," retorted Le Drieux, with much pride. "Let me see," taking out a notebook, "Andrews landed from the _Princess Irene_ on the twenty-seventh of January last." "Oh, the twenty-seventh? Are you sure of that?" said Arthur. "Of course." "I was under the impression he landed on the twenty-fifth." "No; you are wrong. Why, I met the boat myself, but missed him, although he was on the passenger list. He disembarked very slyly, I afterward learned, being doubtless afraid he would be arrested. But at that time I had no positive evidence against him." Arthur asked a few more questions of no importance and then bade Le Drieux good night and rejoined the girls. "You win, Maud," he remarked as he sat down. "That clew of yours was an inspiration. Andrews arrived in America on January twenty-seventh, just one day after Jones had a motion picture of himself taken at the stockholders' meeting of the Continental Film Company." "Then we needn't worry over Ajo any longer!" asserted Patsy joyfully. "With this evidence and the testimony of Captain Carg and his pearls, the most stupid judge on earth would declare the boy innocent. Why, Beth, we shall get our theatres built, after all!" CHAPTER XXIV PICTURE NUMBER NINETEEN "Well, where have you been?" demanded Goldstein gruffly, as Maud Stanton entered his office the next morning in response to a summons from the Continental manager. "What made you run away yesterday? Don't you know such things make us lots of trouble and cost us money?" "I'm not worrying about that," replied Maud, as she composedly sat down opposite the manager. Goldstein glared at her, but he was cautious. "You're a fine actress, Miss Stanton, and you're popular on the films," he said, "but if you cannot attend to business we are paying you too much money." "Indeed!" "No other firm could afford to give you so much, you know that; and the only reason we are so extravagant is because you are one of our features." "Am I to take this as a dismissal?" she asked carelessly. "Dismissal!" he cried, holding up his hands. "Of course not. Who is talking of dismissal? But I owe a duty to my firm. Such actions as yours, in running away from rehearsals, must have a--a--reprimand. Not severe; I am not so angry as grieved; but a reprimand is your due--and that fly-away sister of yours is just as bad." "We went to assist your president--Mr. Jones--to establish his innocence of the awful charge made against him," she explained. "Bah. You can't do that. No one can save him," he replied, with triumph and satisfaction mingled in his tone. She looked at him thoughtfully. "You seem pleased with the idea that he is guilty, Mr. Goldstein." "I am glad he is caught. What is Jones to me? An interloper! A boy who gets money, buys stock, and then interferes with a business he knows nothing about. You are a professional, Miss Stanton. You know how we, who are in the game, have won our knowledge of it by long experience, by careful study, by keeping the thousand threads of the rope of success twisted tightly together. Any fool could buy this business, but only an expert could run it successfully. You know that. So I am glad this interfering boy is wiped off the slate forever." "But he isn't!" she protested. "You still have this boy to reckon with, Goldstein. When he is examined by the judge he will be set free, for all the evidence is in his favor and there is ample proof that he is not the man they are after. And that reminds me. There is a negative here that was made at the directors' meeting in January, a year ago, which shows Mr. Jones taking control of the Continental." "I have never seen it," he said, shaking his head. "It is here, though, and I want a positive printed at once, and mounted on a reel, so it can be exhibited before the judge. Have Alfred get it out of the vault." "Why should I do that?" he inquired, frowning. "Because, if you refuse, Mr. Jones is quite likely to find another manager. No other firm would pay you so much as you are getting here. You know that." He grinned with delight at the thrust, then grew solemn. "You are sure he will go free?" "Positive," returned Maud. "He doesn't really need that film, but it would be good policy--excellent policy--for you to produce it." "Alfred!" called the manager. "Bring me the stock book." He ran his finger down the pages. "January--eh--eh--" "January twenty-sixth," she said. "Here it is: 'Special of Annual Meeting, C.F.M. Co.--280 feet.--No. 19,' Get number nineteen out of the vault, Alfred." While the young man was gone he relapsed into thought. Maud waited patiently. "You see," resumed the manager abruptly, "I am making more money for the Continental than I get paid for. That is because I know how. It is not good business to cut down the profits; therefore I should be paid a bigger salary. Miss Stanton, you're a friend of young Jones, who controls this company. Yon might talk to him about me." "I will," she said. "You might say I know every trick of the trade. Tell Jones how all the other film makers are crazy to get me. But say how I refuse more money because I believe our directors will wake up to my value and raise my salary. That sounds pretty good, eh?" "It sounds remarkable." "And it's no dream. Ah, here comes Alfred." The clerk laid upon the table a round box coated with paraffin to exclude the air. A tag was attached to the box, describing its contents. "Number nineteen. Quite right. Take it to the printing room and tell McDonald to make me a copy as quickly as possible. Tell him to let me know when it's dry and ready to run." As the clerk disappeared Maud said: "I needn't wait, I suppose?" "No. Werner wants you at the rehearsal of 'The Love of a Princess.' Before you go home to-night I'll call you in to see the run of number nineteen. Then you may take the film to Jones--with my compliments." At five o'clock, when she was dressing to go home, Maud was summoned to the little "dark room" where all films are exhibited, trimmed and tested before being sent out. She took Aunt Jane and Flo with her and they found Goldstein already waiting and the operator standing by his machine. The scene was short and not very exciting, although of interest in the present crisis. It showed the interior of the hall where the stock-holders' meeting was held, and began with the assembling of the members. Two or three pompous individuals then seated themselves facing the others, and the proceedings began. A slim boy on a back bench arose and said something. Panic was at once written on the faces of the former officers. They gesticulated; their lips moved rapidly. The boy, easily recognized as A. Jones, advanced and displayed a lot of papers, which were carefully examined. He then took the president's chair, the former officers fled in disgust and the throng of stockholders wildly applauded. Then the light went out, the machine stopped, and Goldstein opened the door to let in light and air. "It was the same kid, all right," he remarked. "I had never seen this film run before, but it shows how Jones called the turn on the old officers in great shape. I wonder where he got all the money?" Maud secured his promise to send an operator to town, to exhibit the film before the judge, whenever he might be required. Then she went to her hotel fully satisfied that she had done all in her power to assist A. Jones of Sangoa. CHAPTER XXV JUDGMENT A telegram from Major Doyle corroborated Le Drieux's assertion that Jack Andrews had arrived at the port of New York via the _Princess Irene_ on January twenty-seventh. A report from Lawyer Colby stated that he was now so thoroughly posted on everything pertaining to pearls that he could easily confound the expert, Mr. Isidore Le Drieux. There the matter rested for three days, during which the Stanton girls continued their work at the studio and Uncle John's nieces busied themselves enjoying the charms of the ideal Hollywood climate. Then came the news that the judge would call Jones for examination at nine o'clock on Friday morning, the thirteenth. "Friday, the thirteenth!" said Patsy with a grimace. "I hope Ajo isn't superstitious." "That combination proves lucky for some people," replied Arthur, laughing. "Let us hope that Jones is one of them." "Of course we shall all go to see what happens," said Beth, and to this there was no dissenting voice. Maud obtained a letter from Jones to Captain Carg, asking him to be on hand, and this she dispatched by a safe messenger to the yacht _Arabella_. She also told Goldstein to have his operator in attendance with the film. Finally, a conference was called that evening with Mr. Colby, at which the complete program of defense was carefully rehearsed. "Really," said the lawyer, "there's nothing to this case. It's a regular walkaway, believe me! I'm almost ashamed to take Mr. Jones' money for conducting a case that Miss Stanton has all cut and dried for me. I'll not receive one half the credit I should had the thing been complicated, or difficult. However, I've learned so much about pearls that I'm almost tempted to go into the jewelry business." Friday morning was bright and cool--one of those perfect days for which Southern California is famous. Judge Wilton appeared in court with a tranquil expression upon his face that proved he was in a contented mood. All conditions augured well for the prisoner. The prosecution was represented by two well known attorneys who had brought a dozen witnesses to support their charge, among them being the Austrian consul. The case opened with the statement that the prisoner, Jackson Dowd Andrews, alias A. Jones, while a guest at the villa of the Countess Ahmberg, near Vienna, had stolen from his hostess a valuable collection of pearls, which he had secretly brought to America. Some of the stolen booty the prisoner had disposed of, it was asserted; a part had been found in his possession at the time of his arrest; some of the pearls had been mounted by Brock & Co., the Los Angeles jewelers, at his request, and by him presented to several acquaintances he had recently made but who were innocent of any knowledge of his past history or his misdeeds. Therefore the prosecution demanded that the prisoner be kept in custody until the arrival of extradition papers, which were already on the way, and that on the arrival of these papers Andrews should be turned over to Le Drieux, a representative of the Vienna police, and by him taken to Austria, the scene of his crime, for trial and punishment. The judge followed the charge of the prosecution rather indifferently, being already familiar with it. Then he asked if there was any defense. Colby took the floor. He denied that the prisoner was Jackson Dowd Andrews, or that he had ever been in Vienna. It was a case of mistaken identity. His client's liberty had been outraged by the stupid blunders of the prosecution. He demanded the immediate release of the prisoner. "Have you evidence to support this plea?" inquired Judge Wilton. "We have, your honor. But the prosecution must first prove its charge." The prosecution promptly responded to the challenge. The photograph of Andrews, taken abroad, was shown. Two recognized experts in physiognomy declared, after comparison, that it was undoubtedly the photograph of the prisoner. Then Le Drieux took the stand. He read a newspaper account of the robbery. He produced a list of the pearls, attested by the countess herself. Each individual pearl was described and its color, weight and value given. Then Le Drieux exhibited the pearls taken from Jones and, except for the small ones in the brooch which had been presented to Mrs. Montrose, he checked off every pearl against his list, weighing them before the judge and describing their color. During this, Judge Wilton continually nodded approval. Such evidence was concise and indisputable, it seemed. Moreover, the defense readily admitted that the pearls exhibited had all been in Jones' possession. Then Colby got up to refute the evidence. "Mr. Jones," he began, "has--" "Give the prisoner's full name," said the judge. "His full name is A. Jones." "What does the 'A' stand for?" "It is only an initial, your honor. Mr. Jones has no other name." "Puh! He ought to have taken some other name. Names are cheap," sneered the judge. Colby ignored the point. "Mr. Jones is a resident of Sangoa, where he was born. Until he landed at San Francisco, fifteen months ago, he had never set foot on any land but that of his native island." "Where is Sangoa?" demanded the judge. "It is an island of the South Seas." "What nationality?" "It is independent. It was purchased from Uruguay by Mr. Jones' father many years ago, and now belongs exclusively to his son." "Your information is indefinite," snapped the judge. "I realize that, your honor; but my client deems it wise to keep the location of his island a secret, because he has valuable pearl fisheries on its shores. The pearls exhibited by the prosecution were all found at Sangoa." "How do you account, then, for their checking so accurately against the list of stolen pearls?" "I can make almost any pearls check with that list, which represents a huge collection of almost every size, weight and color," replied Colby. "To prove this, I will introduce in evidence Captain Carg of Sangoa, who recently arrived at Santa Monica Bay with the last proceeds of the pearl fisheries of the island." Captain Carg was on hand, with his two sailors guarding the chest. He now produced the trays of pearls and spread them on the desk before the amazed eyes of the judge. Le Drieux was astounded, and showed it plainly on his face. Colby now borrowed the list, and picking up a pearl from the tray weighed it on Le Drieux's scales and then found a parallel to it on the list. This he did with several of the pearls, chosen at random, until one of Le Drieux's attorneys took the expert aside and whispered to him. Then Le Drieux's expression changed from chagrin to joy and coming forward he exclaimed: "Your honor, this is the collection--the balance of it--which was stolen from the Countess Ahmberg!" The judge looked at him a moment, leaned back in his chair and nodded his head impressively. "What nonsense!" protested Colby. "These trays contain twice the number of pearls included in that entire list, as your honor may plainly see." "Of course," retorted Le Drieux eagerly; "here are also the pearls from the necklace of Princess Lemoine, and the London collection of Lady Grandison. Your honor, in his audacity the defense has furnished us proof positive that this prisoner can be none other than the adventurer and clever thief, Jack Andrews." It was in vain that Colby declared these pearls had just come from Sangoa, where they were found. The judge cut him short and asked if he had any other evidence to advance. "These pearls," he added, indicating the trays, "I shall take possession of. They must remain in my custody until their owners claim them, or Captain Carg can prove they are the lawful property of the prisoner." Consternation now pervaded the ranks of the defense. The girls were absolutely dismayed, while Uncle John and Arthur Weldon wore bewildered looks. Only Jones remained composed, an amused smile curling the corners of his delicate mouth as he eyed the judge who was to decide his fate. On the side of the prosecution were looks of triumph. Le Drieux already regarded his case as won. Colby now played his trump card, which Maud Stanton's logic and energy had supplied the defense. "The prosecution," said he, "has stated that the alleged robbery was committed at Vienna on the evening of September fifteenth, and that Jack Andrews arrived in America on the steamship _Princess Irene_ on the afternoon of the January twenty-seventh following. Am I correct in those dates?" The judge consulted his stenographer. "The dates mentioned are correct," he said pompously. "Here are the papers issued by the Commander of the Port of San Francisco, proving that the yacht _Arabella_ of Sangoa anchored in that harbor on October twelfth, and disembarked one passenger, namely: A. Jones of Sangoa." "That might, or might not, have been the prisoner," declared the prosecuting attorney. "True," said the judge. "The name 'A. Jones' is neither distinguished nor distinguishing." "On the evening of January twenty-sixth, twenty-four hours before Jack Andrews landed in America," continued Colby, "the prisoner, Mr. A. Jones, appeared at the annual meeting of the stockholders of the Continental Film Manufacturing Company, in New York, and was formally elected president of that organization." "What is your proof?" inquired the judge, stifling a yawn. "I beg to submit the minutes of the meeting, attested by its secretary." The judge glanced at the minutes. "We object to this evidence," said the opposing attorney. "There is no proof that the A. Jones referred to is the prisoner." "The minutes," said Colby, "state that a motion picture was taken of the meeting. I have the film here, in this room, and beg permission to exhibit it before your honor as evidence." The judge was a bit startled at so novel a suggestion but assented with a nod. In a twinkling the operator had suspended a roller-screen from the chandelier dependent from the ceiling, pulled down the window shades and attached his projecting machine to an electric-light socket. Then the picture flashed upon the screen. It was not entirely distinct, because the room could not be fully darkened and the current was not strong, yet every face in the gathering of stockholders could be plainly recognized. Jones, especially, as the central figure, could not be mistaken and no one who looked upon the picture could doubt his identity. When the exhibition was concluded and the room again lightened, Le Drieux's face was visibly perturbed and anxious, while his attorneys sat glum and disconcerted. Colby now put Goldstein on the stand, who testified that he recognized Jones as president of his company and the owner of the majority of stock. The young man had come to him with unimpeachable credentials to that effect. The girls were now smiling and cheerful. To them the defense was absolutely convincing. But Le Drieux's attorneys were skillful fighters and did not relish defeat. They advanced the theory that the motion picture, just shown, had been made at a later dale and substituted for the one mentioned in the minutes of the meeting. They questioned Goldstein, who admitted that he had never seen Jones until a few days previous. The manager denied, however, any substitution of the picture. He was not a very satisfactory witness for the defense and Colby was sorry he had summoned him. As for the judge, he seemed to accept the idea of the substitution with alacrity. He had practically decided against Jones in the matter of the pearls. Now he listened carefully to the arguments of the prosecution and cut Colby short when he raised objections to their sophistry. Finally Judge Wilton rose to state his decision. "The evidence submitted in proof of the alleged fact that the prisoner is Jack Andrews, and that Jack Andrews may have robbed the Countess Ahmberg, of Vienna, of her valuable collection of pearls, is in the judgment of this court clear and convincing," he said. "The lawyer for the defense has further succeeded in entangling his client by exhibiting an additional assortment of pearls, which may likewise be stolen property. The attempt to impose upon this court a mythical island called Sangoa is--eh--distinctly reprehensible. This court is not so easily hoodwinked. Therefore, in consideration of the evidence advanced, I declare that the prisoner is Jack Andrews, otherwise Jackson Dowd Andrews, otherwise parading under the alias of 'A. Jones,' and I recognize the claim of the Austrian police to his person, that he may be legally tried for his alleged crimes in the territory where it is alleged he committed them. Therefore I order that the prisoner be held for requisition and turned over to the proper authorities when the papers arrive. The court is adjourned." CHAPTER XXVI SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN Of course not one of our friends agreed with the judge. Indignation and resentment were written on every face--except that of Goldstein. The manager rubbed his hands softly together and, approaching Maud, he whispered: "You needn't speak to Jones about me. It's all right. I guess he won't be interfering with me any more, eh? And come _early_ to-morrow morning. We've got a lot of rehearsing to do. To-day I will call a holiday for you. And, believe me, Miss Stanton, this is nothing to worry any of us. The judge settles it, right or wrong, for the law defies us all." As the manager hurried away Uncle John looked after him and said: "I wonder if he realizes how true his words are? 'The law defies us all.' How helpless we are to oppose injustice and oppression when one man, with a man's limitations and prejudices, is clothed with authority to condemn us!" Colby stood silent. The poor fellow's eyes were full of unshed tears. "This is my first case, and my last," said he. "I won it honestly. It was the judge, not the evidence, that defeated me. I'm going to rent my office and apply for a job as a chauffeur." Jones was the least affected of the group. "Never mind, friends," he said to them, "it will all come right in the end. If you will stand by me, Colby, I'll retain you to plead my case in the Austrian court, or at least advise my Austrian lawyers. I've an idea they will treat me fairly, over there in Vienna." "It's outrageous!" quoth indignant Patsy Doyle. "I'd like to give that judge a piece of my mind." "If you did," replied Arthur, "he'd fine you for contempt." "It would be a just line, in that case," said Patsy; "so I'm sure he wouldn't do it." The jailer had come to take the prisoner back to his cell. He smiled whimsically at Miss Doyle's speech and remarked: "There's always one side to kick, Miss, whichever way the judge decides. It was only Solomon who could satisfy everybody." "Clear the room!" shouted the bailiff. Captain Carg's men took the empty chest back to the launch. The captain followed them, after pressing the hand of his young master, who said: "Wait for orders, Captain." Uncle John took his flock back to the hotel, where they gathered in his room and held an indignation meeting. Here it was safe to give full vent to their chagrin and disappointment. "Every bit of honest evidence was on our side," declared Maud. "I shall never be able to understand why we lost." "Bribery and corruption," said Flo. "I'll bet a cookie Le Drieux divided the reward with the judge." "I suppose it's all up with Ajo now," sighed Beth, regretfully. "Yes," replied Colby, who had accompanied them; "there is nothing more to be done for him at present. From the judge's order there is no appeal, in such a case. Mr. Jones must go to Vienna for trial; but there he may secure an acquittal." "He is very brave, I think," said Patsy. "This affair must have hurt his pride, but he smiles through it all. In his condition of health, the confinement and humiliation may well shorten his life, yet he has made no murmur." "He's good stuff, that boy," commented Uncle John. "Perhaps it is due to that John Paul blood his father was so proud of." When Arthur went into the lobby a little later he found Le Drieux seated comfortably and smoking a long cigar. The pearl expert nodded to the young ranchman with so much evident satisfaction that Arthur could not resist engaging him in conversation. "Well, you won," he remarked, taking a vacant chair beside Le Drieux. "Yes, of course," was the reply; "but I'll admit that fellow Andrews is a smooth one. Why, at one time he had even me puzzled with his alibis and his evidence. That flash of the pearls was the cleverest trick I ever heard of; but it didn't go, I'd warned the judge to look out for a scoop. He knew he was dealing with one of the most slippery rogues in captivity." "See here, Le Drieux," said Arthur; "let us be honest with one another, now that the thing is settled and diplomacy is uncalled for. Do you really believe that Jones is Jack Andrews?" "Me? I know it, Mr. Weldon. I don't pose as a detective, but I'm considered to have a shrewd insight into human character, and from the first moment I set eyes on him I was positive that Jones was the famous Jack Andrews. I can understand how you people, generous and trusting, have been deceived in the fellow; I admire the grit you've all shown in standing by him to the last. I haven't a particle of malice toward any one of you, I assure you--not even toward Andrews himself." "Then why have you bounded him so persistently?" "For two reasons." said Le Drieux. "As a noted pearl expert, I wanted to prove my ability to run down the thief; and, as a man in modest circumstances, I wanted the reward." "How much will you get?" "All together, the rewards aggregate twenty thousand dollars. I'll get half, and my firm will get half." "I think," said Arthur, to test the man, "that Jones would have paid you double that amount to let him alone." Le Drieux shook his head; then he smiled. "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Weldon--in strict confidence, of course--that I approached Jones on that very subject, the day he was placed in jail. He must have been sure his tricks would clear him, for he refused to give me a single penny. I imagine he is very sorry, right now; don't you, sir?" "No," said Arthur, "I don't. I still believe in his innocence." Le Drieux stared at him incredulously. "What, after that examination of to-day?" he demanded. "Before and after. There was no justice in the decision of Judge Wilton; he was unduly prejudiced." "Be careful, sir!" "We are talking confidentially." "To be sure. But you astonish me. I understand the character of Andrews so thoroughly that I fail to comprehend how any sensible person can believe in him. Talk about prejudice!" "I suppose you are to remain at this hotel?" said Arthur, evading further argument. "Yes, until the papers arrive. They ought to be here by Monday. Then I shall take Andrews to New York and we will board the first steamer for Europe." Arthur left him. Le Drieux puzzled him more than he puzzled Le Drieux. The expert seemed sincere in the belief that he had trapped, in Jones, a noted criminal. Weldon could not help wondering, as he walked away, if possibly he and his friends had been deceived in A. Jones of Sangoa. The doubt was but momentary, yet it had forced itself into his mind. On Saturday afternoon they all made a visit to the prisoner and tried to cheer him. Again on Sunday they called--the Stantons and Merricks and Weldons and all. Young Jones received them with composure and begged them not to worry on his account. "I am quite comfortable in this jail, I assure you," said he. "On my journey to Vienna I shall be able to bribe Le Drieux to let me have such comforts as I desire. There is but one experience I shrink from: the passage across the Atlantic. If it brings a return of my former malady I shall suffer terribly." "It may not be so bad as you fear," Patsy assured him, although in her heart she realized it might be the death of the boy. "Often those who are distressed by a voyage on the Pacific endure the Atlantic very well." "That is encouraging," said he. "It is my dread of the water that has prevented me from returning to Sangoa, or even visiting my yacht. And this reminds me of a favor I wish to ask." "You may rely upon our friendship," said Maud. "I believe that. Here is a letter to Captain Carg, putting the _Arabella_ at your disposal until my return from Vienna. I have named Mr. Merrick as the commander of the yacht, in my absence, and if you feel inclined to make the trip and can spare the time I would like you all to make a voyage to Sangoa." "To Sangoa!" they cried in chorus. "Yes. I am ambitious to prove to you, who have been my staunch friends, that the island is indeed there. Incidentally you will become acquainted with the prettiest place in all the world. My house will be at your disposal while you remain and I am sure you will find it fairly comfortable." They were so amazed at this proposition that at first no one found words to answer the boy. It was Flo, naturally, who first collected her thoughts. "It will be awfully jolly!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight. "I'm sure Maud and I need a vacation. Let's stick up our noses at Goldstein and sail away to the mysterious isle. What do you say, girls? And you, Mr. Merrick?" "I believe, my boy," said Uncle John, laying a kindly hand on the youth's shoulder, "that all of us are inclined to take advantage of your offer. That is, if you are sure we can be of no further use to you in your difficulties." "I am taking Colby abroad with me and he can do all that may be done until after my trial. Then I hope to rejoin you here and am looking forward to a jolly reunion." Uncle John took the letters which Ajo had written to Captain Carg, to his superintendent in Sangoa and to his housekeeper. Then they all pressed the boy's hand and went away. * * * * * Monday morning the extradition papers arrived. Le Drieux exhibited them proudly to young Weldon, to Mr. Merrick, and even to the girls, who regarded the documents with shuddering awe. "We'll take the night train," said the man. "That will get us to New York on Friday, in time to catch the Saturday steamer for Calais." As he spoke a boy approached and handed Le Drieux a telegram. "Excuse me," said he, and opened it with an important flourish. The next moment his face fell. He staggered and sank half fainting into a chair which Mr. Merrick pushed toward him. Patsy ran for some water. Maud Stanton fanned the man with a folded newspaper. Arthur Weldon picked up the telegram which had _fluttered_ from Le Drieux's grasp and deliberately read it. Then he, too, sank gasping into a chair. "Listen, girls!" he cried, his voice shrill with emotion. "What do you think of this? "'Jack Andrews arrested here in New York to-day by Burns detectives. Countess Ahmberg's collection of pearls was found in his possession, intact. Return here first train.' "Signed: 'Eckstrom & Co.'" There was a moment of tense silence. Flo clapped her hands. "Come on," she shouted in glee, "let's go and tell Ajo!" 
25802	----	[Illustration: THE CAMERAS WHIRRED WHILE THE BARGE PUSHED CLOSE INTO SHORE. "Ruth Fielding on the St. Lawrence." Page 80] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE OR THE QUEER OLD MAN OF THE THOUSAND ISLANDS BY ALICE B. EMERSON Author of "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," "Ruth Fielding in the Great Northwest," "Betty Gordon series," etc. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS ------------------------------------------------------------------------- BOOKS FOR GIRLS by ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE BETTY GORDON SERIES BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York Copyright, 1922, by Cupples & Leon Company Ruth Fielding on the St. Lawrence Printed in U. S. A. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I "Here Comes The Bride" 1 II A Rift In His Lute 10 III Rice And Old Shoes 18 IV Bilby 27 V Trouble In Prospect 37 VI An Abduction 45 VII Expediency 54 VIII At Chippewa Bay 63 IX A Film Mystery 73 X A Smell Of Smoke 83 XI Bilby Again 93 XII The Dance At Alexandria Bay 100 XIII The Kingdom Of Pipes 109 XIV A Demand Is Made 116 XV The Yellow Lady 124 XVI Marooned 131 XVII A Determination 140 XVIII Bilby's Trump Card 148 XIX Suspense 156 XX A Failure In Calculation 164 XXI In The Chinese Den 171 XXII The Twins' Alarm 178 XXIII Trouble Enough 186 XXIV A Letter Comes 193 XXV The Heart's Desire 201 ------------------------------------------------------------------------- RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE CHAPTER I "HERE COMES THE BRIDE" The sudden joyous pealing of the organ could be heard upon the sidewalk before the stately church. As there was a broad canopy from the door to the curb, with a carpet laid down and motor-cars standing in line, it took no seer to proclaim that a wedding was in progress within. Idlers halted to wait for the appearance of the wedding party, which was about to come forth. Some of the younger spectators ran up the steps and peered in at the door, for there was only a lame, old, purblind sexton on guard, and he, too, seemed vastly interested in what was going on inside. One glance down the main aisle of the great edifice revealed a much more elaborate scheme of decoration than usually appears at a church wedding. Its main effect was the intertwining of French and American flags, and as the bridal party turned from the altar the horizon blue uniform of the soldier-bridegroom was a patch of vivid color that could not be mistaken. The bride in her white gown and veil and wreath made, it may be, even a more prominent picture than did her husband. But that was only to be expected perhaps, for a girl on her wedding day, and in the church, is usually the focus of all eyes. It must be confessed (even her dearest friends must confess it) there was another reason why she who, only a moment before had been Jennie Stone, quite filled the public eye. In the first place, Jennie was a well-built girl, and upon her well-built frame there had always been since her childhood days a superabundance of flesh. And getting married had not changed sweet, jolly, funny Jennie Stone in the least! Instead of coming back down the aisle of the church with modestly downcast eyes (which is usually a hypocritical display of emotion), Jennie smiled at her friends and beamed proudly upon the figure in horizon blue at her side. And she might well be proud of Major Henri Marchand, for he was in the very best sense a soldier and a gentleman, and there gleamed a bit of color on his breast that had been pinned there by Marshal Foch's own hand. As he was still in active service and had only been given leave to come to America for his bride, this might be considered the last military wedding that the old church was likely to see--perhaps for many years. The groom's French uniform, and even the olive gray of the best man and two or three other men in the party at the altar, had lent their touch of color to the picture. But it was the bride's attendants, however, that made the party so well worth looking at--especially to the greater number of young women and girls in the pews. Jennie Stone was a popular girl, and had friends galore. Many of those girl friends had come from a distance to see their beloved "Heavy Stone" (as she had been nicknamed in the old Briarwood Hall days) married to the man she had met in France while she was engaged in those useful and helpful occupations into which so many American girls entered during the war. Besides, Jennie was the first of the old Briarwood Hall set to be married, and this was bound to be a gala occasion. This was no "weepy" wedding, but a time of joy. And the bridal party coming down the aisle made as brilliant a picture as had ever been seen in the old church. The maid of honor in pink was as refreshing to look upon as a bouquet of arbutus. She had always been a pretty, winsome girl. Now she was developing into a handsome young woman, as all Ruth Fielding's friends declared. In her present filmy costume with its flowery picture hat the girl of the Red Mill had never looked better. The young man at her side in the uniform of an American captain with his black curls and dark face, made a splendid foil for Ruth's beauty. Behind him walked his twin sister--as like Tom Cameron as another pea in a pod--and Ann Hicks, both in rose-color, completing a color scheme worthy of the taste of whoever had originated it. For the sheer beauty of the picture, this wedding would long be remembered. In the very last pew, on the aisle, sat an eager old colored woman--one of those typical "mammies" now so seldom seen--in an old-fashioned bonnet and shawl. She was of a bulbous figure, and her dark face shone with perspiration and delight as she stared at the coming bride and groom. Jennie saw Mammy Rose (the old woman had been a dependent of the Stone family for years), and had the occasion been much more serious than Jennie thought it, the plump girl would surely have smiled at Mammy Rose. The old woman bobbed up, making an old-time genuflection. She thrust out a neat, paper-covered parcel which she had held carefully in her capacious lap all through the ceremony. "Miss Janie--ma blessed baby!" she whispered. "I is suttenly glad to see dis here day! Heaven is a-smilin' on yo'. And here is one o' ma birfday cakes yo' liked so mighty well. Mammy Rose done make it for her chile--de las' she ever will make yo' now yo' is goin' to foreign paths." Another girl than Jennie might have been confused, or even angered, by the interruption of the procession. But Jennie could be nothing if not kind. Her own hands were filled with her bouquet--it was enormous. She stopped, however, before the old woman. "As thoughtful for me as ever, Mammy Rose, aren't you?" she said pleasantly. "And you know all my little failings. Henri," she said to her husband. But the courtly young Frenchman had quite as great a sense of _noblesse oblige_ as his bride. He bowed to the black woman as though she was the highest lady in the land and accepted the parcel, tied clumsily with baby ribbon by the gnarled fingers of Mammy Rose. They moved on and the smiling, yet tearful, old woman, sank back into her seat. If there was anything needed to make this a perfect occasion, it was this little incident. The bride and groom came out into the smiling sunshine with sunshine in their hearts as well as on their faces. "I knew," whispered Helen Cameron to Ann Hicks, who stalked beside her in rather a mannish way, "that Heavy Stone could not even be married without something ridiculous happening." "'Ridiculous'?" repeated the Western girl, with something like a catch in her throat. "Well, it _might_ have been ridiculous," admitted Helen. "Only, after all, Jennie is real--and so is Major Marchand. You couldn't feaze him, not even if a bomb had been dropped in the church vestibule." They were crowding into the motor-cars then, and merrily the wedding party sped back to the big house on Madison Avenue, which had been garnished for the occasion with the same taste that marked the color-scheme of the bride's attendants. The canopied steps and walk, the footmen in line to receive the party, and the banked flowers in the reception hall were all impressive. "My!" whispered the irrepressible Jennie to Henri, "I feel like a prima donna." "You are," was his prompt and earnest agreement. They trooped in at once to the breakfast table. The spacious room was wreathed with smilax and other vines--even to the great chandelier. The latter was so hidden by the decorations that it seemed overladen, and Tom Cameron, who had a quick eye, mentioned it to Ruth. "Wonder if those fellows braced that thing with wires? Florists sometimes have more sense of art than common sense." "Hush, Tom! _Nothing_ can happen to spoil this occasion. Isn't it wonderful?" But Tom Cameron looked at her rather gloomily. He shook his head slightly. "I feel like one of those pictures of the starving children in Armenia. I'm standing on the outside, looking in." It is true that Ruth Fielding flushed, but she refused to make reply. A moment later, when Tom realized how the seating of the party had been arranged, his countenance showed even deeper gloom. As best man Tom was directed to Jennie's right hand. On the other side of Henri, Ruth was seated, and that placed her across the wide table from Tom Cameron. The smiling maid of honor was well worth looking at, and Tom Cameron should have been content to focus his eyes upon her whenever he raised them from his plate; but for a particular reason he was not at all pleased. This particular reason was the seating of another figure in military uniform next to Ruth on her other side. This was a tall, pink-cheeked, well set-up youth looking as though, like Tom, he had seen military service, and with an abundance of light hair above his broad brow. At school Chessleigh Copley had been nicknamed "Lasses" because of that crop of hair. He entered into conversation with Ruth at once, and he found her so interesting (or she found him so interesting) that Ruth had little attention to give to her _vis-à-vis_ across the table. The latter's countenance grew heavier and heavier, his dark brows drawing together and his black eyes smouldering. If anybody noticed this change in Tom's countenance it was his twin sister, sitting on Ruth's side of the table. And perhaps she understood her brother's mood. Now and then her own eyes flashed something besides curiosity along the table on her side at Ruth and Chess Copley, so evidently lost in each other's companionship. But it was a gay party. How could it be otherwise with Jennie at the table? And everybody was bound to second the gaiety of the bride. The groom's pride in Jennie was so open, yet so very courteously expressed, that half the girls there envied Jennie her possession of Henri Marchand. "To think," drawled Ann Hicks, who had come East from Silver Ranch, "that Heavy Stone should grab off such a prize in the matrimonial grab-bag. My!" and she finished with a sigh. "When does your turn come, Ann?" asked somebody. "Believe me," said the ranch girl, with emphasis, "I have got to see somebody besides cowpunchers and horse-wranglers before I make such a fatal move." "You have lost all your imagination," laughed Helen, from across the table. "I don't know. Maybe I used it all up, back in those old kid days when I ran away to be 'Nita' and played at being 'the abused chee-ild'. Remember?" "Oh, _don't_ we!" cried Helen and some of the other girls. Something dropped on Tom Cameron's plate. He glanced up, then down again at the object that had fallen. It was a piece of plaster from the ceiling. Chess Copley likewise shot a glance ceilingward. There was a wide gap--and growing wider--on his side of the chandelier. A great piece of the heavy plaster was breaking away from the ceiling, and it hung threateningly over his own and Ruth Fielding's head. "Look out, Ruth!" shouted Tom Cameron, jumping to his feet. CHAPTER II A RIFT IN HIS LUTE Tom Cameron, no matter how desirous he might be of saving Ruth from hurt, could not possibly have got around the table in time. With a snarling, ripping noise the heavy patch of plaster tore away from the ceiling and fell directly upon the spot where the chairs of Ruth and Chess Copley had been placed! The screams of the startled girls almost drowned the noise of the plaster's fall, but Ruth Fielding did not join in the outcry. With one movement, it seemed, Copley had risen and kicked his own chair away, seized Ruth about her waist as he did so, and so dragged her out from under the avalanche. It was all over in a moment, and the two stood, clinging to each other involuntarily, while the dust of the fallen plaster spread around them. For a moment Ruth Fielding had been in as perilous a situation as she had ever experienced, and her life had been rather full of peril and adventure since, as a girl of twelve, and in the first volume of this series, we met her as "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill." At the time just mentioned, the orphaned Ruth had appeared at her great-uncle's mill on the Lumano River, near Cheslow, in one of the New England States, and had been taken in by the miserly old miller rather under protest. But Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who was Uncle Jabez Potter's housekeeper, had loved the child from the very beginning. And in truth the old miller loved Ruth too, only he was slow to admit it. Ruth's first young friends at the Red Mill were the Cameron twins, and with Helen she had spent her schools days and many of her vacations, at Briarwood Hall, in the North Woods, at the seashore, in the West, in the South, Down East, and in other localities, the narrated adventures of which are to be found in the several volumes of the Ruth Fielding Series. In the book just preceding this present story, "Ruth Fielding in the Great Northwest," Helen was likewise with Ruth when she made her famous moving picture, "Brighteyes" in connection with the Alectrion Film Corporation, the president of which, Mr. Hammond, had first encouraged Ruth to turn her entire time and talent to the writing of moving picture scenarios. The fall before the time of this wedding party in which the girl of the Red Mill was taking part, fortune threw in Ruth's way a charming young woman, a full-blood Osage Indian, in whom Mr. Hammond saw possibilities of development for screen acting. At least, to use the trite and bombastic moving picture phrase, Wonota, the Indian princess, "photographed like a million dollars." The Great War's abrupt conclusion brought Tom Cameron home just as eager as he had been for two years past to have Ruth agree to his plans for the future. As Ruth saw it (no matter what may have been her secret feeling for Tom) to do as Tom wished would utterly spoil the career on which she had now entered so successfully. Tom, like most young men in love, considered that a girl's only career should be a husband and a home. He frankly said that he was prepared, young as he was, to supply both for Ruth. But their youth, in the first place, was an objection in the very sensible mind of Ruth. It was true, too, that a second objection was the fact that she wanted to live her own life and establish herself in the great career she had got into almost by chance. And then too Tom himself, since his return from France, had shown little determination to settle himself at work. Being the son of a wealthy merchant and possessing, now that he was of age, a fortune in his own right inherited from his mother's estate, Tom Cameron, it seemed to Ruth, was just playing with life. Like many another young fellow so recently from the battlefield, it seemed as if he could not settle to anything. And his sister encouraged him in this attitude. Ruth secretly blamed Helen for this. And therefore her own attitude to Tom had grown more stern. It was now June--the June following the armistice--the loveliest and most accepted time for a bridal. The ceremony of Jennie Stone's wedding to Major Henri Marchand had passed off, as we have seen, very smoothly. Even Tom, as best man, had found the ring at the right moment, and nobody had stepped on Jennie's train. But this accident at the breakfast table--and an accident that might have resulted fatally for Ruth Fielding--threatened to cause not only excitement but to sober the whole party. In a moment, however, in spite of the dust rising from the broken plaster, the others saw that Ruth and Chess Copley were both safe. The latter was repeating, over and over and in much anxiety: "You are all right, Ruth! I've got you. You are all right." The girl herself was quite breathless. Copley held her in rather a close embrace, and for a much longer time than appeared necessary--to Tom Cameron at least. Tom had got around the table just too late to be of any assistance. "We see you've got her, 'Lasses," Tom observed, rather tartly. "The close-up is shot. Break away." His words started the laughter--and there was much relief expressed in the laughter in which all about the table joined. People are apt to laugh when serious danger is over. But it might have been observed by his friends at another time that Tom Cameron was not usually tart or unkind of speech. Ruth said nothing, and Chess Copley flushed hotly. Jennie had got up with Henri in the moment of excitement, and now she quickly seized her goblet of grape-juice in which the party had previously toasted the bride and groom, and raised the glass on high. "Hear! Hear!" cried Ann Hicks. "The bride speaks." "This is a good omen," declared Jennie clinging to Henri's arm. "Our Ruth was wounded in France and has been in danger on many occasions, as we all know. Never has she more gracefully escaped disaster, nor been aided by a more chivalrous cavalier. Drink! Drink to Ruth Fielding and to Chessleigh Copley! They are two very lucky people, for that ceiling might have cracked their crowns." They drank the toast--most of them with much laughter. "Some orator, Jennie," commented Helen. "We are just beginning to appreciate you." "You will all be sorry that you did not treat me better--especially as a chee-ild," returned the plump bride, with mock solemnity. "Think! Think how you all used to abuse my--my appetite at Briarwood Hall. It is only Mammy Rose who is kind to me," and she pointed to the old colored woman's gift that had a place of honor before her own plate and that of Major Marchand's. "Let me give a toast," cried Helen gaily. "Let us drink to Jennie's appetite--long may it wave." "Goodness me! Don't speak of waves and appetite in the same breath, I beg. Remember we are going directly aboard ship from the house and--and I never was a good sailor. Waves! Ugh!" The fun went on while the serving people swept up the debris and removed those dishes that had been covered with dust. Aside, Ruth, taking for the moment little part in the chatter and merriment, for she had received a considerable shock, stood talking with Copley. Ruth had given him her hand again and Chess clung to it rather more warmly--so the watchful Tom thought--than was needful. But the girl felt that she really had a great deal to thank Copley for. "Jennie in her fun spoke quite truly," Ruth said in a low voice. "You are a friend in need." "And I hope you consider me a friend indeed, Ruth," rejoined the young fellow. "I certainly do," agreed the girl of the Red Mill with her customary frank smile. "I--I am afraid," Chess added, "that I am not considered in that light by all your friends, Ruth. Helen Cameron hasn't spoken to me to-day." "No? Is it serious?" "It is serious when a fellow gets turned down--snubbed--and not a word of explanation offered. And, in the words of the old song, we were 'companions once, but strangers now'." "Oh, don't mind. Helen usually gets over the mollygrubs very quickly." Chess turned to see the other Cameron twin eyeing him with no great favor. However, the throng of guests who were invited to the reception began coming in, and for the next two hours the parlors were crowded with the many friends of the plump girl, who, as Helen had said, found this the greatest day of her life, and there was little time for much individual chat, though, it seemed to Tom, Chess Copley kept as close as possible to Ruth's side. It was after Jennie had gone to put on her traveling dress, and the immediate wedding party, who were to accompany the bridal couple to the dock to see them embark, were hurrying out of the room to put on street clothes that Tom, in a low voice, demanded of Chess: "What are you trying to do--put a label on Ruth? Don't forget she belongs to all of us." Chess Copley had not won his commission in the war and wore only a sergeant's chevrons. But the war was over and he could tell his captain just what he thought of him. And he did. "Do you know what you are, Tom Cameron?" he drawled, smiling a hard little smile. "You are a regular dog in the manger, and I'm frank to tell you so!" CHAPTER III RICE AND OLD SHOES "It is the greatest day in a girl's life," declared Helen Cameron, sitting on the edge of one of the twin beds in the room she and Ruth occupied while they were at the Stone house. She buckled her fingers around her knee to hold one limb crossed over the other--a very mannish and independent position. "I don't know that I ever envied Heavy before in my life. But she has got something now that we haven't, Ruth." "Cat's foot!" exclaimed Ann Hicks from her chair. "Who'd want a Frenchman for a husband?" Ruth laughed. "Not to say that Major Marchand is not a fine fellow, I agree with Ann that I don't want a husband. Not--right--now!" "Oh! Very well," said Helen complacently. "But if you thought you'd never be able to get one----" "Shucks!" exclaimed Ann. "As though our Ruth couldn't have all she wants if she wants them." "I really wish you would not speak plurally of them, Ann," cried Ruth, laughing. "You will make me feel like the Queen of the Amazons. They say she keeps a masculine harem--like a bey, or a sultan, or something of that kind." "Be serious," rejoined Helen. "I mean what I say. Jennie's great day has arrived. And she is the first of all our old bunch that went to Briarwood--and surely of those who went to Ardmore College--to fetter herself to a man for life." "Well, I shall never be fettered, even if I am married," observed Ann. "I'd like to see myself!" "If the right man comes riding by, Ann, even you will change your mind," Ruth said softly. "Then I suppose the right man has never ridden up to the Red Mill and asked for you?" demanded Helen, with a glance at her chum that was rather piercing. "Perhaps he has," said Ruth composedly, "but I wasn't at home. Aunt Alvirah thinks I am almost never at home. And, girls, as I told you yesterday, I am going soon on another journey." "Oh, Ruth, I've been thinking of that!" Helen rejoined, with a sudden access of interest and excitement. "To the Thousand Islands! And at the loveliest time of all the year up there." "And that is only the truth," said one of the other bridesmaids. "We spent last summer there." "The Copleys always go," Helen remarked quietly. "No! Do you mean it?" cried Ruth, showing some surprise. "Well, indeed." "So you will see a lot more of 'Lasses Copley," remarked Ann. "I shall be glad if Chess Copley is there when and where we make this picture, for I think he is very nice," was Ruth's composed reply. "Oh, he's nice enough," agreed Helen, rather grumblingly however. "I've got nothing to say against Chess--as a general thing." "And you don't seem to say much for him," put in the Western girl curiously. But Helen said nothing further on that topic. Ruth broke in, answering one of the other girls who spoke of the forthcoming picture Ruth was going to make for the Alectrion Corporation. "Of course our famous Wonota is going to be in the picture. For she is famous already. 'Brighteyes' appeared for two successive weeks in one of the big Broadway picture houses and we are making a lot of money out of its distribution. "But we know Wonota is a find for another very unmistakable reason," she added. "What is that?" asked Helen. "Other producers have begun to make Wonota and her father offers. For Chief Totantora has become interested in the movie business too. Mr. Hammond used Totantora in a picture he made in Oklahoma in the spring; one in which Wonota did not appear. She was off at school at the time. We are going to make of the princess a cultivated and cultured young lady before we get through with her," and Ruth laughed. "A Red Indian!" cried somebody. "That makes no difference," said Ruth placidly. "She is amenable to white customs, and is really a very smart girl. And she has a lovely disposition." "Especially," put in Helen, who remembered the occasion clearly, "when she wanted to shoot Dakota Joe Fenbrook when he treated her so unkindly in his Wild West show. But, I wanted to shoot him myself," she added, frankly. "Especially after he tried to hurt Ruth." "Never mind him," said her chum at that. "Joe Fenbrook is in the penitentiary now, and he is not bothering us. But other people are bothering Mr. Hammond about Wonota." "How?" asked Helen. "Why, as I said, there are other picture producers who have seen 'Brighteyes' and would like to get the chief and his daughter under contract. They have told Totantora that, as the contract with his daughter was made while she was not of age, it can be broken. Of course, the Indian agent agreed to the contract; but after Totantora returned from Europe, where he had been held a prisoner in Germany during the war, the guardianship of Wonota reverted to her father once more. "It is rather a complicated matter," went on Ruth, "and it is giving Mr. Hammond and his lawyers some trouble. There is a man named Bilby, who has been a picture producer in a small way, who seems to have some influence with the head of the Government Bureau of Indian Affairs. He seems to have financial backing, too, and claims to have secured a series of stories in which Wonota might be featured to advantage. And he certainly has offered Totantora and the girl much more money than Mr. Hammond would be willing to risk in a star who may, after all, prove merely a flash in the pan." "What do you mean by that?" asked Ann. "I thought she was a sure-fire hit." "No amateur screen actress--and that is all Wonota is as yet--is ever a 'sure-fire hit', as you call it," said the practical Ruth. "Many a producer has been badly bitten by tying up a new actor or actress to a long-time contract. Because a girl films well and is successful in one part, is not an assurance that she can learn to be a really great actress before the camera. "In 'Brighteyes' Wonota merely played herself. I was successful in fitting my story to her individuality. But she cannot always play the same part. In this story we are about to do on the St. Lawrence, she will be called upon to delineate a character quite different from that of the heroine of 'Brighteyes.'" "Dear me, Ruth," sighed Helen, "what a business woman you are getting to be. Your career has really begun--and so promisingly. While I can't do a thing but play the fiddle a little, daub a little at batik, and crochet!" "And make most delightful fudge!" cried Jennie Stone, just then coming into the room in her traveling dress, fresh from the hands of her maid and Aunt Kate. "How do I look, girls?" The bride's appearance drove everything else out of her friends' minds for the time being. It was two o'clock and the automobiles were at the door. The bridal couple, attended by bridesmaids, the best man, the ushers, and other close friends, departed for the dock amid showers of rice and a bombardment of old shoes which littered Madison Avenue for half a block and kept even the policemen on special duty for the occasion, dodging! They all trooped aboard the steamship where arrangements had been made to have the passports of the bride and groom examined. Mr. Stone had done everything well, as he always did. The bridal suite was banked with flowers. Even the orchestra belonging to the ship had been engaged specially to play. A second, though brief, reception was held here. The ship's siren sent a stuttering blast into the air that seemed to shake the skyscrapers opposite the dock. The young folks trooped back to the pier. Tom did his best to escort Ruth; but to his amazement and anger Chess Copley pushed in front of him and Ruth took the sergeant's arm. Helen came along and grabbed her brother with a fierce little pinch. Her eyes sparkled while his smouldered. "I guess we are relegated to the second row, Tommy-boy," she whispered. "I do not see what has got into Ruth." "It's not Ruth. The gall of that 'Lasses!" muttered the slangy Tom. "So you think he is at fault?" rejoined his sister. "Oh, Tommy-boy! you do not know 'us girls'--no indeed you do not." It was a gay enough party on the dock that watched the big ship back out and being turned in the stream by the fussy tugs. The bride and groom shouted until they were hoarse, and waved their hands and handkerchiefs as long as they could be seen from the dock. If Helen and Tom Cameron were either, or both, offended by Ruth, they did not show it to the general company. As for the girl of the Red Mill, she enjoyed herself immensely; and she particularly liked Chess Copley's company. It was not that she felt any less kindly toward Tom; but Tom had disappointed her. He seemed to have changed greatly during this past winter while she had been so busy with her moving pictures. Instead of settling down with his father in the offices of the great drygoods house from which Mr. Cameron's fortune had come, Tom, abetted by Helen, had become almost a social butterfly in New York. But Chess Copley, although no sober-sides, had thrown himself heart and soul into the real estate business and had already made a tidy sum during the six months that had ensued since his discharge from the army. It was true, Chess was looking forward to taking a vacation at the Thousand Islands with his family. He told Ruth so with enthusiasm, and hoped to see her again at that resort. But Chess, Ruth felt, had earned his vacation, while Tom remained a mere idler. Chess accompanied the Cheslow young people to the Grand Central Terminal when they left the dock and there bade Ruth good-bye. "I shall see you in a fortnight at the Thousand Islands," he assured her, and shook hands again. "I shall look forward to it, believe me!" Tom hung about, gloomy enough, even after they boarded the train. But the girls were gay and chattering when they entered their compartment. Ann Hicks was going home with Helen for a brief visit, although she would be unable to go elsewhere with them during the early part of the summer, owing to previous engagements. "I am determined to go to the St. Lawrence with you, Ruth," declared Helen. "And I know Tommy-boy is aching to go." "I thought," said Ruth rather gravely, "that he might really take to business this summer. Doesn't your father need him?" "Plenty of time for work, Tommy thinks," rejoined Tom's sister gaily. But Ruth did not smile. CHAPTER IV BILBY The old, shingled Red Mill, which Jabez Potter had revamped each spring with mineral paint, was as brilliant a landmark on the bank of the Lumano River as ever it had been. In fact, it seemed as though Ben, the hired man, had got the red of the shingles and the trim a little redder and the blinds a little greener this last spring than ever they had been before. Overshadowed by great elms, with the yard grass growing thick and lush right up to the bark of the trees, the surroundings of the mill and farmhouse connected with it (at least, all of those surroundings that could be seen from the Cheslow road), were attractive indeed. Although the old house seemed quite as it always had been from without, many changes had been made inside since first Ruth Fielding had stepped out of Dr. Davison's chaise to approach her great-uncle's habitation. At that time Ruth had been less than a mote in the eye of Uncle Jabez. She was merely an annoyance to the miller at that time. Since then, however, she had many and many a time proved a blessing to him. Nor did Jabez Potter refuse to acknowledge this--on occasion. When Ruth began to do over the interior of the old house, however, Uncle Jabez protested. The house and mill had been built a hundred and fifty years before--if not longer ago. It was sacrilege to touch a crooked rafter or a hammered nail of the entire structure. But Ruth insisted that she be allowed to make her own rooms under the roof more comfortable and modern. Ruth had seen old New England farmhouses rebuilt in the most attractive way one could imagine without disturbing their ancient exterior appearance. She gathered ideas from books and magazines, and then went about replanning the entire inside of the mill farmhouse. But she began the actual rejuvenation of the aspect of the structure in her own rooms, and had had all the work done since her return from the war zone the year before. She now had a bedroom, a sitting room, a dressing room and bathroom up under the roof, all in white (Helen said "like a hospital"), and when one opened Ruth's outer door and stepped into her suite it seemed as though one entered an entirely different house. And if it was a girl who entered--as Wonota, the Osage princess, did on a certain June day soon after Jennie Stone's marriage--she could not suppress a cry of delight. Wonota had stayed before at the Red Mill for a time; but then the workmen had not completed Ruth's new nest. And although Wonota had been born in a wigwam on the plains and had spent her childhood in a log cabin with a turf roof, she could appreciate "pretty things" quite as keenly as any girl of Ruth's acquaintance. That was why Ruth--as well as Mr. Hammond of the Alectrion Film Corporation--believed that the Indian girl would in time become a successful screen actress. Wonota, though her skin was copper-colored, liked to dress in up-to-date clothes (and did so) and enjoyed the refinements of civilization as much as any white girl of her age. "It is so pretty here, Miss Ruth," she said to her mentor. "May I sleep in the other bed off your sitting room? It is sweet of you. How foolish of people wanting to see on the screen how poor Indians live in their ignorance. I would rather learn to play the part of a very rich New York lady, and have servants and motor-cars and go to the opera and wear a diamond necklace." Ruth laughed at her, but good-naturedly. "All girls are the same, I suppose, under the skin," she said. "But we each should try to do the things we can do best. Learn to play the parts the director assigns you to the very best of your ability. Doing that will bring you, quicker than anything else, to the point where you can wear diamonds and ride in your own motor-car and go to the opera. What does your father, Chief Totantora, say to your new ideas, Wonota?" "The chief, my father, says nothing when I talk like that to him. He is too much of an old-fashioned Indian, I fear. He is staying at a country hotel up the road; but he would not sleep in the room they gave him (and then he rolled up in his blanket on the floor) until they agreed to let him take out the sashes from all three windows. He says that white people have white faces because they sleep in stale air." "Perhaps he is more than half right," rejoined Ruth, although she laughed too. "Some white folks even in this age are afraid of the outdoor air as a sleeping tonic, and prefer to drug themselves with shut-in air in their bedrooms." "But one can have pretty things and nice things, and still remain in health," sighed Wonota. Ruth agreed with this. The girl of the Red Mill tried, too, in every way to encourage the Indian maiden to learn and profit by the better things to be gained by association with the whites. There were several days to wait before Mr. Hammond was ready to send Mr. Hooley, the director, and the company selected for the making of Ruth's new picture to the Thousand Islands. Meanwhile Ruth herself had many preparations to make and she could not be all the time with her visitor. As in that past time when she had visited the Red Mill, Wonota was usually content to sit with Aunt Alvirah and make beadwork while the old woman knitted. "She's a contented creeter, my pretty," the old woman said to Ruth. "Red or white, I never see such a quiet puss. And she jumps and runs to wait on me like you do. "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" exclaimed Aunt Alvirah, rising cautiously with the aid of a cane she now depended upon. "My rheumatism don't seem any better, and I have had it long enough, seems to me, for it to get better," she added. "Poor dear!" said Ruth. "Don't the new medicine do any good?" "Lawsy me, child! I've drenched myself with doctor's stuff till I'm ashamed to look a medicine bottle in the face. My worn out old carcass can't be helped much by any drugs at all. I guess, as my poor old mother used to say, the only sure cure for rheumatics is graveyard mould." "Oh, Aunt Alvirah!" "I don't say it complainingly," declared the little old woman, smiling quite cheerfully. "But I tell Jabez Potter he might as well make up his mind to seeing my corner of his hearth empty one of these days. And he'll miss me, too, cantankerous as he is sometimes." But Uncle Jabez was seldom "cantankerous" nowadays when Ruth was at home. To the miller's mind his great-niece had proved herself to be of the true Potter blood, although her name was Fielding. Ruth was a money-maker. He had to wink pretty hard over the fact that she was likewise a money spender! But one girl--and a young one at that--could scarcely be expected (and so the old miller admitted) to combine all the virtues which were worth while in human development. "Keep a-making of it, Niece Ruth," Uncle Jabez advised earnestly. "You never can tell when you are going to want more or when your ability to make money is going to stop. I'd sell the Red Mill or give up and never grind another grist for nobody, if I didn't feel that perhaps by next year I should have to stop, anyway--and another year won't much matter." "You get so little pleasure out of life, Uncle Jabez," Ruth once said in answer to this statement of the old man. "Shucks! Don't you believe it. I don't know no better fun than watching the corn in the hopper or the stuns go round and round while the meal flour runs out of the spout below, warm and nice-smellin'. The millin' business is just as pretty a business as there is in the world--when once you git used to the dust. No doubt of it." "I can see, Uncle Jabez, that you find it so," said Ruth, but rather doubtfully. "Of course it is," said the old man stoutly. "You get fun out of running about the country and looking at things and seeing how other folks live and work. And that's all right for you. _You_ make money out of it. But what would I get out of gadding about?" "A broader outlook on life, Uncle Jabez." "I don't want no broader outlook. I don't need nothing of the kind. Nor does Alviry Boggs, though she's got to talking a dreadful lot lately about wanting to ride around in an automobile. At her age, too!" "You should own a car, Uncle Jabez," urged Ruth. "Now, stop that! Stop that, Niece Ruth! I won't hear to no such foolishness. You show me how I can make money riding up and down the Lumano in a pesky motor-car, and maybe I'll do like Alviry wants me to, and buy one of the contraptions." "Hullo, now!" added the miller suddenly. "Who might this be?" Ruth turned to see one of the very motor-cars that Uncle Jabez so scorned (or pretended to) stopping before the wide door of the mill itself. But as it was the man driving the roadster, rather than the car itself, Uncle Jabez had spoken of, Ruth gave her attention to him. He was a ruddy, tubby little man in a pin-check black and white suit, faced with silk on lapels and pockets--it really gave him a sort of minstrel-like appearance as though he should likewise have had his face corked--and he wore in a puffed maroon scarf a stone that flashed enough for half a dozen ordinary diamonds--whether it really was of the first water or not. This man hopped out from back of the wheel of the roadster and came briskly up the graveled rise from the road to the door of the mill. He favored Ruth with a side glance and half smile that the girl of the Red Mill thought (she had seen plenty of such men) revealed his character very clearly. But he spoke to Uncle Jabez. "I say, Pop, is this the place they call the Red Mill?" "I calkerlate it is," agreed the miller dryly. "Leastways, it's the only Red Mill I ever heard tell on." "I reckoned I'd got to the right dump," said the visitor cheerfully. "I understand there's an Injun girl stopping here? Is that so?" Uncle Jabez glanced at Ruth and got her permission to speak before he answered: "I don't know as it's any of your business, Mister; but the Princess Wonota, of the Osage Nation, is stopping here just now. What might be your business with her?" "So she calls herself a 'princess' does she?" returned the man, grinning again at Ruth in an offensive way. "Well, I have managed a South Sea Island chief, a pair of Circassian twins, and a bunch of Eskimos, in my time. I guess I know how to act in the presence of Injun royalty. Trot her out." "Trot who out?" asked the miller calmly, but with eyes that flashed under his penthouse brows. "Wonota ain't no horse. Did you think she was?" "I know what she is," returned the man promptly. "It's what she is going to be that interests me. I'm Bilby--Horatio Bilby. Maybe you've heard of me?" "I have," said Ruth rather sharply. At once Mr. Bilby's round, dented, brown hat came off and he bowed profoundly. "Happy to make your acquaintance, Miss," he said. "You haven't made it yet--near as I can calkerlate," gruffly said Uncle Jabez. "And it's mebbe a question if you get much acquainted with Wonota. What's your business with her, anyway?" "I'll show you, old gent," said Bilby, taking a number of important looking papers from his pocket. "I have come here to get this princess, as you call her. The Indian Department has sent me. She is a ward of the Government, as you perhaps know. It seems she is held under a false form of contract to a moving picture corporation, and Wonota's friends have applied to the Bureau of Indian Affairs to look into the matter and get at the rights of the business." Ruth uttered a cry of amazement; but Uncle Jabez said calmly enough: "And what have you got to do with it all, Mister--if I may be so curious as to ask?" "The girl is given into my charge while her affairs are being looked into," said Mr. Horatio Bilby, with an explanatory flourish which included both the miller and Ruth in its sweeping gesture. CHAPTER V TROUBLE IN PROSPECT Ruth Fielding wished that Mr. Hammond was within reach; but she knew he was already on his way to the Thousand Islands, for which she herself expected to start the next day with Wonota and her father. She had not heard much about this Bilby; but what she had learned--together with what she now saw of him--impressed her not at all in his favor. In any event she was not willing to accept either Horatio Bilby or his declaration at face value. And she was glad to see that the hardheaded old miller was not much impressed by the man, either. "I don't know much about this business, Mister," said Uncle Jabez, with much calmness. "But it strikes me that you'd better see the girl's father." "What girl's father?" demanded the visitor, and now he seemed surprised. "Wonota's. Chief Totantora is the name he goes by. It strikes me that he ought to have a deal more to say about the girl than any Government department." "Why, he's nothing but a blanket Injun!" ejaculated Bilby, with disgust. "Mebbe so," rejoined Uncle Jabez. "But his wearing a blanket (though I never see him with it on; he wears pants and a shirt when he comes here) don't figger none at all. He still remains the girl's father." "I guess you don't know, Pop, that these Injuns are all wards of Uncle Sam." "Mebbe so," again observed the miller. "And I have sometimes thought that Uncle Sam ain't always been any too good to his red relations. However, that isn't to the point. The girl's here. She's sort of in my care while she is here. Unless Chief Totantora shows up and asks to have her handed over to you, I calkerlate you won't get her." "See here, my man!" exclaimed Bilby, at once becoming blusterous, "you'll get into trouble with the Government if you interfere with me." "That doesn't scare me none," was the prompt reply of Jabez Potter. "Right now the Government of the United States don't look so important to me as our local constable. I guess to get possession of the girl you will have to bring an officer with you to certify to all this you say you are. Until you do, I might as well tell you, first as last, that you ain't got a chance--not a chance!--to even see Wonota." Mr. Bilby grew even redder in the face than nature seemed to have intended him to be. And his little greenish-gray eyes sparkled angrily. "You'll get into trouble, old man," he threatened. "Don't you let that bother you none," rejoined the miller. "I've had so much trouble in my life that I'm sort of used to it, as you might say. Now, if that is all you got to offer, you might as well get back into that go-cart of yours and drive on." Mr. Potter turned on his heel and went back into the mill, beckoning to Ruth to come with him. She did so--for a little way at least; but she soon stopped to peer out and watch the man, Bilby. When they were, as he thought, out of hearing, he gave vent to several grunts, kicked a pebble across the road, and scowled ferociously. He said something about "these rubes are smarter than they used to be." He seemed convinced that he could do nothing further in the matter he had come upon. Not at this time, it was quite plain. He turned and climbed into the roadster. But he did not drive back toward Cheslow; instead he went up the river road, and Ruth Fielding remembered that Wonota's father was stopping at the country inn which was only three or four miles up that road. "But nothing can happen because of that, of course," the girl thought, as she entered the passage that led to the farmhouse from the mill. "Wonota is perfectly safe here, and surely Totantora can take care of himself with that little fat man, or with anybody else!" She entered the kitchen expecting to find the Indian girl at work with Aunt Alvirah in the old woman's sunny corner of the great room. The old woman was alone, however. "Where is Wonota?" Ruth asked. Before Aunt Alvirah could reply an automobile siren echoed outside of the house. Aunt Alvirah was smiling and waving at somebody and Ruth hurried to the window to look out. "Here's Helen come for you, my pretty, in that beautiful big car of hers," said Aunt Alvirah. "Isn't it fine to be rich?" "Wait till I make a few more pictures, Aunty, and we'll have a car too. If Uncle Jabez won't buy one, I've made up my mind to get a car if it's only to take you to drive once in a while." "It wouldn't hurt Jabez Potter to buy a car," declared the old woman. "She's coming in Ruthie. Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" she murmured, as she got up to receive the visitor. Helen swept into the house gaily. She always had a kiss for the little old woman who thought her, next to Ruth, the finest girl who ever lived. "You're always a sight for anyone to look on with pleasure, Helen Cameron," said Aunt Alvirah. "And you're mighty smart in that long coat and cap." "And do you put on your coat and bonnet, Aunty," cried Helen, patting her wrinkled cheek. "I've come to take you for a spin. And Ruth, too." "There's Wonota," suggested Ruth. "Of course. The princess shall join us," Helen cried merrily. "Where is she? Tell her to leave her everlasting beadwork long enough to ride in the white man's motor-car." "I suppose," said Ruth, starting for the stairway, "Wonota must be up in her own room." "No, no!" Aunt Alvirah called from her bedroom, to which she had hobbled for her cloak and bonnet. "I was just about to tell you, my pretty. Wonota has gone out." "Where did she go?" and Ruth suddenly turned back, and with surprise if not exactly with a feeling of alarm. "She said she would walk up the road to see her father. She is quite fond of her father, I believe," added Aunt Alvirah, coming back with her wrap and bonnet. "Of course, Indians have family feelings, if they do seem to hide 'em so well." "I am sorry she went out alone," murmured Ruth. "Pooh! she isn't a child. And she'll not lose her way, that's sure," laughed Helen. "Anyway, we'll overtake her and give her a ride. Chief Totantora, too, if he will deign to step into the white man's car." Ruth said no more. But after the visit of Bilby to the mill she could not help but feel some little anxiety. She remembered that Dakota Joe, in whose show Wonota had once worked, had tried his best to make trouble for her and Mr. Hammond because of the Osage maiden; and this Bilby was plainly a much shrewder person than the Westerner had been. She and Helen aided Aunt Alvirah out to the car. It was a heavy, seven passenger machine; but Helen could drive it as well as Tom himself. "And Tommy-boy," she explained as she tucked the robe about Aunt Alvirah before following Ruth into the front seat, "went to town to-day with father." "I hope he will really get down to work now," said Ruth softly, as Helen began to manipulate the levers. "Pooh!" exclaimed Helen carelessly. "Work was made for slaves. And Tom had a hard time over in France. I tell dad he ought not to expect Tommy-boy to really work for a long, long time to come." "Do you think that is right, Helen?" admonished her chum. "Idleness was never good for anybody." "It isn't as though Tom was poor. He hasn't got to toil and delve in an old office--" "You know it isn't that," cried Ruth warmly. "But he should make good use of his time. And your father needs him. He ought to be idle now, not Tom." "Grandmother Grunt!" laughed Helen. "You're twice as old as Aunt Alvirah right now." "After what we have been through--after what the world has been through for five years--we all ought to be at work," said Ruth rather severely. "And Tom is no exception." "Why, I never knew you to be hard on Tommy-boy before!" pouted Tom's sister. "Perhaps I never had occasion to be hard on him before," Ruth answered. "He is only one of many. Especially many of those who were over there in France. They seem to be so unsettled and--and so careless for the future." "Regular female Simon Legree, you are, Ruthie Fielding." "But when Tom first came back he was as eager as he could be to get to business and to begin a business career. And lately, it seems to me, he's had an awful slump in his ambition. I never saw the like." "Oh, bother!" muttered Helen, and started the car. The car shot ahead, and in five minutes they passed the country inn, but saw nothing of either Wonota or the Indian chief. In a cove below the river bank, however, Ruth caught a glimpse of a small motor-boat with two men in it. And backed into a wood's path near the highway was a small motor-car. Was it the smart roadster Mr. Horatio Bilby had driven to the Red Mill? Ruth could not be sure. But she did not enjoy the ride with Helen and Aunt Alvirah very much for thinking of the possibility of its being Mr. Bilby's car so close to the inn where Chief Totantora was stopping. CHAPTER VI AN ABDUCTION The ride in Helen's car was enjoyable, especially for Aunt Alvirah. How that old lady did smile and (as she herself laughingly said) "gabble" her delight! Being shut inside the house so much, the broader sight of the surrounding country and the now peacefully flowing Lumano River was indeed a treat. Helen drove up the river and over the Long Bridge, where she halted the car for a time that they might look both up and down the stream. And it was from this point that Ruth again caught a glimpse of the motor-boat she had before spied near the roadside inn. There was but one man in it now, and the boat was moored to the root of a big tree that overhung the little cove. Not that there was anything astonishing or suspicious in the appearance of the boat. Merely, it was there and seemed to have no particular business there. And the girl of the Red Mill recalled that Mr. Horatio Bilby's motor-car was backed into the bushes near that spot. Had Mr. Bilby, who had announced that his business in this vicinity was to obtain possession of Wonota, anything to do with the men in the boat? The thought may have been but an idle suggestion in Ruth's mind. Intuition was strong in Ruth Fielding, however. Somehow, the abandoned car being there near the inn where Totantora was staying and to which Wonota had gone to see her father, and the unidentified motor-boat lurking at the river's edge in the same vicinity, continued to rap an insistent warning at the door of the girl's mind. "Helen, let's go back," she said suddenly, as her chum was about to let in the clutch again. "Turn around--do." "What for?" asked Helen wonderingly, yet seeing something in the expression of Ruth's face that made her more than curious. "I--I feel that everything isn't right with Wonota." "Wonota!" Ruth, in low tones, told her chum her fears--told of Bilby's call at the mill--mentioned the fact that the Indian girl was probably at this time at the roadside inn and that the rival moving picture producer was perhaps there likewise. "What do you know about that!" gasped Helen. "Is there going to be a real fight for the possession of Wonota, do you think?" "And for Totantora too, perhaps. For he figures importantly in this picture we are about to make up on the St. Lawrence." "Fine!" exclaimed Helen Cameron. "There is going to be something doing besides picture making. Why, Ruth! you couldn't keep me from going with you to-morrow. And I know Tommy-boy will be crazy to be in it, too." Ruth made an appealing gesture as Helen began to back and turn the car. "Don't frighten Aunt Alvirah," she whispered. Helen was delighted with any prospect for action. It must be confessed that she did not think much about disappointment or trouble accruing to other people in any set of circumstances; she never had been particularly thoughtful for others. But she was brave to the point of recklessness, and she was at once excited regarding the suggested danger to her chum's plans. Bilby had already, Ruth understood, offered more money to Wonota and Totantora for their services than Mr. Hammond thought it wise to risk in the venture. And, after all, the temptation of money was great in the minds of the Indians. It might be that Bilby could get them away from Ruth's care. And then what would the Alectrion Film Corporation do about this next picture that had been planned? Aunt Alvirah made no complaint as to how or where the car went--as long as it went somewhere. She admitted she liked to travel fast. Having been for so many years crippled by that enemy, rheumatism, she seemed to find some compensation in the speed of Helen's car. The inn was several miles away from the Long Bridge; but the road was fairly straight, and as the car went over the ridges they could now and then catch glimpses of the hotel. On the right were cornfields, the dark green blades only six or eight inches high; and scattered over them the omnipresent scarecrows which, in the spring, add at least picturesqueness to the New England landscape. Above the purring of the motor Aunt Alvirah raised her voice to remark to the chums on the front seat: "I don't see it now--did it fall down?" "Did what fall down, Aunty?" asked Ruth, who, though troubled as she was by her suspicions, could not ignore the little old woman. "That scarecrow I see coming up. I thought 'twas a gal picking up stones in that field--the one this side of the hotel. It had a sunbonnet on, and it was just as natural! But it's gone." "I don't see any scarecrow there," admitted Ruth, turning to look. At that moment, however, the car she had seen parked in the bushes wheeled out into the highway ahead of them. It started on past the hotel. There was another figure beside that of the tubby Horatio Bilby on the seat. Ruth recognized Bilby at once. "Who's that?" asked Helen, slowing down involuntarily. "That's the man I spoke of," explained Ruth, "I--I wonder who it is that's with him?" "A girl!" exclaimed Helen. "Do you suppose he has got Wonota?" "Wonota--with a sunbonnet on?" cried her chum. "I bet he's running away with Wonota!" cried Helen, and started to speed up after the other car. Ruth laid a quick hand on her chum's arm. "Wait! Stop!" she cried. "See what a curiously acting thing that is he has got beside him? Is--It can't be a girl, Helen!" "It certainly isn't a boy," declared her friend, with exasperation. "He'll get away from us. That is a fast car he is driving." "Wait!" exclaimed Ruth again, and as Helen brought her machine to an abrupt stop Aunt Alvirah was heard saying: "Now, ain't that reediculous? Ain't it reediculous?" "What is ridiculous?" asked Helen, looking back with a smile at the little old woman while Ruth opened the door and leaped out to the side of the road nearest the river. "Why, where are your eyes, Helen Cameron?" demanded Aunt Alvirah. "There's that scarecrow now. That feller is a-running away with it!" Helen flashed another look along the road. The figure beside Bilby on the seat had been set upright again. Now the girl saw that it was nothing but a figure. It was no girl at all! "What under the sun, Ruth--" But Ruth was not in hearing. She had dashed into the bushes and to the spot where she had previously seen the roadster belonging to Horatio Bilby parked. The bushes were trampled all about. Here and there were bits of torn cloth hanging to the thorns. Yonder was a slipper with rather a high heel. She recognized it as one belonging to Wonota, the Osage girl, and picked it up. The Indian maid was really attempting the fads, as well as the fancies, in apparel of her white sisters! But what had become of the girl herself? She certainly would not have removed one of her pumps and thrown it away. Like Aunt Alvirah and Helen, Ruth knew that the figure beside Bilby in the car was not the missing Indian girl. He had attempted to use the scarecrow he had stolen from the cornfield across the road to bewilder anybody who might pursue him. And this very attempt of the rival picture producer to foul his trail impressed Ruth that something serious regarding Wonota and her father was afoot. If the Indian girl had not gone with Bilby, where had she gone? And where was Totantora? Ruth could not believe that either Wonota or her father would prove faithless to their contract with Mr. Hammond--not intentionally, at least. She hesitated there in the trampled bushes for a moment, wondering if she ought not first to go on to the hotel and make inquiries. Then she heard something thrashing in the bushes not far away. She started, peering all about, listening. The noise led her to the head of a gully that sloped down toward the river's edge. It was bush-bestrewn and the way was rough. Ruth plunged down the slant of it, and behind the first clump of brush she came upon a man struggling on the ground. His ankles and his wrists were lashed, and when the girl turned him over she was amazed to see that he was most cruelly gagged with a piece of stick and a handkerchief. "Totantora!" she screamed. "What is the matter? Where is Wonota?" His glaring eyes seemed almost popping from their sockets. His copper-colored face was a mask of demoniacal rage. His dignity as an Indian and his feelings as a father had been outraged. Yet, Ruth was positive that the figure in the roadster beside Horatio Bilby was not Wonota, the chief's daughter. Her strong and nimble fingers had gone to work almost at once upon the cord that held the Indians wrists. She loosened them in a few moments. Totantora leaped to his feet, drew a clasp-knife from the pocket of his trousers, snapped it open, and slashed through the cords about his ankles. "Where is Wonota? What has happened?" Ruth cried. The Indian slashed the handkerchief that held the gag in place, dragged it out, and cast it away. He made no reply to Ruth's question, but lifting up his head sent a long and quavering cry through the grove--a cry that might have been the war-whoop of his tribe generations before. However, Ruth knew it was a signal to his daughter that he was free and was in pursuit. If Wonota was where she could hear! Speaking not at all to the anxious Ruth, Totantora started down the gully to the riverside. The girl followed him, running almost as wildly as did the Indian chief. Bounding out into the more open grove at the edge of the stream, Totantora uttered another savage yell. Ruth heard, too, the _put, put, put_, of a motor-boat. When she reached the water the boat she had previously observed was some few yards from the bank. There were two men in it now, and Ruth saw at first glance that Wonota, likewise bound and gagged, lay propped up against the small over-decked part of the launch. The Indian chief halted not even to kick off his moccasins. He ran to the edge of the bank and, the water being deep, dived on a long slant into the river. He rose almost instantly to the surface, and with a long, swift side-stroke followed after the motor craft, which was now gaining speed. CHAPTER VII EXPEDIENCY Up in the Big North Woods Ruth Fielding had seen loons dive and swim (and of all the feathered tribe, loons are the master divers) and she had wondered at the birds' mastery of the water. But no loon ever seemed more at home in that element than did the Indian chief. Totantora tore through the water after the escaping motor-boat as though he, too, were propelled by a motor. And his motor was more powerful, in a short race at least, than that driving the launch in which Wonota was held prisoner. Before the men who had abducted the Osage maiden could get their boat out of the little cove, Totantora reached the stern of it. He rose breast high in the water and clutched the gunwale with one hand. One of the men swung at him with a boathook; but the other picked up his canvas coat and managed to smother the chief's head and face in it for a minute. Totantora flung himself backward and dragged the canvas coat out of the man's hand. Indeed, he came near to dragging the man himself into the water. The coat did not retard the Indian much. He grabbed it with both hands, spread it abroad, and then plunged with it under the stern of the motor-boat. At once the propeller ceased turning and the boat lost headway. Totantora had fouled the propeller blades with the canvas jacket, and the abductors could not get away. The Indian lunged for the gunwale of the boat again. One of the men was now attending to the mechanism. The other beat at Totantora's hands with the boathook. In a flash the chief let go of the rail with one hand and seized the staff of the implement. One powerful jerk, and he wrenched the boathook from the white man's grasp. The latter fell sprawling into the bottom of the boat. With a display of muscle-power at which Ruth could not but marvel, Totantora raised himself over the gunwale of the boat and scrambled into it. The second white man turned on him, but the Indian met him stooping, seized him around the waist, and tossed him, seemingly with scarcely an effort, into the water. The other abductor scrambled forward to get out of his reach. The chief bent for a minute over his daughter, and then Ruth saw that the girl was free and that she stood up, unhurt. It was all over so quickly that it left Ruth breathless. "Miss Ruth! Miss Ruth!" cried the Indian girl. "I am all right. My father, Chief Totantora, would not let these bad white men carry me away a captive." Ruth waved her hand to the younger girl. But she watched the white man who was swimming for the shore. She was not afraid of him--any more than the Indian chief was fearful of the other white man perched in the bow of the motor-boat. The swimmer reached the bank, caught hold of an overhanging bush, and dragged himself out of the river. He was a hang-dog looking sort of fellow, anyway; and in his saturated condition his appearance was not improved. He lay panting for a minute like an expiring fish, and Ruth looked down at him perhaps more contemptuously than she realized. "Well, who you looking at?" he growled at length. "I suppose I am looking at one of Mr. Horatio Bilby's choice assistants," Ruth returned scornfully. "Huh? What do you know about Bilby?" demanded the fellow, evidently much surprised. "I know nothing very good of him, I am sure," the girl of the Red Mill replied coolly. "And I am quite confident that you are a fit companion for him." The fellow sat up and leered at her. "I ain't such a mighty fine sight just now, I guess," he said. "But there are worse than me. I didn't know there were any white folks interested in this business." "You make a perfectly proper distinction," Ruth told him. "Bilby is not a white man--not in his business ethics I am sure. I want to warn you that those Indians have powerful friends and you would do well to have nothing more to do with them." "I get you," growled the fellow. "But take it from me; that Injun don't need no friends. He can take care of himself. He's as strong as a bull." "And with a temper you would best not ruffle. I do not know what Bilby's scheme was, or how he got you into it. But take my advice and keep out of any further association with Bilby in this matter." "You don't have to warn me and my partner," said the fellow. "We got enough right now. Is he coming ashore?" He turned to look at the boat, and then leaped to his feet in some fear. Totantora, by leaning well over the stern of the boat, had dragged the torn coat out of the propeller, and now he was coolly examining the mechanism with the evident idea of starting the boat. The Indian seemed familiar with the driving power of such a craft. "I think he will bring his daughter ashore," Ruth said composedly. "If I were you I would not cross him further." "I ain't going to, Miss," said the fellow, now on his feet. "I see Jim is keeping as far away from him as he can. Jim can't swim." "Go aside somewhere. When they reach the bank I will try to take Totantora and the girl away with me. Do nothing to cross him, for the temper of an Indian is not easily quelled. It just simmers and may break out again at any time." "Believe me," said the fellow, starting off through the bushes, "I ain't aiming to have another run-in with him. Not with my bare hands. I hope he don't smash the boat, that's all." "I will do all I can to pacify Totantora," said Ruth, and she really was somewhat anxious on this point, for the grim countenance of the Indian chief threatened further reprisal. He was busy with the engine for a time; but by and by the regular popping of the exhaust revealed the fact that everything was all right with it. The boat described a circle and came back into the cove and to the place where Ruth stood on the bank. The second white man, who was younger and looked less like a drowned rat, remained in the bow, staring back in apprehension at the Indian. The moment he could do so, this man leaped ashore. "Say nothing to him," advised Ruth. "I will try to take them both away. And, as I have warned your companion, have nothing more to do with Bilby or his schemes. These Indians are my friends, and they have other friends who are much more powerful than I am, I can assure you." "Yes, Miss," said the man, politely enough. "I don't want to mix in with that redskin. I guess not!" Wonota stepped ashore and Ruth gave her the shoe she had lost. Her father followed her. He turned as though to set the boat adrift, but Ruth laid her hand upon his wet sleeve. "Let it alone, Totantora. I hope you will be advised by me. We will go right away from here. Instead of waiting until to-morrow, let us leave here to-night and start for the North." Wonota said something to her father in their own tongue, and he looked at Ruth more peacefully. "White lady is always my friend, I know; and Wonota's friend," he observed. "But these bad men tried to steal Wonota." "Tell me how it happened," Ruth put in, hoping to change his trend of thought and determination. "I will tell you, my friend," said the Indian girl. "A little fat man came in a car when Chief Totantora and I were walking in the road. He got us to sit down yonder and talk to him. He is one of those who have tried to get Chief Totantora and me to go away from you to make pictures. He offers much money. And while we talked, those other two men crept up behind us and they all seized Chief Totantora and me. We were bound and our mouths closed before we knew how many, or how few, our enemies were. Then my father was left in the wood and I was carried to the boat. I do not know what became of the little fat man." "I saw him drive away," Ruth said. "It made me suspicious. I had already seen and talked with the fat man, whose name is Bilby. Don't forget that name, Wonota." "I will remember," said the Indian girl, composedly. "He may make some other attempt to get possession of you. Some attempt by aid of the courts." "The white man's law is very strange," muttered Totantora. "But we will get ahead of Bilby before he can do anything else," Ruth went on. "Miss Cameron's car is outside in the road. Go to the hotel and change your clothes, Totantora, and I will take both you and Wonota back to the Red Mill. Until we get away for the North I shall not want you out of my sight." The Indian shook himself much as a dog might. A lighter expression flickered over his dark face. "I shall not suffer cold from a wetting," he said. "It is nothing. I have nothing at the hotel. We will go now." "Come on, then," rejoined Ruth, promptly. "It is best that we get away before Bilby can learn that his plan to make Wonota a captive miscarried. Hurry!" She swept them in her earnestness out to the road where Helen and Aunt Alvirah saw them with considerable surprise--particularly because of the saturated condition of the Indian. "I declare, Ruth!" cried Helen, "you do manage to get into such perfectly lovely rows. What is the matter?" But Ruth postponed all explanation for a later time. On their way back to the Red Mill she did explain to Helen, however, that she intended to take the two Indians to Cheslow and get a train for Albany that evening. "I will fool Bilby and whoever is aiding him. We will get away." "If you go to-night, so do I!" exclaimed her chum. "You can't lose me, Ruth Fielding. I can see that we are going to have perfectly scrumptious times before this picture you are going to make is finished." "I hope we'll fool Bilby--leave him behind," sighed Ruth. "The worst of it is, we must leave Tommy-boy behind," said Tom's twin. "Won't he be sore when he hears about it!" CHAPTER VIII AT CHIPPEWA BAY Helen pronounced that exodus from the Red Mill "some hustle;" and really it was but a brief time that Ruth allowed for packing, dressing, and getting to Cheslow for the eight-forty-five train, bound north. This was a through train with sleeping cars, and stopped at Cheslow only on special occasions. Ruth determined that this was one of those occasions. She hustled Ben, the hired man, off to town ahead, and by the good offices of Mercy Curtis a compartment and berth were obtained on that especial train. Mercy kept the wires hot arranging this for her friend. Meanwhile, Helen rushed home in her car, packed her trunk and bag, had them loaded into the front of the car, and drove up the road again to the Red Mill where she picked up the two Indians and Ruth. Uncle Jabez and Aunt Alvirah were sorry enough to see Ruth go; but this trip promised not to be a long one, for the picture should be made in five or six weeks. The Cameron's chauffeur had been instructed by Helen to "burn up the road," for there was none too much time before the train was due, and he did as he was ordered. Indeed, there were ten minutes to spare when they reached the station platform, and the girls spent that time chatting with Mercy Curtis leaning out of her window of the telegraph office. "So, you are off on your travels again," said the lame girl. "I wish I was a butterfly of fashion, too." "'Butterfly,'!" scoffed Helen. "Ruth, at least, is no butterfly. She might be called a busy bee with more truth." "Ah-ha, Miss Helen!" returned Mercy, shaking her finger, "you are the improvident grasshopper--no less." Helen giggled. "Tom says that that old proverb, 'Go to the ant, thou sluggard;' should read: 'Go to the ant and slug her.' He does not love work any more than I do." Again Ruth's expression of countenance was one of disapproval, but she made no comment on Tom. The train thundered toward the station, slowing down as though resenting being stopped in its swift career for even a few moments. Mr. Curtis, the station master, made a point himself of seeing that the baggage of the party was put into the baggage car. The conductor and porter helped the girls aboard, and they found their sections. Ruth was determined that Wonota should not get out of her sight again, and the Indian girl was to occupy a berth in the stateroom. Totantora was to have had the berth; but when he saw it made up and noted the cramped and narrow quarters offered him, he shook his head decidedly. He spent the night in the porter's little room at the end of the car, and the porter, when he found out Totantora was an Indian chief, did not dare object for fear of being scalped! The party reached Hammond the following afternoon. Here they alighted instead of at Redwood, the more popular station of those wishing to reach the Thousand Islands by way of the electric road to Alexandria Bay. Ruth and her party were going direct to Chippewa Bay, for it was upon some of the more northern of the fourteen hundred or more isles that constitute the "Thousand Islands" that Mr. Hammond had arranged for the film company's activities at this time. A big touring car was waiting for the party, for one of the telegrams Ruth had caused to be sent the evening before was to Mr. Hammond, and they were glad to leave the Pullman and get into the open air. Totantora, even, desired to walk to Chippewa Bay, for he was tired of the white man's means of locomotion. Ruth and Wonota would not hear to this. "I guess we have eluded Bilby," said the girl of the Red Mill; "but I shall not feel that Wonota is safe, Totantora, unless you are near her at all times. You must keep watch of your daughter. She is a valuable possession." For once Totantora smiled--although it was grimly. "A squaw did not use to be counted for much in my nation," he said. "But Wonota is not like the old squaws." "Wonota is quite an up-to-date young woman, let me tell you, Mr Totantora," Helen told him briskly. The party remained over night at a small hotel at Chippewa Bay; but in the morning Ruth and her companions entered a motor launch and were transported to an island where the film producing company had been established in several bungalows which Mr. Hammond had rented for the time of their stay. The water between the small islands was as calm as a mill pond; but the party caught glimpses from the launch of the breadth of the St. Lawrence, its Canadian shore being merely a misty blue line that morning. The rocky and wooded islands were extremely beautiful and as romantic in appearance as the wilderness always is. Now and then a privately owned island, improved by landscape gardening into a modern summer estate, offered contrast to the wilder isles. The girls spent most of the day in getting settled. No work on the new picture could be done for a couple of days, and Helen, naturally, looked for amusement. There were canoes as well as motor boats, and both the chums were fond of canoeing. Wonota, of course, was mistress of the paddle; and with her the two white girls selected a roomy canoe and set out toward evening on a journey of exploration among the closer islands. One of the largest islands in the group was in sight--Grenadier Island; but that they learned was beyond the American line. They saw it only from a distance, keeping close to the New York shore as they did on this brief voyage. The tall tamaracks and the other trees crowded some of the islands until they seemed veritable jungles. Some few, however, were bold and precipitous in the extreme. "Just the sort of place for pirate dens and robber caves," Helen declared, shivering gleefully. "What a romantic puss you are," laughed Ruth. "Well, those cracks in the rock yonder look so dark and dismal. And there _might_ be dark-skinned men with red bandanas bound around their heads, and knives in their belts, along with the rest of the scenery, Ruthie," complained Helen. Wonota stared at her. "Do you mean, Miss Helen, that there are cholos--are greasers--in these woods? My geography book that I study shows this country to be far, far from Mexico." "Oh, my aunt!" chuckled Helen. "She thinks nobody but Mexicans can wear gay handkerchiefs bound about their noble brows. Wait till you see sure-enough pirates--" "That is perfect nonsense, Wonota," said Ruth, warningly. "Helen is only in fun." "Ah," said the practical Indian maid, "I understand English--and American; only I do not always grasp the--er--humor, do you call it?" "Good!" applauded Ruth. "Serves you right, Helen, for your silly nonsense." "The Indians' fun is different," explained Wonota, not wishing to offend the white girl. "You are a pair of old sober-sides, that is what is the matter," declared Helen gaily. "Oh, Ruth! drive the canoe ashore yonder--on that rocky beach. Did you ever see such ferns?" They brought the canoe carefully in to the shore, landing on a sloping rock which was moss-grown above the mark of the last flood. Ruth fastened the tow-rope to the staff of a slender sapling. Wonota got out to help Helen gather some of the more delicately fronded ferns. Ruth turned her back upon them and began climbing what seemed to be a path among the boulders and trees. This was not a very large island, and it was well out from the American shore, but inside the line between the States and Canada. Although the path Ruth followed seemed well defined, she scarcely thought the island was inhabited. As they had paddled past it in the canoe there had been no sign of man's presence. It had been left in the state of nature, and nothing, it seemed, had been done to change its appearance from the time that the first white man had seen it. Some rods up the ascent Ruth came to an open place--a table of rock that might really have been a giant's dining-table, so flat and perfectly shaped it was. She could look down upon Helen and Wonota, and they looked up and called to her. "Look out for the pirates!" shouted Helen, with laughter. Ruth waved her hand, smiling, and, crossing the rock, parted the brush and stepped out of sight of her friends. Two steps she took through the clinging bushes when a most surprising figure started up before her. There was plenty of light, even if the sun had gone down. She was not uncertain at all as to the nature of the figure that confronted her--that of a man. She saw almost instantly that the old man's brown eyes were more like a child's in expression than like an angry man's. He grinned at her, but the grimace was involuntary or meaningless. "Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!" Ruth remained both quiet and speechless, looking into his wrinkled old face calmly. She thought he must be a beggar from his clothing, but she could not imagine him a robber, nor even one of Helen's "pirates." As she said nothing the old man repeated his sibilant warning: "Hush!" "I am 'hushing' just as hard as I can," whispered the girl in return, and smiling a little now. "Why must I 'hush'?" "Hush!" he said again, quite as earnestly. "You are in danger of your life, young woman." "Not from you, I am sure," she returned. "You would not try to hurt me." "Hush!" he repeated, looking back over his shoulder into the thicker wood. "They may come at any moment now. And although I am their king, they would kill you. You see, kings aren't as powerful now as they used to be before the war." "So I understand," agreed Ruth soberly. "But who are you king of--or what?" "I am King of the Pipes," whispered the old man. "You don't know what that means," he added, scanning her puzzled face. "No. And that's the secret. You cannot be told." "Oh," murmured Ruth, somewhat amused, yet pitying his evident mental state. "Hush!" he said again. "You are in danger. Go away from this place at once, and don't come here again. If my courtiers see you--Ha! Off with her head! I shall have to follow the kingly custom. It is not my fault," he added, in the same low tone, shaking his head mournfully. "We kings have to lead our lives, you know." "It must be a dreadful life, if you have to order people's heads cut off when they have done you no harm," Ruth ventured. "But my people would not believe that you would do no harm," he explained. "I can see that you are quite harmless. But they have not the intelligence I possess. You understand?" "Quite," said Ruth. "And I will go right away. Thank you for your kindness." "That is right, young woman. Go away. And do not return. It is not safe here." "Can't--can't I do anything for you?" "Hush!" warned the old man. "No, I do not think you can. I do not care to divide my power with any consort. And, unless you are of noble blood I could not make you Queen of the Pipes. That would never do. Such a mésalliance would never do. My people would never stand for it--oh, never!" "I quite understand that," said Ruth, having difficulty to keep from smiling. "Now go, young woman," the man said pompously. "And do not return." "I will obey you," said Ruth soberly. "If you are sure I cannot help you." "Hush!" he warned her again, waving his hand. "They are likely to come at any moment. And then--" The girl backed through the bushes and stepped upon the table-like rock. She would have bade him good-bye, but he hissed after her another sibilant "hush!" and disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. Ruth descended to the canoe and waited until they were well away from the island before she said a word to the other girls about the queer old man. CHAPTER IX A FILM MYSTERY "I told you there were pirates there," Helen declared that evening, when she and Ruth were in the room they shared together. Wonota slept in a room adjoining and had already retired. "I don't think that poor old man was a pirate," returned Ruth, smiling a little. "Didn't he tell you he was 'king of the pirates'?" demanded Helen. Ruth laughed outright. "He said he was 'king of the pipes'--whatever that may mean. Poor old fellow!" "Well, it seems he most certainly had been 'smoking the pipe'--or do they call it 'hitting the pipe'?" "Don't ask me to aid you with any information on slang," admonished her friend. "I don't suppose he is really king of anything except of a country of his dreams--poor fellow." "Dear me!" grumbled Helen. "You never will boost romance, Ruth Fielding. Maybe there are pirates on that island." "Or pipes," said Ruth calmly. "Never mind. When the boys come I am going to shoo them on to that place." "What boys?" demanded Ruth in surprise. "The Copleys arrive to-morrow. And their place is not five miles away from this very spot. We'll get a motor-boat and go down there to-morrow evening and welcome them. I got a telegram from Tom when I came back from canoeing. I forgot to tell you." "Tom!" exclaimed Ruth, and for perhaps the first time in her life she seemed undesirous of hearing about Tom Cameron. Helen gave her a somewhat puzzled side glance as she found the telegram and gave it to her chum, who read: "Vacation begins to-morrow. Will be with you next day. Tom." Helen giggled. "You can make up your mind that he knows Chess Copley has started for this neck of woods. Tom is becoming Mr. Jealous Jellaby. Did you ever?" "I am sorry Tom considers it necessary to take a vacation when he has only just begun work with your father, Helen." "There you go again!" exclaimed her chum. "I don't understand you at all, Ruth Fielding. Tom doesn't have to work." "It might be better if he did," said Ruth, and refused to discuss the point further that evening. The next day was just as lovely as that first one. Preparations were under way all over the island Mr. Hammond had rented for the making of the picture which Ruth had written. The continuity was being studied by Mr. Hooley, the director; and the principals had been furnished with their detail. The ordinary participants in the filming of a picture--the "extras"--seldom know much about the story. They merely appear in certain scenes and do what they are told. As the scenes are not made in sequence these actors of the smaller parts have little idea of the story itself. Ruth, under the advice of Mr. Hammond, had chosen a certain series of incidents relating to early French-Canadian history, and it began with an allegory of the bringing of the Christian religion to the Indians by the first French priests. This allegory included the landing of the French upon the shore of a rocky island where they were met by the wondering Indians, and Mr. Hooley's assistant had chosen the spot for this scene to be "shot," not far from the place where the company had its headquarters. Ruth paid little attention to the locations until the moment arrived for the camera work. In fact, after supplying the detailed script she had little to do with the preparation of the picture until the scenes were made. She had never made continuity, as it is called, for that is more or less of a mechanical process and is sure to interfere with the creative faculty of the screen writer. In the afternoon of this day Helen engaged a motor-boat, and she and Ruth set out for the Copley island, which was some miles away, toward Alexandria Bay. Caretakers and servants had been at work there for some time, it was evident, for the lawns were neatly shaved, the gardens in full growth, and the family were already comfortably settled in their summer home. Chess Copley must have been on the watch (could it be possible that he had inside information about this early visit of Helen and Ruth?) for he came running down to the dock before the gardener could reach that point to fasten the boat's line. "Hurrah!" he shouted. "I was just wondering if we would see you girls to-day; and if you hadn't come I should have got out our launch and tried to find your camp this evening." "Oh, hullo, Chess," Helen said coolly as she stepped ashore, refusing his assistance. "Where are the girls?" "There they are--waiting for you on the porch," he said, rather subdued it would seem by her bruskness. Helen started directly for the wide veranda of the villa-like house that topped the higher part of the island. There were several acres of grounds about the Copley house, for the whole island was cultivated to the water's edge. There was nothing wild left in the appearance of the property, save a few of the tall forest trees that had been allowed to stand and some huge boulders almost covered with climbing vines. Ruth gave Chess her hand--and he squeezed it warmly. She gave him a frank smile, and Chess seemed comforted. "Nell's dreadfully tart with a fellow," he grumbled. "She's nothing like she used to be. But you are kind, Ruth." "You should not wear your heart on your sleeve," she told him briskly, as they followed Helen Cameron toward the veranda. The two girls from the moving picture camp passed a pleasant evening with their New York friends. The Copley girls always managed to gather, Helen declared, "perfectly splendid house parties;" and they had brought with them several companionable girls and young men. Music and dancing filled the evening, and it was ten o'clock when the two chums from Cheslow sought their motor-boat and set out for the camp on the Chippewa Bay island. Chess Copley had kept by Ruth's side almost all the evening, and although Helen treated him so cavalierly, she seemed provoked at her chum for paying the young man so much attention. "I don't understand what you see in Chess," she said in a vexed tone to the girl of the Red Mill. "He's nothing much." "He is pleasant, and you used to like him," said Ruth quietly. "Humph!" Helen tossed her head. "I found him out. And he's not to be compared with Tommy-boy." "I quite agree with you--that is, considering Tom as a brother," observed Ruth, and after that refused to be led into further discussion regarding Chess Copley. It was not often that Ruth and Helen had a disagreement. And this was not really of importance. At least, there was no sign of contention between them in the morning. To tell the truth, there was so much going on, on this day, that the girls could scarcely have found time to quarrel. The sun was bright and the sky cloudless. It was an ideal day for out-of-door "shots," and the camera men and Mr. Hooley had the whole company astir betimes. The few real Indians, besides Wonota and Totantora, in the company, and all those "extras" who were dressed as aborigines, got into their costumes before breakfast. Soon after eight o'clock the company got away in barges, with launches to tow them through the quiet waterways. In a costume play like this that had been planned, the participants naturally make a very brilliant spectacle wherever they appear. But among the islands of Chippewa Bay there were few spectators at this time save the wild fowl. "And they," Helen said, "might be descendants of the very birds who looked on the actual first appearance of the white man in this wilderness. Isn't it wonderful?" When Mr. Hooley, megaphone in hand and stationed with the two cameras on one of the decked-over barges, had got his company in position and the action was begun, it was indeed an impressive picture. Of course, a scene is not made off-hand--not even an outdoor pageant like this. The detail must be done over and over again before the cranks of the cameras are turned. It was almost noon before Mr. Hooley dared tell the camera men to "shoot the scene." The flag-decorated barge bearing the Frenchmen to the rocky shore moved forward into focus in a stately way, while the Indians gathered in a spectacular group on the sloping shore--tier upon tier of dark faces, wearing nodding feather head-dresses, blankets, deerskin leggings, and other garments of Indian manufacture--all grouped to make a brilliant spectacle. Totantora, a commanding figure, and his daughter as _White Fawn_, the demure yet dominant princess of the Hurons, stood forth from the background of the other Indians in a graceful picture. Helen was delighted and could not help shouting to the Osage girl that she was "great"--a remark which elicited a frown from the director and an admonition from Ruth. Behind the grouped Indians was the greenery of the primeval forest with which this rocky island seemed to be covered. The cameras whirred while the barge containing the actors representing the Frenchmen pushed close into the shore and the whites landed. A boy carried ashore the great cross, and with him came a soldier bearing the lilies of France, the standard of which he sank into the turf. The detail of costume and armament had been carefully searched out by Ruth herself, and the properties were exact. She was sure that this part of the picture at least could not be criticised but to be praised. It was three o'clock before the party disembarked and went back to the camp for a delayed lunch. The remainder of the afternoon was devoted to the taking of several "close-ups" and an interior scene that had been built on the island rather than in the city studio of the Alectrion Film Corporation. The films taken earlier in the day were developed, and that evening after dinner Ruth and Helen joined Mr. Hammond and Mr. Hooley in the projection room to see a "run" of the strip taken at the island where the Frenchmen landed. "Do you know that that island is the one we landed on ourselves the other evening, Ruth?" Helen remarked, as they took their seats and waited in the darkness for the operator to project the new film. "Do you mean it? I did not notice. The island where I met that strange old man?" "The pirate--yes," giggled Helen. "Only we went ashore at the far end of it." "I never thought of it--or of him," admitted Ruth. "Poor, crazy old fellow--" The machine began its whirring note and they fell silent. Upon the silver sheet there took shape and actuality the moving barge with its banners and streamers and costumed actors. Then a flash was given of the Indians gathering on the wild shore--wondering, excited, not a little fearful of the strange appearance of the white men. The pageant moved forward to its conclusion--the landing of the strangers and the setting up of the banners and the cross. But suddenly Ruth shrieked aloud, and Mr. Hammond shouted to the operator to "repeat." The dense underbrush had parted behind the upper tier of Indians and in the aperture thus made appeared a face and part of the figure of a man--a wild face with straggling hair and beard, and the upper part of his body clad in the rags of a shirt. "What in thunder was that, Hooley?" cried Mr. Hammond. "Somebody butted in. It's spoiled the whole thing. I thought your men warned everybody off that island?" "I never saw that scarecrow before," declared the director, quite as angrily. But Ruth squeezed Helen's hand hard. "The King of the Pipes," she whispered. CHAPTER X A SMELL OF SMOKE The discovery of the face and figure of the old man whom Ruth had once met and spoken with on the island thrust out of the undergrowth and showing through a good part of the length of film that had been made that first day, caused a good deal of disturbance. The King of the Pipes, as he had called himself, was entirely "out of the picture." His representation on the celluloid could not be removed. And he had been in focus for so many feet of the film that it was utterly impossible to cut it, and thus save the picture. "It is a wretched piece of business," Mr. Hammond said to Ruth, as they came from the projection room after seeing the reel run off again and again. "The entire scene will have to be made over. And, aside from that irremediable fault, I consider the work remarkably good. Mr. Hooley may never again be able to get it so good." Ruth and Helen had told him about the old crazy man--a hermit, perhaps--and Mr. Hammond had given instructions that before the retaking of the scene was tried the island should be searched for the King of the Pipes. "Whoever, or whatever, he is," the producer said, "he's got to be looked after while we are making this picture. He is likely to burst most unexpectedly into any of the outdoor scenes, and on any location, and break up the show. This is going to cost money, Miss Ruth." "I know it, Mr. Hammond. But it never crossed my mind that it was on that very island I had my meeting with the man." "When Hooley tries to shoot the picture again we must send somebody up into that island to watch for the old fellow. He'd better be under confinement, anyway, if he's crazy." "The poor old thing." Ruth sighed. "I don't think he means any harm--" "He's harmed us all right," grumbled the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation. "I tell you, a day's work like this--with such salaries as we pay, and supplies and all--mounts into real money." "Oh," said Ruth, "some of the film can be saved. All that until the Frenchmen land--" "We won't dare risk it. In a costume story like this somebody is sure to get his dress, or armor, or something, different next time from what it was to-day. And if we try to save any part of this piece of film the change will show up in the finished picture. Every critical spectator will see the break and will comment upon it. Might as well make up our minds to take the loss; but we must be sure that a similar accident does not occur again." "Will Mr. Hooley risk taking the scene over on that island?" asked Ruth thoughtfully. "Why not? It is a fine location--couldn't be beat. We've got to shoo that old man out of it, that's all." The girl had an idea that if she could meet the queer old man again she might be able to convince him that some other island would serve quite as well for his "kingdom" as that particular isle. At any rate, she hated the thought of his being abused or roughly treated. Soon after the fiasco in the projection room, Tom Cameron arrived by motor-boat from the town across the bay. Now, Ruth was secretly very glad to see Tom. She always would be glad to see his sunny face, no matter how or when. But she could not approve of his being here at the Thousand Islands at this particular time. Tom had grown up to be one of those young men who do not know what they want to do in life, and the reaction from the strain of his military life had, as was natural, intensified this tendency to drift. After the time that he had determined to be a soldier, then to go West and hunt Indians and grizzly bears, and then shifted to the desire to be a pirate or a policeman, Tom Cameron had really expressed very little taste for any commercial pursuit. He had made his mark in his preparatory school and college in several lines of athletics. But a boy in his position would scarcely become a professional baseball player or pull an oar for a living. To tell the truth, Tom had never shown much aptitude for his father's business. Dry goods did not interest him. Yet when he had come home after the armistice Ruth thought he was going to buckle right down to business with Mr. Cameron's firm. There seemed to be a super-abundant supply of energy in Tom that had to be worked off. And Ruth thought it would be worked off properly under the yoke of business. Besides, Mr. Cameron was getting no younger, and he ought to have the support of his only son in business affairs. But the last winter, since Ruth and the Cameron twins had returned from the Northwest, things had not gone with Tom quite as the girl of the Red Mill would have chosen. Yet she felt that it was not really her business to interfere. Indeed, she did not purpose to interfere. If she undertook to advise Tom it would please him only too well--that she knew, of course. For Tom considered Ruth quite as much his property as Helen--only in a slightly different way. And if Ruth showed in any manner that she considered Tom her property--well, it would be all off, to use one of Helen's favorite expressions. There was no engagement between Ruth and Tom--not even a tacitly recognized one. In times of stress and need Tom had proved himself to be a very good friend indeed, and Ruth fully appreciated this. But during this past winter he had been somewhat spoiled--or so the girl thought. In the first place, Helen was determined to make a hero of her handsome brother. Captain Cameron was pushed to the fore by his sister in every possible way and manner. Helen had many gay friends in New York--she had met them through the Stones, for Helen had often been with Jennie when Ruth was elsewhere and more seriously engaged. Naturally Tom had been one with his sister in gay parties, dances, theater groups, supper crowds, and all the rest. Business had gone by the board with Tom; and before Ruth realized it the young returned soldier had lapsed into a butterfly existence that busy Ruth did not approve. Especially, did she believe, was such an aimless life bad for Tom Cameron. She met him in the living room of the bungalow, however, with her usual warmth; perhaps "lack of warmth" would be the better expression. For although Ruth was always quietly cordial with most people, she was never "hail fellow, well met" with anybody, unless it was her own, dear, old girl friends of Briarwood Hall. She resisted, however, making any criticism upon Tom's presence in the moving picture camp. Everybody in the house--and there were several members of the company there besides Mr. Hammond and the director--greeted Tom Cameron cordially. He was a favorite with them all. And the minute Totantora heard of Tom's arrival, the Osage chief appeared at the door, standing with glittering eyes fixed on the ex-captain and unmoved expression of countenance while he waited to catch Tom's attention. "Bless my heart!" cried the rollicking Tom, "here's my old buddy! Totantora, how are you?" They shook hands, the Indian gravely but with an expression in his eyes that revealed a more than ordinary affection for the young white man. In France and along the Rhine Totantora, the Osage chief, had become the sworn follower of the drygoods merchant's son--a situation to cause remark, if not wonder. Tom had learned a few words of the Osage tongue and could understand some of Totantora's gutturals. What the chief said seemed at one point to refer to Ruth, who, quite unconscious, was talking with Mr. Hammond across the room. Tom glanced at Ruth's back and shook his head slightly. But he made no audible comment upon what the Indian said. He did not, indeed, see much of Ruth that night; but in one moment of privacy she said to Tom: "Do you want to make an early morning excursion--before Lazybones Helen is roused from her rosy slumbers?" "Bet you!" was Tom's boyish reply. "Six o'clock, then, at the dock. If you are there first rouse out Willie, the boatman, and offer him a five dollar bill from me to take us through the islands in the _Gem_. That's his boat." "I'll find him to-night and make sure," said Tom promptly. "You are a faithful servitor," laughed Ruth, and left him before Tom could take any advantage of her kindness. The appointment was kept to the letter and minute in the morning. Helen was still asleep when Ruth dressed and stole out of the bungalow. Not many of the people on the island, save the cooks and dining-room employees, were astir. But Tom and the boatman--and the _Gem_--were at the dock in readiness. Ruth gave Willie his instructions. He was to make a landing at the far end of the island on which the picture had been taken the day before. It was too early for any of Mr. Hooley's men to be over there looking for the old man whose face had spoiled several hundred feet of good film. Ruth wished, if possible, to first interview the strange man. She took Tom into her confidence at once about the King of the Pipes. She did not believe the man was so crazy that he ought to be shut up in an asylum. He was merely "queer." And if they could get him off the island and out of the way while the picture was being shot, he might then go back to his hermit life and play at being king all he wished to. "What a lark!" exclaimed Tom, looking at the matter a good deal as his twin sister did. "And you are constantly falling in with queer characters, Ruth." "You might better say they are falling in with me, for I am sure I do not intentionally hunt them up," complained Ruth. "And this poor old man has cost us money enough." "It is too bad," was Tom's comment. "Worse than that, perhaps Mr. Hooley will never again get as fine an allegorical picture as he did yesterday. They were all in the spirit of the piece when the shot was made." They arrived at the sloping stone beach and landed as Ruth and the girls had before disembarked. Ruth led Tom up the rough path into the woods beyond the table-rock. The trees stood thick, and the bushes were thorny, but they pushed through to an open space surrounding an old, gnarled, lightning-riven beech. The top of this monarch of the ancient forest had been broken off and the line of its rotted trunk and branches could be marked amid the undergrowth. But the staff of it stood at least thirty feet in height. "What a spread of shade it must have given in its day," said Tom. "All these other tall trees have grown up since the top broke off." "Quite so," agreed Ruth. "But where do you suppose that queer old man has his camp?" They looked all about the island, coming back at last to the riven beech. But they found no mark of human occupancy on the island. "I smell wood smoke, just the same," Tom declared, sniffing the air. "There is a fire somewhere near." They saw no smoke, however, nor did they find any cavity in the rocks that seemed to have been occupied by man or used as the rudest kind of camp. "Maybe he doesn't live on this island after all," said Tom. "He could get to half a dozen other islands from here in a light canoe. Or even on a raft." "He spoke as though he considered this particular island his kingdom," rejoined Ruth. "This was the only place he warned me away from--not from the islands in general. I don't understand it at all, Tom. And I don't want the men to be unkind to him." "Well, it looks to me," observed her friend, "that if we cannot find him, they will be unable to find him as well. So I wouldn't worry, Ruth." But the girl went back to the Gem and sailed again to the headquarters of the moving picture company not at all satisfied as to the result of their undertaking. CHAPTER XI BILBY AGAIN The work of picture making that day went without a hitch. Mr. Hooley sent several men into the woods above the spot on the shore of the "Kingdom of Pipes," as Helen insisted upon calling the island where the prologue of the picture was made, and they remained on watch there during the activities of the company below. When the film was developed and run off in the projection room that evening it was pronounced by all--even by Mr. Hammond--as good in detail as the spoiled reel. From that point the work went on briskly, for the weather remained perfect for picture taking. Ruth was busy; but she could give some time to enjoyment, too, especially in the evening; and that next evening when Chess Copley appeared in his own motor-boat, the _Lauriette_, she was glad to join a moonlight boating party which ventured as far as Alexandria Bay, where they had supper and danced at the pavilion, returning to the picture camp in the early hours of the morning. Ruth was Chessleigh's particular guest on this occasion, and Tom and Helen Cameron went in another launch. The moonlight upon the islands and the passages of silvery water between them was most beautiful. And Ruth enjoyed herself immensely. That is, she found the occasion enjoyable until they got back to the bungalow and had bidden the Copleys and their party good night. Then the girl of the Red Mill found her roommate rather irritable. Helen pouted and was frankly cross when she spoke. "I don't see what you find so interesting in Chess Copley," she observed, brushing her hair before the glass. "He is nice I think," replied Ruth placidly. "And you just ignore Tommy-boy." "I could not very well refuse Chess when he invited me into his launch. I did not know you and Tom were going in the other boat." "Well, I wasn't going with Chess. And I wouldn't let Tommy tag after you." "I wish you wouldn't be so foolish, Helen," sighed her chum. "If you act this way," declared the rather unreasonable Helen, "you'll spoil our whole visit at the Thousand Islands." "My goodness!" exclaimed Ruth, for once showing exasperation, "you do not talk very sensibly, Helen. I have come here to work, not to play. Please bear that in mind. If you think I spoil your sport I will not join any other evening parties." The next evening when the Copley party came over to get acquainted with some of the moving picture people and arrange for a big dance on Saturday night, Ruth was as good as her word, and remained in Mr. Hammond's office, recasting certain scenes in her story that Mr. Hooley proposed to make next day. Helen was sure Ruth was "mad" and kept out of the way intentionally. She told Tom so. But she did not choose to relieve Chess Copley's loneliness when she saw him mooning about. Whenever Chess tried to speak to Helen in private she ran away from him. Whether it was loyalty to her brother, Tom, or some other reason that made Helen treat Copley so unkindly, the fact remained that Chess was plainly not in Helen's good books, although she made much of the two Copley girls. The next day Ruth was quite as busy, for the making of the picture was going ahead rapidly while the good weather lasted. This story she had written was more of a pageant than anything she had yet essayed. The scenes were almost all "on location," instead of being filmed under a glass roof. Helen and Tom did not seem to understand that their friend could not go off fishing or sailing or otherwise junketing whenever they would like to have her. But picture making and directors, and especially sunlight, will not wait, and so Ruth tried to tell them. It was Chess Copley, after all, who seemed to have the better appreciation of Ruth's situation just at this time. Before a week had passed he was almost always to be found at Ruth's beck and call; for when she could get away from the work of picture making, Chess turned up as faithfully as the proverbial bad penny. "You are not a bad penny, however, Chess," she told him, smiling. "You are a good scout. Now you may take me out in your motor-boat. If it is too late to fish, we can at least have a run out into the river. How pretty it is to-day!" "If everybody treated me as nicely as you do, Ruth," he said, rather soberly, "my head would be turned." "Cheer up, Chess," she said, laughing. "I don't say the worst is yet to come. Perhaps the best will come to you in time." "You say that only to encourage me I fear." "I certainly don't say it to discourage you," she confessed. "Going around like a faded lily isn't going to help you a mite--and so I have already told you." "Huh! How's a fellow going to register joy when he feels anything but?" "You'd make a poor screen actor," she told him. "See Mr. Grand to-day. He has an ulcerated tooth and is going to the Bay to-night to have it treated. Yet, as the French voyageur, he had to make love to Wonota and Miss Keith, both. Some job!" "That fellow makes love as easy as falling off a log," grumbled Chess. "I never saw such a fellow." "But the girls flock to see him in any picture. If he were my brother--or husband--I would never know when he was really making love or just registering love. Still actors live in a world of their own. They are not like other people--if they are really good actors." Copley's _Lauriette_ shot them half way across the broad St. Lawrence before sunset, and from that point they watched the sun sink in the west and the twilight gather along the Canadian shore and among the islands on the American side. When Chessleigh was about to start the engine again and head for the camp--and dinner--they suddenly spied a powerful speed boat coming out from the Canadian side. It cleaved the water like the blade of a knife, throwing up a silver wave on either side. And as it passed the _Lauriette_ Ruth and her companion could see several men in her cockpit. "There are those fellows again," Chess remarked. "Wonder what they are up to? That boat passed our island yesterday evening and the crowd in her then acted to me as though they were drunk." "I should think----Why!" exclaimed Ruth suddenly breaking off in what she was first going to say, "one of those men is a Chinaman." "So he is," agreed Chessleigh Copley. "And that little fat man--see him? Why, Chess! it looks like----" "Who is it?" asked the young fellow, in surprise at Ruth's excitement. "It's Bilby!" gasped Ruth. "That horrid man! I I hoped we had seen the last of him. And now he's right here where we are working with Wonota." She had said so much that she had to explain fully about Bilby, while they sat and watched the speed boat disappear up the river. Ruth was sure she had made no mistake in her identification of the rival picture producer who had made her so much trouble back at the Red Mill. "I must tell Mr. Hammond at once," she concluded. "If Bilby is here, he is here for no good purpose, I can be sure. And if he has a boat like that at his command, we must keep double watch." "You think he would try to abduct Wonota again?" queried Chess. "I would believe that fellow capable of anything," she returned. "I mean anything that did not call for personal courage on his part." "Humph!" murmured Chess thoughtfully. "I wonder what he was doing with the Chinaman in his party. You know, sometimes Chinamen are smuggled across from Canada against the emigration laws of the States." He headed the _Lauriette_ for the camp then, and they arrived there in a rather serious mood. CHAPTER XII THE DANCE AT ALEXANDRIA BAY "You might have been mistaken, I suppose, Miss Ruth?" suggested Mr. Hammond, the president of the film corporation, sitting at his desk in the room of the main bungalow which he used as an office. "It was growing dark when that speed boat passed you and your friend, was it not?" "Not out on the river, Mr. Hammond. It was light enough for us to see the men in that boat plainly. Just as sure as one of them was a Chinaman, the short, fat man was Horatio Bilby." "It doesn't seem possible that the fellow would chase away up here after us when he so signally failed down below. My lawyer tells me that he had no real authority from the Bureau of Indian Affairs to secure Wonota's services, after all." "He is a man who would not need much authority to attempt any mean thing," said the girl hotly. "That may be true," admitted Mr. Hammond. "But it seems quite too sensational." He smiled, adding: "Quite too much like a movie plot, eh?" "You say yourself that he has obtained the production rights to those 'Running Deer' stories that have appeared in the _Gotham Magazine_," said Ruth, with earnestness. "They are good stories, Mr. Hammond. I have read them." "Yes. I believe they are pretty good material for pictures. That is, if they were handled by a practical scenario writer like yourself." "It is too bad you did not get them." "Well, Bilby was ahead of us there. Somehow, he got backing and bought the picture and dramatic rights to the tales outright. He can find somebody besides Wonota to play _Running Deer_." "He seems to have set his heart on our Wonota." "Yes. He did make Totantora a whacking good offer. I must admit he did. I could not begin to see such a price for the girl's services. And on a mere speculation. But I pointed out to Totantora that, after all, a promise is only a promise. He and Wonota have already had considerable hard cash from us," and Mr. Hammond ended with a laugh. He was evidently not so much impressed by the possible danger of Bilby's presence in the Thousand Islands as Ruth could have wished. She determined herself, however, to be sharply on the watch for the reappearance of the coarse little fat man who had so troubled her and the Indians at the Red Mill. She took Totantora into her confidence, after speaking to Mr. Hammond, although she did not say a word to Wonota. Despite the natural stoicism of the Osage maiden, Ruth did not know but that Wonota might become nervous if she knew the plotting Bilby was near at hand. The chief listened to Ruth's warning with a certain savage anger in his look that warned Ruth not to push the suggestion of Bilby's determination to obtain possession of Wonota too far. The chief was not a patient man, and the possible threat against the safety of his daughter roused in him the instinct of defence. "Me watch," he said. "That fat man come here, me chase him away. Yes!" "Don't do him any harm, Totantora," warned Ruth. "But tell Mr. Hammond or me if you see him." Nobody saw Bilby immediately, however; and as several days passed Ruth began to wonder if, after all, she had not been mistaken in her identification of the fat man in the boat. Meanwhile, the making of the picture went on steadily; but something else--and something Helen Cameron at least considered of moment--was planned during this time. Many other summer residents of the Thousand Islands besides the Copleys had now arrived, and the gaiety of the season was at its height. There was one very large hotel at Alexandria Bay, and it was planned to use its ballroom for a "big war dance," to quote Helen. It was to be a costume dance, and everybody that appeared on the floor must be dressed in Indian costume. Wonota helped the chums and the actresses with the Alectrion Film Corporation who attended, in the getting up of their costumes and the staining of their faces and arms. The Osage girl herself wore a beautiful beaded robe, feather-trimmed and brilliantly dyed. It was her "coronation robe" in the picture she was helping to film. But Mr. Hammond, who likewise attended the dance, allowed the girl to wear this finery, which really was part of the "props" of the company. Launches were engaged from Chippewa Bay to take most of those from the camp who attended the dance, either as participants in the costume review or as spectators, but Chess Copley arranged to come for his particular friends in the _Lauriette_. Helen was tempted to refuse to go in the Copley launch; but when she saw Jean and Sara Copley beside their brother, she went aboard with Ruth and Tom. There actually was no friction between the two young men, although Tom usually addressed Chess by that opprobrious nickname, 'Lasses, while Chess retorted by scoffing at all the ex-captain's opinions and advice on any and all subjects. Really, had she not felt that she was partly the cause of this mild strife, Ruth would have laughed at the two. They were, after all, but grown-up boys. It was a gay party aboard the _Lauriette_, nevertheless. Even Wonota (whom Ruth was keeping with her) was gay. And she was so pretty in her beautiful costume that when they arrived at the hotel the young men at the dance vied in their attempts to have her for a partner on the floor. There was a fine band and the dancing floor was smooth. Even Mr. Hammond went on to the floor, having secured a costume, and Mother Paisley, who acted as chaperon for the moving picture girls, was as light as anybody on her feet and the embodiment of grace. "Actor folk nowadays," the old woman told Ruth once, "are not trained as they once were. I came of circus folk. My people had been circus performers in the old country for generations before my father and mother came over here. My husband was a trapeze performer. "And working on the bars makes one supple and limber beyond any other form of exercise. Afterward, while still a young girl, I was in the ballet. At least, when one has had my training, one brings to the speaking stage a grace and carriage that can scarcely be secured in any other way. "As for this moving picture business," she sighed, "I see these poor girls as awkward as heifers--and they are really learning very little. They depend upon the director to tell them how a lady should enter a room, and how to walk. But often the director has never seen a real lady enter a room! Directors of moving pictures are not masters of deportment as our old dancing masters were." Ruth always listened to strictures upon the moving picture art and gained what she could from such criticism. And the harshest critics the motion pictures have are the people who work in them. But, after all, Ruth had a vision. She felt that in spite of all the "great," "grand," "magnificent," "enormous" pictures already advertised upon the billboards, the public was still waiting for a really well made and properly written and acted series of pictures that claimed neither more sensationalism than they possessed, nor were hastily and carelessly made. Ruth liked to work with Mr. Hammond, and he had been very kind and considerate of her. But she felt that, untrammeled, she would be able to make better pictures than she had made with him. She wanted a free hand, and she felt the insistence of the treasurer's office at her elbow. Money could be lavished upon anything spectacular--for instance, like this French-Indian picture they were making. But much had to be "speeded up" to save money in other phases of production. Mr. Hammond, like most of the other moving picture producers, thought only of the audience coming out of the theater with "ohs!" and "ahs!" upon their lips regarding the spectacular features in the film shown. Ruth wanted to go deeper--wanted to make the impression upon the minds and intelligence of the audiences. She felt that the pictures could be something bigger than mere display. But this is all aside from the fun they had at the costume dance. Ruth and Helen both danced with Mr. Hammond and Mr. Grand and with several others of the moving picture people, as well as with their own friends. Chess got the second dance with Ruth; and then he had the third; and then got the sixth. He might have gone on all the evening coming back to her and begging the favor had Ruth not insisted upon his devoting himself to some of his sisters' friends. But, at the same time, Ruth was somewhat piqued because Tom Cameron did not come near her all the first part of the evening. She could not understand what the matter really was with him--why he acted in so offish a manner. After that sixth dance (and Ruth had danced them all with one partner or another) she sent Chess away from her definitely. She went in search of Tom. The orchestra began playing for the next dance. Ruth looked keenly about the brilliant assembly. She knew Tom's costume--it was distinctive and could not be mistaken. But she could not mark it at all in the throng. Two or three men asked her to dance, but she pleaded fatigue and continued to walk about the edge of the ballroom. Finally, in an alcove, sitting at an empty table, and with no companion, she spied the recreant Tom. "Why, Tom!" she cried cheerfully, "are you sitting out this dance too? And the music is so pretty." "The music is all right," he agreed. "Don't you want to dance?" "No. I do not want to dance," he answered sourly. "Not--not even with me, Tom?" she ventured, smiling rather wistfully at his averted face. "With nobody. I am waiting for Helen and the rest of you to get enough of this foolishness and go home." "Why, Tom! You--you are not ill?" she ventured, putting out a hand to touch his shoulder yet not touching it. "Not at all, Ruth," he said, and now he glanced up at her. His look was cold. "Not at all." "You are not yourself," she said, more composedly. "What are you thinking of?" "I am thinking," said Tom, looking away again and with the same moodiness, "that I was a fool to leave the army. That was my job. I should have stuck to it. I should have used my commission and father's influence to stay in the army. But it's too late now. I guess I had my chance and didn't know enough to use it." He arose abruptly, bowed stiffly, and walked away. If Tom had actually slapped her, Ruth could have felt no more hurt. CHAPTER XIII THE KINGDOM OF PIPES Ruth Fielding at first felt only hurt; then she felt angry. She was no longer the timid, sensitive girl who had faced Jabez Miller when she first came to the Red Mill with a tremulous smile, to be sure, but tears standing thick in her eyes. No, indeed! The present Ruth Fielding, a young woman of purpose and experience, not only could hide her feelings--especially if they were hurt ones--but possessed a saving sense of humor. And to her mind, just a moment later, Tom Cameron's very military looking shoulders and stride seemed rather funny. He had hurt her; but then, he had hurt her as a boy might. It was true, perhaps, Tom was not grown up. Ruth considered that she was--very much so! There he was, daring to complain because his army career had ended so suddenly--wishing that he had remained in uniform. And how would his father and his sister have felt if he had done so! "He's a great, big booby!" Ruth whispered to herself. Then her smile came back--that wistful, caressing smile--and she shook her head. "But he's Tom, and he always will be. Dear me! isn't he ever going to grow up?" So she hid her hurt and accepted the first partner thereafter who offered; but it was not Chess. Secretly she knew what the matter with Tom was. And she was too proud to let the ex-captain see that she cared. Nevertheless she was sorry that the party from down the river broke up as they did when the time to go home came. She found herself in the Copley's launch again, with Chess' sisters and the members of the house party the Copleys were entertaining at their island. This dividing of the clans made it possible for Chess after letting the others out at the Copley dock, to take Ruth to the moving picture island alone. It was a lovely, soft, moonlight night. The haze over the islands and the passages between could not be called a fog, but it was almost as shrouding as a fog. When Chess ran the launch outside into the main stream, where the current was broad and swift, the haze lay upon the rippling surface like a blanket. They were going very swiftly here, for it was with the current. Suddenly Chess shut off the engine. The "plop" of the exhaust ceased. They drifted silently on the bosom of the St. Lawrence. "I don't see why I am treated so, Ruth," Chess suddenly burst out. "Do you know, I'm awfully unhappy?" "You poor boy!" said Ruth in her warm-hearted way. "I think you are over-sensitive." "Of course I am sensitive. I shall always be when I am--am--interested in any person and their treatment of me. It is congenital." "Dear, dear!" laughed Ruth. "They have discovered that even incipient congenital idiocy can be cured by the removal of the adenoids. But I don't suppose such an operation will help you?" "Oh, don't tease a fellow," complained her friend. He reached for the throttle, then hesitated. Somewhere in the mist ahead was the throb of another engine. "Who's this?" muttered Chess. "Maybe it is Tom--looking for us," said Ruth, chuckling. "The gall of him," exclaimed the heated Copley. Then he made a gesture for silence. A long, quavering "co-ee! co-ee!" came through the mist and from the south. "From one of the islands," said Chess quickly. "What island is that over there?" demanded Ruth, in a whisper. "Isn't it the one we took the first picture on?" "It sure is," agreed the young fellow, but wonderingly. "The Kingdom of Pipes," murmured Ruth. "What's that?" asked Chessleigh. Ruth repeated Helen's name for the rocky island on which Ruth had met the queer old man. "That call came from the island, didn't it?" she asked. "I believe it did. What's going on here?" "Hush!" begged Ruth. "That launch is coming nearer." As she spoke, a moving object appeared in the mist. There was no light upon this strange craft. Chessleigh shuttered his own cockpit lamp instantly. "Good boy," acclaimed Ruth. "There is something going on here----" They heard the call from the island again. There was a low reply from the strange launch--a whistle. Then the launch pushed on and was hidden by the mist again from the curious eyes of Ruth and her companion. But they knew it had gone close to the island, if it had not really touched there. Its engine was stilled. All they heard for a time was the lapping of the waves. "I'd like to know what it means," grumbled Chess. Ruth agreed. "Let's wait a while. We may hear or see something more." "Won't see much, I guess," replied her companion. "Never mind. Let the boat drift. We're all right out here in the current, are we not?" "Guess so. It beats my time," said her friend. "They say there is a lot of smuggling done along the border." "Do you say so?" gasped Ruth, clasping her hands and almost as excited as Helen might have been. "Smugglers! Think of it!" "And bad eggs they are." "Of course there is no danger?" "Danger of what?" he asked. "Wouldn't the smugglers hurt us if we caught them?" "Don't know. I've got a loaded pistol in the cabin. Guess I'll get it out," said Chess. "I guess you won't!" Ruth exclaimed. "We'll go right away from here before we get into a fight!" "Humph!" grunted Chess. "You don't suppose they would welcome any spies if they are smugglers, do you?" he asked. "But what do they smuggle? Diamonds? Precious stones?" "Don't know. Maybe. There is a heavy internal revenue tax on diamonds," Chess said. "Goodness! wouldn't Helen like to be here." "She'd want to go ashore and take a hand in it," grinned Copley. "I know her." "Yes, Helen is brave," admitted Ruth. "Humph! She's foolish, you mean," he declared. "Whatever and whoever those fellows are, they would not welcome visitors I fancy." Their launch had been drifting by the island, the upper ridge and trees of which they could see quite plainly. Suddenly a breath of wind--the forecast of the breeze that often rises toward daybreak--swooped down upon the river. It split the mist and revealed quite clearly the upper end of the island where Ruth had interviewed the queer old man, and which Copley's launch had now drifted past. A light showed suddenly, and for a few moments, close to the water's edge. It revealed enough for the two in the drifting launch to see several figures outlined in the misty illumination of the light. There was the bow of the mysterious boat close against the landing place. At least three men were in the boat and on the shore. Ruth could not be sure that either of them was the old man she had spoken with. But she and Chess Copley saw that they were unloading something from the boat--square, seemingly heavy boxes, yet not so heavy that they could not be passed from hand to hand. One was about all the weight a man might easily lift. "What do you suppose those boxes are?" whispered Ruth, as the Copley launch drifted into the mist again and the end of the island and the other boat were blotted out of sight. "Give it up. Provisions--supplies. Maybe they are going to camp there. Lots of people camp out on these smaller islands." "The King of the Pipes will have something to say about that," laughed Ruth. "One thing sure about it," she added the next moment, as Chess started his engine again. "Those boxes don't contain diamonds." "I should say not!" "So if we saw smugglers they are smuggling something besides precious stones," said the girl gaily. "Won't Helen be interested when I tell her!" CHAPTER XIV A DEMAND IS MADE Helen had gone to bed when Ruth went into their bedroom that morning, and either she was asleep or did not want to speak to her chum. Ruth felt that, after what had gone on at the ball at Alexandria Bay, she had better not wake Helen up to tell her about the strange launch that had landed at the Kingdom of the Pipes. And in the morning the attitude of both Helen and Tom closed Ruth's lips on all subjects. The twins were plainly offended. Why? Because Ruth had shown ordinary interest in other people besides themselves! At least, that is how Ruth saw it. She thought it very silly for Helen to be jealous. Tom's jealousy was another matter; but he had brought the situation on himself. For once Ruth was determined not to give in, as she so often did when Helen showed spleen. Fortunately, Ruth was busy with her picture work, so she had good reason to excuse herself from much association with the Cameron twins during the next two days. Then something happened to give them all an entirely different topic of thought and conversation. That day had been spent in taking close-ups and scenes under the canvas and glass roof of the make-shift studio that had been built at the camp. The great pageant of historical times along the St. Lawrence was moving swiftly on its way. The scenes of a picture are seldom taken in any sequence at all, but Mr. Hooley had gone so far now that the bulk of the scenes had been filmed; and as they had been run off in the little projection room, both Mr. Hammond and Ruth had expressed their approval of almost every finished length of celluloid. The work was practically over for the day at four o'clock and the actors in their costumes--especially the Indians, including Wonota and her father--made a brilliant picture as they wandered about the lawns and in and out of the several bungalows on the island. From the direction of Chippewa Bay appeared a chugging motor-launch that came directly to the dock. It was not one of the hired launches used by the picture company, nor were those in the launch men who had anything to do with Mr. Hammond's corporation. But when Ruth idly looked into the launch from her seat with Helen and Miss Keith and Mrs. Paisley on the porch of their house, the girl of the Red Mill got up suddenly, uttering an astonished exclamation: "That horrid man again!" "Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mrs. Paisley. "What man deserves such a title as that, Miss Fielding?" "That Bilby!" exclaimed Ruth. "I just felt it in my bones--like Aunt Alvirah--that that creature would annoy us again." "Then you are not disappointed," said Helen drily. "Is that the fellow--that big gawk in the blue suit?" "No, no! I don't know him," said Ruth. "The little fat man tagging after the big fellow." For two men from the launch had now stepped ashore. In accordance with orders from Mr. Hammond, the visitors were stopped at the head of the dock. Nobody was allowed on the island without invitation or a permit. "Let me tell you," said the man in blue pompously, "that I am a county officer. You'd better have a care, young fellow." "Say! I don't care if you are the King of the Yaps," said Willie, the boatman. "I have my orders. This is private property. Stay where you are--right where you are, mind!--till I send for the boss." "You send for them two Injuns--that is who our business is with," put in Bilby. "That Totantora and Wonota. I want to see them--not that Hammond." Ruth had run to another house to warn those very individuals to get out of the way and to keep out of sight until Bilby's visit was over. She did not know, of course, who the big man in blue was. The latter was inclined to be pompous and commanding, even when Mr. Hammond came down to the head of the dock to see him. It was evident that Bilby's money felt warm in the deputy sheriff's pocket, and he was determined to give the little fat man full weight for his cash. "This here business is something that can be settled without any row, Mr. Hammond--if that's your name," said the officer, puffingly. "It is my name, all right," returned the president of the Alectrion Corporation. "And I don't expect any row. What do you want--and that fellow behind you?" Horatio Bilby grinned rather sheepishly. "Well, you know, Mr. Hammond, all's fair in love and war." "This is certainly not love," said the moving picture man. "Now, what do you both want?" "You are ordered to bring two people into court," said the deputy sheriff, "and show cause why they shouldn't be handed over to Mr. Bilby pending certain proceedings to break their contract with you." "Blunt enough," admitted Mr. Hammond, but without excitement. "Let's see: You have a paper of some kind, I suppose, to serve on me?" "I've a summons for you," said the officer, drawing forth some papers, "and I propose to take the two Indians back to the Bay with me." "You can serve me, and I will arrange for my representative to appear for me in your court," said Hammond. "But Totantora, to whom I suppose you refer, is a citizen of the United States, and you will have to find him to serve him." "He's nothing but an Injun!" squealed Bilby, in wrath. "Being an Osage Indian, and owning properly surveyed oil lands in Oklahoma, the Government has acknowledged his citizenship," was the quiet reply. "He certainly is a good American and will doubtless answer to any court demand--if you can serve him legally." "You got him hid away somewhere?" demanded the deputy sheriff. "And the girl, too!" cried Bilby. "I want the girl more than I do the crazy old Indian." "You'll think he's crazy if he ever sets eyes on you again, Mr. Bilby," was Mr. Hammond's warning. "He hasn't forgotten you." Bilby drew back--and he looked frightened, too. "I--I don't want him right now," he muttered. Hammond accepted the summons of the local court, glanced at it, and put it in his pocket. "I see I have five days' grace," he remarked. "All right. I will see that proper representation is made before the court." "But we want them Indians," said the deputy. "This island is private property. I have hired its use for a certain term. I will allow you on it only under proper legal motion. Have you a search warrant?" Hammond asked the deputy. "I ain't got a warrant. I don't need a warrant for a couple of Indians. They ain't got any standing in this community. I know Indians all right. You give 'em over." "I do not even acknowledge that the two individuals you demand are under my control. At least, I know very well that no United States court can touch the young woman, Wonota, except through her guardian. That guardian is her father. I don't see him here--do you?" "You'd better produce him," threatened the deputy. "You can't make me. Go back and get proper authority--if you can," advised Mr. Hammond. "And don't come here again--either of you--without proper authority. Willie!" "On the job," said the boatman, grinning. "Don't let these fellows upon the island again--not even on the dock. Not unless they are armed with a proper warrant." He turned his back on the visitors and started toward the nearest bungalow. "You'll be sorry for this, Hammond!" shouted Horatio Bilby. "I'll get you yet, and don't you forget it." "To get me, as you call it, you will have to have both right and might on your side, Bilby. And just now you do not seem to have either," was the Parthian shot the president of the Alectrion Corporation sent over his shoulder. Willie hustled the deputy and the fat man back into their launch. "Go on away from here," advised Willie. "I know you, Tom Satchett--known you all my life. All you are fit for is to jump a few fishermen and game hunters that break the law. This job is too big for you. You're up against money and influence, both, this time." "I won't forget you, Willie," growled the deputy. "You'll want something of me some time----" "I want something of you right now," put in the boatman. "A good reason for punching you. Go on into your boat before I find it." So the pair retreated. But Ruth came to Mr. Hammond in some little disturbance. "What shall we do?" she demanded. "Suppose they take Wonota away before the picture is finished?" "They won't. At least, I don't believe the court will allow it. I will telegraph to a good lawyer and have him come up here and watch proceedings." "But, if it should happen, we would be in a bad fix, Mr. Hammond. Mr. Hooley says nobody could double for Wonota." "Let's not cross bridges until we come to them," returned her friend. But perhaps Mr. Hammond felt less confidence than he managed to get into his voice and appearance at that moment. CHAPTER XV THE YELLOW LADY There could be no further haste about the making of the picture, "The Long Lane's Turning." Although most of the big scenes were already shot, those that remained to do held in them the more poignant action of the piece and must be rehearsed over and over again. Much time is sometimes spent upon a single scene--a few feet of a reel. Infinite patience, repetition and experimenting go into the making of a pictured story. Infinite detail and a close attention to that detail make the successful picture. To stage a "big" scene may seem to be a marvelous feat of the director. But in a big scene, with a large number of actors, the latter are divided into groups, each group has its captain, and each individual actor has to follow the lead of his particular captain. The groups are trained and perfected in every little motion before they come into the real scene before the camera. Thus the allegorical picture that was a prologue to "The Long Lane's Turning" had been gone over and rehearsed again and again by the principal actors in it, even before the company left New York City. Now, with all these "big" scenes filmed, the more difficult work of making the individual scenes of action came to the fore. Wonota had to be coached over and over again in her scenes with Mr. Grand and Miss Keith. Both the latter were well-practised screen actors and could register the ordinary gamut of emotions as easily as they ate their breakfast or powdered their noses. With Wonota, however, it was different. In the first place, she came of a tribe of people in whom it was bred to smother all expression of emotion--even the most poignant. Wonota almost worshiped her father; but did she ever look upon Chief Totantora with a smile of pride or with affection beaming in her eyes? "Not so you'd notice it," said Helen, on one occasion. "Ordinarily, as far as her looks go, Totantora might be a stranger to her." "Is there any wonder, then," sighed Ruth, "that we find it so hard to make her register affection for Mr. Grand? And she already should have learned to do that in that first picture we took out West." "Maybe that's the reason," said Helen wickedly. "If she did not know Mr. Grand's foibles so well, she might the better show interest in him. Goodness knows he's handsome enough." "Better than that, he can act," said Ruth thoughtfully. "Not many of these handsome screen heroes can do that. But perhaps if Wonota did not disdain him so much (and she does, secretly) she could play up to him better." "Is there much more for her to do?" Helen asked, with renewed interest. "Several scenes--and some of them most important. Mr. Hooley can not give all his time to her. I am trying to coach her in them. But there is so much going on here at the island----" "Why not take her away to some other place and just pound it into her?" "Not to the Kingdom of Pipes!" laughed Ruth suddenly. "No. Let the old pirate have that place to his heart's content. But there are other islands." "True enough. Fourteen hundred of them." "Come on!" exclaimed the energetic Helen. "Let's get Willie and the _Gem_ and go somewhere with Wonota. You've all day to hammer at her. Get your continuity and try to get it into Wonota's head that she is deeply and desperately in love with Grand." In spite of Helen's brusk way of speaking, Ruth decided that her idea might be well worth following. Helen took some knitting and a parasol--and a hamper. Ruth gathered her necessary books and script; and likewise got Wonota. Then they boarded the launch and Willie took them up the river to a tiny islet not far from the Kingdom of Pipes, after all. "I don't see anybody moving over there," Helen remarked, as Willie landed them at the islet selected. She was looking at the island on which Ruth had had her adventure with the King of the Pipes. "It looks deserted enough. We might have gone there just as well as not." "I feel as well satisfied to keep away from that queer old fellow," her chum said. "Who's that?" asked Willie, the boatman, overhearing their remarks. Ruth told him about the strange man, and Willie laughed. "Oh! That old jigger? Was he the fellow the boss wanted we should shoo off that island? Why didn't he say so? Old Charley-Horse Pond. We all know him about here." "Oh!" cried Helen. "Is he crazy?" "Not enough to make any difference. Just got a twist in his brain. Calls himself a king, does he? Mebbe he will be a duke or an emperor next time. Or a doctor. Can't tell. He gets fancies." "And of course he is not dangerous?" said Ruth. "Just about as dangerous as a fly," drawled Willie. "And not so much. For flies bite--sometimes, and old Charley-Horse Pond ain't even got teeth to bite with. No, Ma'am!" "But what are the 'pipes' he talks about? Why 'King of the Pipes'?" demanded the insistent Helen. "Got me. Never heard of 'em," declared Willie. "Now, you ladies all right here?" "All right, Willie," said Ruth as the _Gem_ was backed off the island. "I'll come for you at half past three, eh? That's all right, then," and the boatman was off. The three girls, really glad to be away from the crowd and the confusion of the moving picture camp, settled down to several hours of companionship. Helen could be silent if she pleased, and with her knitting and a novel proceeded to curl up under a tamarack tree and bury herself for the time being. Helen had not, however, forgotten the "inner woman," as she pronounced it. When lunch time came she opened the covered basket which she had brought in addition to the book and the knitting, and produced sandwiches and cake, besides the wherewithal for the making of a cup of tea over a can of solidified alcohol. They lunched famously. It was while they were thus engaged, and chatting, that the staccato exhaust of a motor-boat drew their attention to the Island of Pipes. From the other side, a boat was poking around into the passage leading to the American shore. "My goodness!" exclaimed Helen, "the King of the Pipes isn't in that boat, is he?" "Not at all," Ruth assured her. "I see nobody who looks like him among those men--" "All are not men, Miss Ruth," interrupted Wonota, the keen-eyed. "What do you mean, Wonota?" gasped Helen, whirling around to gaze again at the passing launch. But Ruth did not say a word. She had been examining the boat closely. She saw it was the very speedy boat she and Chess Copley had seen out on the wider part of the river several weeks before. The launch was not moving rapidly now, but Ruth was sure that it was a powerful craft. It was Helen who marked the figure Wonota had spoken of in the boat. It certainly did not appear to be a man. "Why Ruth! See! That is a woman!" "A yellow-faced lady," said Wonota calmly. "I saw her first, Miss Ruth." All three of the girls on the island stared after the moving motor-boat. Ruth saw the woman. She was dressed plainly but in modern garments. She did not seem to be one of the summer visitors to the islands. Indeed, her clothing--such as could be seen--pointed to city breeding, but nothing was chosen, it would seem, for wear in such a place as this. She might have been on a ferryboat going from shore to shore of the Hudson! "She _is_ a yellow lady," Wonota repeated earnestly. "I should say she was!" exclaimed Helen. "What do you think of her, Ruth?" "I am sure I do not know what to say," the girl of the Red Mill answered. "Does she look like a white woman to you, Helen?" "She is yellow," reiterated Wonota. "She certainly is not an Indian," observed Helen. "What say, Ruth?" "She surely is not," agreed her chum. "A yellow lady," murmured Wonota again, as the boat drew behind another island and there remained out of sight. CHAPTER XVI MAROONED "I wonder if the boat did come from that island over yonder?" Ruth murmured, after a few moments of thought. "For goodness' sake! what are you worrying about?" asked Helen Cameron. "I'm not worrying at all," Ruth returned, smiling. "But I am curious." "About that yellow lady?" "About what happens on that island the queer old man lives on." "You don't know that he really lives there," was the prompt rejoinder. "That is so. He may not be there now. But--" "But me no buts, unless you mean to go on," said Helen, as Ruth hesitated again. "It does seem queer," said Ruth thoughtfully. "Other people go there besides the King of the Pipes." "Indeed! We all went there when that allegory was staged." "And since then," said Ruth, and proceeded to tell the two girls what she and Chess Copley had seen early one morning. "Men landing boxes on the island?" cried Helen, while Wonota merely looked puzzled. "There is a camp there, like enough. And those men--and the woman--in the launch might have come from there, of course. When Willie comes back for us, let's sail around the island and see if we can spy where their tent is set up. For of course there is no house there?" "Tom and I found no habitation when we went to search for the old man," admitted Ruth. "All right. It must be a tent, then," said her chum with conviction. "We'll see." But as it turned out, they made no such search that day. Indeed, Willie and the _Gem_ did not return for them. The camp launch was not the first craft that appeared. Ruth was again coaching Wonota after lunch when Helen spied something on the water that caused her to cry out, drawing the other girls' attention. "Who under the sun is this coming in the canoe?" Helen demanded. "Why! he is making it fairly fly. I never!" Wonota scarcely glanced in the direction of the distant moving picture camp, and she said composedly: "It is Chief Totantora. He comes for me." The Indian in the canoe caused the craft to tear through the water. No such paddling had the two white girls ever seen before. Not a motion was lost on the part of Chief Totantora. Every stroke of his paddle drove the craft on with a speed to make anybody marvel. "Something has happened!" gasped Ruth, standing up. "He comes for me," repeated Wonota, still calmly. "What for?" queried Helen, quite as much disturbed now as her chum. Before the Indian girl could have answered--had she intended to explain--the canoe came close in to the bank of the island, was swerved dexterously, and Totantora leaped ashore--a feat not at all easy to perform without overturning the canoe. It scarcely rocked. He stooped and held it from scraping against the rock, and shot up at his daughter several brief sentences in their own tongue. He paid no attention to Ruth, even, although she stepped forward and asked what his errand was. "I must go, Miss Ruth," said Wonota quickly. "Mr. Hammond has sent him. It was arranged before." "What was arranged?" demanded Ruth, with some sharpness. "We are going yonder," she pointed to the hazy shore of Grenadier Island that was in view from where they stood. "It is said by Mr. Hammond that yonder the man with the little green eyes--the fat man--cannot have us taken." "For goodness' sake!" gasped Helen, "she's talking of that Bilby, isn't she?" "What does it mean? Has Bilby come again?" cried Ruth, speaking directly to Totantora. "We go," said the chief. "Hammond, he say so. Now. They come for me and for Wonota with talking papers from the white man's court." "Then Mr. Hammond's lawyer could not do all Mr. Hammond expected," sighed Ruth. "The picture will be ruined." "I never heard of such a thing," cried Helen angrily. "I'd like to know what sort of courts and judges they have up here in these woods?" But Ruth wanted to know more. She held Wonota back as she would have stepped into the canoe. "Wait," she urged. "Tell me more, Totantora. Where are you taking Wonota?" It was the Indian girl who answered. "Over on that shore," said she, pointing again to the Canadian island, "these courts cannot touch us. Mr. Hammond told my father so. We go there to wait until the trouble is over. Mr. Hammond spoke of it before. Totantora is informed." "But it means delay and expense," cried Ruth. "How mean!" exploded Helen. "I'd like to do something to that Bilby." "Have you money--plenty of money?" Ruth demanded of the Indian. "I have money," said Wonota, touching the bosom of her blouse. "We do not need much. We shall live quietly there until Mr. Hammond sends for us. We will be faithful to you, Miss Ruth." She turned, with more impulsiveness than she usually showed, and kissed the white girl's cheek. "You are so good to me!" she cried. "I will not forget all you have taught me. And I will rehearse every day so to be perfect when Mr. Hooley wants me again." There was no way to stop her. Indeed, as Mr. Hammond had advised this sudden move, Ruth knew she had no right to interfere. It was evident that an emergency had arisen of which she, herself, knew nothing. In some way the enemy had forced Mr. Hammond's hand. Totantora and his daughter were in danger of being brought into court after all, and Mr. Hammond did not wish that to come about. The Indian girl stepped lightly into the canoe and picked up the extra paddle. Her father leaped in after her, pushed the light craft away from the rock, and seized his own paddle. In another moment the canoe shot away from the island and off toward the broad expanse of the open St. Lawrence. Helen and Ruth stared after them--then at each other. Naturally it was Helen who first regained her voice and gave expression to her amazement. "What do you know about that?" she demanded. "I--I don't know what to say," murmured Ruth. "Oh! I know what to say, all right," said the disgusted Helen. "It's no joke." Ruth herself admitted it was nothing to laugh about. She saw difficulties in the way of the completion of "The Long Lane's Turning" of which Helen knew but little--or of which she did not think. Ruth knew that there were scenes--some of them she had been studying with Wonota this day--that could not be changed nor eliminated. Wonota must be in them. No "double" could be used. In the first place, the Indian girl's personality was distinct. It could not easily be matched. Ruth knew that, even at that time, one of the most popular screen actresses, because of her inability longer to look the child, was using a double for all her "close-ups" when she was forced to play those childish parts that a hungry public of "movie fans" demanded. Nothing like this would save "The Long Lane's Turning." The throne room scene in Paris, which was yet to be photographed, was too delicate a matter to put in the hands of any double. Wonota was herself--even in this picture she was a distinct personality--and she must be shown to the very end of the last reel and the last "fade-out." The thoughts caused Ruth to feel very, very sober. Helen looked at her with some appreciation of her chum's despair; yet she could not appreciate the situation in full. Suddenly the lighter-minded Helen leaped to her feet from the bank on which she was sitting, and exclaimed: "My goodness, Ruth! do you realize that we are marooned?" "Marooned?" was the wondering rejoiner. "Yes. Just as though we had been put ashore here by a crew of mutineers and deserted--a pair of Robinson Crusoesses!" "Your English--" "Bother my English!" "It would surely bother Mrs. Tellingham--if she could hear it, poor dear." "Now, don't sidetrack me," remarked Helen. "Don't you see we are cast away on this desert isle with no means of getting back to the camp unless we swim?" "Willie will be after us." "But, will 'e?" asked the roguish Helen, punning on the boatman's name. "Do be sensible--" "Even good sense will not rescue us," interrupted Helen. "I'd like to get back to camp and hear all the exciting details. Totantora certainly can say less in a few moments than any person I ever saw. And Wonota is not much better." "It does not matter how much they said or how little. The fat is all in the fire, I guess," groaned Ruth. "Chirk up! Something is sure to turn up, I suppose. We won't be left here to starve," and Helen's eyes flashed her fun. "Oh, _you_!" began Ruth, half laughing too. Then she stopped and held up her hand. "What's that?" she whispered. The sound was repeated. A long-drawn "co-ee! co-ee!" which drained away into the depths of the forest-covered islands all about them. They were not where they could see a single isle known to be inhabited. "Who is calling us?" demanded Helen. "Hush!" commanded Ruth. "That is not for us. I have heard it before. It comes from the King of the Pipes' island--to be sure it does." "He's calling for help!" gasped Helen. "He is doing nothing of the kind. It is a signal." Ruth told Helen swiftly more of that early morning incident she and Chess Copley had observed when they saw the boxes carried ashore from the motor-boat. "Seems to me," grumbled Helen, "you have a lot of adventures with 'Lasses Copley, Ruth." "Your own fault that you don't," returned her chum promptly. "You could have been along. But you don't like Mr. Copley." "What has that to do with it?" rejoined Helen smartly. "I would go adventuring with any boy--even 'Lasses." "Don't call him that," commanded Ruth. "Pooh! He likes it. Or he used to." "He is a nice fellow," Ruth declared, with more earnestness than there really seemed to be necessity for. "I--de-clare!" murmured Helen. "Really! Does the wind sit in that quarter?" CHAPTER XVII A DETERMINATION However the wind might sit and whatever may have been her secret opinion of Ruth Fielding's interest in Chessleigh Copley, Helen suddenly became mute regarding that young man. But, after a moment, she was not at all mute upon the subject of the King of the Pipes and what might be going on on the island where they believed the queer old man had his headquarters. "If it should be smugglers over there--only fancy!" sighed Helen ecstatically. "Diamonds and silks and lots of precious things! My, oh, my!" "Better than pirates?" laughed Ruth. "Consider!" cried her chum boldly. "I said that island looked like a pirate's den from the start." "Your fore-sight-hind-sight is wonderful," declared Ruth, shaking her head and making big eyes at her friend. "Don't laugh--Oh! What's that?" From over the water, and unmistakably from the rocky island on the summit of which the blasted beech stood--a prominent landmark--came the strange cry, "co-ee! co-ee!" which they had heard before. "Do you suppose that poor old man is calling for help?" hesitated Ruth. "Your grandmother's aunt!" ejaculated Helen, in disgust. "We-ell that is even a more roundabout relationship than that between Aunt Alvirah Boggs and me. Poor old soul, she is nobody's relation, as she often says, but everybody's aunt." "There goes the signal again, and here comes that boat!" exclaimed Helen suddenly. "What boat?" demanded Ruth, looking in the direction of the distant Canadian island, toward which the canoe, with Totantora and Wonota in it, had now disappeared. "Turn around--do!" exclaimed Helen. "This way. That is the same boat we saw going by some time ago. The boat with the yellow lady in it, as Wonota called her." "This is very strange," murmured Ruth. "But the yellow lady is not with those men now," said Helen. "I do not see any woman aboard," admitted her friend. The boat--going not so fast now--crossed their line of vision and finally rounded the end of the island on which the two chums believed the queer old man resided. At least, somebody had uttered the strange, shrill cry from that very spot. "Oh, dear! If we were not marooned here!" grumbled Helen. "What would you do?" "If we had a boat--even a canoe--we could follow that motor-launch and see if those pirates make a landing." "Pirates!" repeated Ruth. "Smugglers, then. Your own Chess Copley says they may be smugglers, you know." "I wish you would not speak in that way, Helen," objected Ruth. "He is not my Chess Copley----or anything else." "Well, he certainly isn't mine," retorted Helen, with more gaiety. "I can't say I approve of him--and I long since told you why." "I believe you are unfair, Helen," said Ruth seriously. "Dear me! if you don't care anything about him, why are you so anxious to have me change my opinion of 'Lasses?" "For your own sake," said her friend shortly. "I wonder! For _my_ sake?" "Yes. Because you are not naturally unfair--and Chess feels it." "Oh, he does, does he?" snapped Helen. "I hope he does. Let him feel!" This heartless observation closed Ruth's lips on the subject. The two girls watched the other island. They did not see the boat again. Nor did they see anybody on the island or hear any other cry from there. They both began to grow anxious. No boat appeared from the direction of the camp, and it was past the hour now when Willie was to have called for them with the _Gem_. Why didn't he come? "Of course, Mr. Hammond doesn't expect us to swim home," complained Helen. "Something must have occurred. Totantora's being sent off so suddenly really worries me. Perhaps Mr. Hammond himself was obliged to leave the camp and perhaps he went in the _Gem_, and Willie cannot return for us until later." "But where is Tom? Surely he must know all about this sudden trouble." "What was Tom going to do to-day?" asked Ruth quietly. "Oh, that's so! I had forgotten," said Tom's sister, in despair. "He was going around to Oak Point with some of the men. That's down the river, beyond Chippewa Point, and they could scarcely get back in the other motor-boat before dark." "That's the answer, I guess," sighed Ruth. "Then we are marooned!" ejaculated Helen. "I do think it is too mean--and my goodness! we ate every crumb of lunch." "The two 'Robinson Crusoesses,' then, may have to go on short rations," but Ruth said it with a smile. "I guess we are not in any real danger of starvation, however." "Just the same, a joke can easily become serious when one is deserted on a desert island." "But you were looking for adventure," retorted Ruth. "Well!" "Now you have it," said Ruth, but soberly. "And worrying about it will not help us a particle. Might as well be cheerful." "You are as full of old saws as a carpenter's abandoned tool-chest," said Helen smartly. "Oh! What is this I hear? The smuggler's boat again?" They did hear a motor, but no boat appeared from the other side of the Kingdom of Pipes. The sound drew nearer. The motor-boat was coming down the river, through a passage between the island where the girls were and the American side. "Come on! I don't care who it is," cried Helen, starting to run through the bushes. "We'll hail them and ask them for rescue." But when she came in sight of the craft, to Ruth's surprise Helen did not at once shout. Ruth only saw the bow of the boat coming down stream herself; but suddenly she marked the small name-board with its gilt lettering: LAURIETTE "Here's Chess, I do believe!" she cried. "Humph!" grumbled Helen. "Now, Helen Cameron!" gasped Ruth, "are you going to be foolish enough to refuse to be taken off this island by Chessleigh Copley?" "Didn't say I was." "And don't be unkind to him!" pleaded Ruth. "You seem so terribly fond of him that I guess he won't mind how I treat him." "You know better," Ruth told her admonishingly. "Chess thinks a great deal of you, while you treat him too unkindly for utterance." "He'd better not think of me too much," said Helen scornfully. "His head won't stand it. Tom says 'Lasses never was strong in the deeper strata of college learning." Ruth was not to be drawn into any controversy. She called to the young man when, dressed in flannels and standing at his wheel and engine, he came into view. "Hurrah! Here's good luck!" shouted Chess, swerving the bow of the _Lauriette_ in toward the island instantly. "Hurrah! Glad you think it's good luck," said Helen sulkily. "I guess you never were marooned." "That's navy blue you've got on--not maroon," said Chess soberly. "Do you suppose I am color-blind?" "Smarty!" "Now, children, this is too serious a matter to quarrel over," admonished Ruth, but smiling because her chum showed, after all, interest enough in the young man to be "scrappy." "What do you suppose we have seen, Chess?" "I'd like to know first of all how you came here without a boat?" "My goodness, yes!" gasped Helen. "I'd almost forgotten about Wonota and Totantora." Ruth shook her head. "I am not likely to forget that," she said. She explained to the young man as they got into the launch and he pushed out from the shore about the difficulty that had arisen over the Indians. He was naturally deeply interested in Ruth's trouble and in the fate of the Indians. But on top of that Helen eagerly told about the speedy launch, the yellow lady, and their suspicions regarding what was going on at the island that they had nicknamed the Kingdom of Pipes. "I tell you what," Chess said, quite as eagerly as Helen, "I was coming over to take you all for a sail on the river to-night. Let's get Tom and just us four keep watch on that island. I believe there is something going on there that ought to be looked into." "I--I don't know that it is our business to look into it," suggested Ruth, doubtfully. But for once Helen agreed with Chess, and against Ruth's better judgment it was determined to come back to this locality after dinner and lurk about the mysterious island in the Copley launch. CHAPTER XVIII BILBY'S TRUMP CARD Naturally, Ruth went in search of Mr. Hammond the moment she landed on the island where the moving picture company was established. But, as she saw that the _Gem_ was not at the dock, she scarcely expected to find the president of the company at hand--and in that expectation she was not mistaken. Mr. Hooley, the director, however, told her what he knew about the occurrence that had started Totantora so madly from the island in the canoe. Bilby and whoever it was that backed him in his enterprise were evidently determined to obtain the services of Wonota, the Osage princess, if it could be brought about. "Looks to me," said the director, "as though we were going to have some trouble finishing this picture, Miss Fielding." "We can't finish it without Wonota!" cried the girl. "You don't think you could rewrite the remaining scenes so that we can keep on to the conclusion?" he asked thoughtfully. "Why, Mr. Hooley! How about the throne-room scene? Wonota must appear in that. You say yourself that we cannot use anybody in her place." "How about cutting out that scene? Finish the play on this side of the water. Don't go to France at all." "Then the picture is spoiled!" "No picture is spoiled until it goes out of our hands, you know," and Mr. Hooley smiled satirically. "You know how it is in the picture business, Miss Fielding. Some unfortunate producer buys a script or a story. The scenario writer 'saves' the story by his work on the script. Then the continuity man 'saves' it a second time. Then the director 'saves' it after he gets it into his hands. We know that the star performer always 'saves' it again. And then the film cutter and the title writer each 'save' it. "Most pictures are 'saved' in this way by the omniscience of all who work on it so that, when it is finally produced, the writer seldom recognizes more than a glimmer of his original idea in the final product. "You are much better treated than most picture writers, you know very well. And here you have a chance to 'save' your own work," and Mr. Hooley finished with a laugh. "It is no laughing matter," she told him. "I wanted this to be a really big picture. And I do not want to cut out Wonota. Without that throne-room scene it will fall flat." "We should have taken it in New York," grumbled Mr. Hooley. "I felt it at the time. But Mr. Hammond contracted for so many weeks' use of this island and the time is running out already." "And Wonota and Totantora are gone!" "Exactly." "Do you know where they have gone?" "Haven't the least idea. But Mr. Hammond knows." "He went to town?" asked Ruth thoughtfully. "He has gone to confer with the lawyers and see if they can get the court to vacate the injunction issued against our use of Wonota. Bilby and the sheriff came again. They had a warrant this time. It called for the production of Wonota. Luckily you had her off the island at the time. They searched every nook and cranny, and meanwhile Totantora got away. They wanted him too." "I think that Bilby is too mean for words!" "Well, I take it that it was his trump card. He must have some powerful influence behind him. But--" "But what, Mr. Hooley?" asked Ruth eagerly. "I can see how we might get over the difficulty if the courts will not listen to reason." "Oh! Do tell me!" "We can move the whole company over the Canadian border, and before Bilby can do anything over there we'll have finished 'The Long Lane's Turning.' That's the only way I see out of the mess." "But think of the expense!" "Sure! I'm thinking of that all the time," grumbled Hooley. "And don't you forget that the boss never allows me to lose sight of it. Your interest in this picture is greater than mine, Miss Fielding; but my job is sort of tangled up in it, too. Mr. Hammond is a good man; but he is a good business man first of all. I am afraid that you will be obliged to make some changes in the remaining scenes so as to overcome the difficulty of losing Wonota." "I will not do it!" cried the girl, this time in anger. "Better read your contract. If you won't do it, somebody else will have to. You know, we've got a man at the studio who could change Hamlet into a slap-stick comedy over night, if the emergency arose." "I will not agree to have my picture ruined," said Ruth, almost in tears. "That isn't the way to look at it," Hooley observed more kindly. "Just see that you save your story yourself instead of letting some other person do it for you. That's the answer, I fear." Ruth had no appetite for dinner that evening, but she was obliged to meet her friends and the actors and actresses who ate at her table with at least an appearance of cheerfulness. It was impressed upon her mind more deeply than ever before, however, that her arrangement with the Alectrion Film Corporation was not wholly satisfactory. She had learned so much now about the making of a screen picture that often her advice in the directing of the action was accepted with admiration by Mr. Hooley. Mr. Hammond was not afraid to go away and leave the two to film the most important scenes in a script. And why should she be tied to certain agreements that cramped her? Especially in a case of this kind. For the sake of saving expense Mr. Hammond was likely to insist that the artistic part of "The Long Lane's Turning" should be sacrificed. Ruth felt that on her part she would spend twenty-five thousand dollars more (if she had it to spend) in shipping the whole company over the border and making the remainder of the picture in Canada. "I am going to be in a position some time where I shall have the say as to every detail of the picture," she told herself. "I want to be my own manager and my own producer. Otherwise I shall never be happy--nor will I ever be sure of making worth-while pictures." For Ruth took this career of hers very seriously indeed. Because she did so, perhaps, the fact that Tom Cameron seemed to consider his work so lightly caused Ruth to criticise the young man harshly. That could only be expected. Tom did not return for dinner. Nor did Mr. Hammond come back to headquarters. Chess Copley was eager to get the girls out in his _Lauriette_ again. "Pooh! it's nothing much, I guess," said Helen, seemingly having lost her first interest in the smugglers and the King of the Pipes. "And, anyway, I shall not go unless Tom is with us." "Why, Helen!" cried Ruth, "I thought you were so eager." "Well, perhaps. If Tom went." "But we promised Chess." "You promised him. He wants to do it because you are going." "Now, Helen, you know--" "I know just what I am saying. I have no interest in 'Lasses Copley. You have." "You are the most exasperating girl!" exclaimed Ruth, in some warmth. They were in their room freshening their toilets for the evening. "I don't seem to suit you any more than Tom does," said her chum coolly. "I declare, Helen! you go too far." "I shan't go too far this time--without Tom." Helen laughed in a provoking way. "You can run along with your Chessleigh if you like. Not me!" "That is just what I will do," said Ruth quietly, but with flashing eyes. "I would not insult him by refusing--now. I will tell him you have a headache and cannot come." "Do as you like," was the ungracious reply. "You are crazy about Chess, I guess." "I believe you are jealous, Helen Cameron!" cried Ruth, in wonder. "I don't know why I should be," returned Helen lightly. "I've no interest in Chess Copley. And I haven't had since--" "Since when, I'd like to know?" "Since I found him out. So now! That's enough. I am not going. Unless, of course, Tom returns and wants me to go along with you and Chess." What more was there to say? Ruth did not wish to disappoint Chessleigh. She felt that Helen Cameron had no reason for treating the young man as she did. So, as she had done before, and without much interest in the evening sailing party, Ruth left the bungalow to join the waiting Chessleigh at the dock. CHAPTER XIX SUSPENSE Tom and his party in the other motor-boat had not appeared, nor had the _Gem_ come back from the town of Chippewa Bay with Mr. Hammond. Why should not Ruth and Chessleigh spy about among the islands for a time? It was not now moonlight; and there was some haze which gave a smouldering effect to the stars peering through it. But these soft, hazy nights had their own charm and Ruth had come to love them. Especially on the water. Amid the tamarack-clothed islets the motor-boats crept in and out in a delightful way. To lie on the cushions in the cockpit of the _Lauriette_ and bask in the pearly starlight was an experience the girl from Cheslow was not likely to forget. To-night, when the _Lauriette_ got away from the moving picture camp, there were no other boats in sight. Chess dimmed his lights and the craft crept through the narrow passages between the islands, heading up stream. "My idea," he said, "is to land at the back of that island--" "The Kingdom of Pipes?" interrupted Ruth in surprise. "Yes. Where you say you landed before--twice." "Oh!" "That is, if we see nothing or nobody about." "I don't think we'd better take any great risk--only two of us," observed Ruth, with her usual caution. "Of course, we won't walk right into danger." "I should hope not! And just what are we going for, anyway?" and she suddenly laughed. "Why, I'm curious about those fellows," said the young man. "And I thought you were." "I'm curious about the King of the Pipes. Charley-Horse Pond, Willie calls him." "Queer old boy, I guess," admitted Chess. "But I want to know more about those chaps who unloaded the boxes." "What could have been in the boxes? Surely there is no camping party on that island. At least, no pleasure party." "I fancy not. If you ask me about the boxes, I am puzzled. Yet, I've a glimmer of an idea--Are you sure that was a woman with them to-day in their boat?" "Wonota called her the yellow lady. And Wonota has good eyes." "With a yellow face, yes? And we saw a Chinaman in the boat that other time on the river," said Chess quickly. "Surely she wasn't a Chinese woman? Yet, she might have been." "Chinese women aren't usually smuggled over the border, I guess," muttered the young fellow. "But Chinese men are." "Perhaps we should have reported it to the authorities," Ruth suggested. "Not until we are sure there is really something wrong. I don't want to be laughed at, you know." But Ruth just then had considered another phase of the matter. "Oh!" she cried. "There's Bilby! He was in it!" "In what?" "In that boat when we first saw it. When we saw the Chinaman, you know, out on the Canadian side of the river. If there is anything wrong about these men--and the King of the Pipes--Bilby is mixed up with them." "I guess you are right, Ruth. Maybe that fellow is into more queer games than just trying to grab your Osage princess." "But more than that," said Ruth much worried now, "he may have so many friends on the Canadian side that he can trace Wonota and her father over there on Grenadier Island." "Better warn Mr. Hammond when he comes back from town," suggested her friend. "That Bilby seems to be universally troublesome. I'll say he is!" They kept quiet after that, for the outline of the rocky island, with the blasted beech visible at its summit, came into view. Nothing stirred upon the island, nor was there any other boat in sight. "Had we better venture ashore?" breathed Ruth, again in doubt. "Come on. Let's try it. I've got an electric torch in my pocket. We can find our way all over the island with that." It was true that the girl of the Red Mill felt some trepidation, but she had confidence in her companion's muscle and courage if not in his caution. Besides, she was very curious about the queer old man and the doings on his island. Chess shut off the engine of the _Lauriette_ some distance from the island; but first he had gone above the rocky landing, so that the sluggish current between the islands drifted the motor-boat back upon that strand. He went forward and, with a line in his hand, leaped ashore the moment he could do so, and drew the _Lauriette_ in to the rock. Then he passed the line around the very sapling to which Ruth had once fastened the canoe. "Come on!" he whispered, offering his hand to the girl. She leaped ashore. They were both wearing canvas, rubber-soled, low shoes which made no noise on the stones. Chess drew forth the electric torch and tried it, turning the spot of light on the ground at their feet. It worked perfectly. In his right-hand jacket pocket he carried an entirely different article, but he did not mention that fact to Ruth. She would not have gone with him had she known of the presence of the pistol. The possession of firearms would have, to her mind, at once taken the matter out of the realm of mere adventure into that of peril, and Ruth was not seeking such an experience. She only half believed in the smugglers. She had seen some men in a boat at the island, but she doubted if it meant anything more than a fishing party. Those boxes taken ashore meant nothing much to her, if they did suggest some particularly interesting situation to Chess. In fact, Copley had not fully taken Ruth into his confidence. He had reason to suspect that whoever might be on this island were law-breakers, and he really had no right to bring Ruth here. Tom Cameron would not have done it. Copley was serious, however, in his intention of finding out if possible who was on the island; and when they had passed up the rough path to the round table-stone, Ruth had got over her little shivery feeling and was as eager as Chess himself. They passed carefully through the fringe of brush and reached the open space where the blasted beech tree stood. The faint starlight illumined the space, so that Chess did not need to use the torch in his left hand. There was no tent set up here nor any other mark of human habitation. Ruth knew that there was scarcely any other place on the island where a camp could be established. Had the people they had seen landing from the speedy launch gone away for good and taken their camp equipment with them? Suddenly Copley seized her wrist. His touch was cold and betrayed the fact that he was nervous himself. "Listen!" he whispered, his lips close to Ruth's ear. Helen would have immediately been "in a fidget," and said so. But Ruth could restrain herself pretty well. She nodded so that Copley saw she heard him and was listening. They waited several moments. "There!" breathed the young fellow again. "What is it?" Ruth ventured. "Somebody talking. Listen!" There was a human voice near by. It sounded close to them, and yet its direction Ruth could not decide upon. There was a hollow, reverberating quality to the sounds that baffled determination as to their origin. But it was a human voice without doubt. Ruth could not, however, understand a word that was spoken. The tones were first high, then low, never guttural, and possessed a certain sibilant quality. Whether the words spoken were English or not, was likewise a mystery. Ruth and Chessleigh stood first in one place, then in another, in that circle about the big beech tree. The young man had gone all around the tattered trunk and found no opening. If it was hollow, there was no way of getting into it near the ground, nor was there any ladder by which one might scale the huge trunk to the top. "That's no hide-away," mouthed Chess, his lips close at Ruth's ear again. "And it seems to me the sound doesn't come from overhead." "More as though it came up from the ground," returned Ruth, in the same low voice. "Do you suppose we are standing on the roof of a cavern, Chess Copley?" "It might be," agreed the young fellow. "But if it is a cavern, where under the sun is the mouth of it? How do they get in or out? It beats my time!" Ruth quickly acknowledged that the mystery was beyond her comprehension. The sing-song sounds--for such they seemed to be--went on and on, meaningless for the two listeners, who could not distinguish a single word. "Think that's your King of the Pipes?" asked Chessleigh finally. "I don't know. If it is, there must be something more the matter with him than Willie says there is. He sounds crazy--that is the way it sounds to me." CHAPTER XX A FAILURE IN CALCULATION "What shall we do now?" asked Ruth finally, and in a whisper. "Let's go down to that place where we saw the boat land the other morning," returned her companion. "I'd like to look about there a bit." "Do you think it is wise?" "I don't know about the wisdom of it," chuckled Chessleigh. "But I do know that I'm not at all satisfied. Some people are here on the island, and I'd like to know where they are." "I am afraid we will get into trouble." "If it is only that old man----" "We don't know that it is. He must be talking to somebody--if that is his voice we hear." "Maybe he is only talking to himself. I don't hear anybody else," replied the young fellow. "Come on. Let's see the thing through, now we have started." Indeed Ruth wanted to see it through. She was quite as curious as her companion. So she made no further objection. Pushing through the brush, they climbed carefully down the slope on the outer side of the island. The landing where they had fastened their own boat was on the inner side of the island, while this side fronted the broad expanse of the river. They could see the hurrying current, glinted here and there by the soft starlight. Everything looked ghostly about them. The dim silvery light made it possible for them to pick their way without stumbling. They made little noise in reaching the shore. There was a little indention here--a tiny cove. The shore was shelving, and of sand and gravel. Chess pointed silently to the unmistakable marks of a boat's bow in several places. "That boat has been here more than once," he whispered. Ruth breathed "Yes," but said no more. Up-stream of the cove was a great mass of rock--not one rock, but several huddled together and the cracks between overgrown with brush and vines. Chess brought into use the electric torch again. He shot the spotlight into the crannies. Was there a path there between two of the big boulders? He drew Ruth's attention to it with a touch on her arm. She saw that some of the bushes were broken--the vines torn away and dead. "Somebody has been here," she murmured. "Of course. That is what we came to find," said the young man. "We are on the verge of a discovery, Ruth." "I hope we are not on the verge of trouble," she returned, in the same low tone. "Don't have a bit of fear," he told her, in a louder voice. He was about to mention the loaded pistol in his pocket; then thought better of it. But he went ahead, venturing into the narrow passage between the two boulders. The ray of the torch showed the way. It played on the ground at their feet and upon the rocky sides of the passage. Was that an abrupt end to the passage ahead of them, or a sharp turn in it? Chess pressed on, Ruth trying to peer over his shoulder, although to do this she had to stand on tiptoe. "By jove!" uttered the young man in surprise, "I believe it is a cavern. It's the entrance to a cave." "Then those voices did come from a cavern. Be careful, Chess--do!" He had reached the turn in the passage. A jutting shelf of rock roofed them over. The young man shut off the lamp and they were in darkness. He thrust forward his head to peer around the corner. As he did so, without the least warning, something swished through the air and Ruth heard the sound of a dull blow. Chess pitched forward, with a groan of pain, falling to his knees. Ruth uttered a scream. She did not try to retreat, but seized the young man by the shoulders and dragged him back. Her brave act saved the young fellow from receiving a second and heavier blow. A club was being wielded in the hands of a powerful man who had met them in the passage! Chess was speechless and apparently in a confused state of mind. The electric torch had fallen from his hand. He seemed struggling to get something out of his jacket pocket, but before he could accomplish this a light flashed up in the tunnel ahead. The same sing-song, chattering voice they had heard so faintly on the summit of the island broke out close at hand. In the red, flickering light of a burning pine torch the frightened girl saw a man in a broad-brimmed hat and loose, flapping upper garment bending over Chess with a club again raised to strike. "Don't hurt him! Don't hit him again!" she cried. Other voices--all speaking in that strange, sing-song tongue--broke out, and Ruth suddenly realized that these enemies that confronted them were Chinese. In the red light she saw clearly now, under the round, broad-brimmed hat, the yellow face and slanting eyes of the man. Ruth did not understand it--she could not imagine why these Orientals should be here on the island. But she realized fully that the calculations of Copley and herself had gone astray. They were in peril--serious peril. The leading Chinaman glared into Ruth's frightened face and his thin lips curled back from his yellow teeth in a snarl like that of a rabid dog. His very look was enough to turn the girl cold. She trembled, still striving to drag the half-senseless Chessleigh back. The Chinaman uttered a long, jabbering howl, turning his face over his shoulder as though speaking to those who crowded behind him in the passage. Ruth might still have escaped, but she would not desert her injured companion. Suddenly there was a stir in the passage and the big Chinaman was thrust aside. Another figure pushed forward--a ragged, bushy-haired figure. It was the King of the Pipes! "Hush!" he commanded in his old way. He waved the Chinaman back. He seemed to have some authority, for the burly Chinaman obeyed. The old man thrust his face forward and peered with his wild eyes into Ruth's countenance. "Hush!" he whispered. "What did I tell you? I know you, of course. I told you that I could not divide my kingdom with any one. It was quite useless for you to come here again. "And see what has come of it," he added. "The Pipes have seen you. They know your intentions. They will never in this world stand for a divided kingdom. I shall have to cut off your head. Too bad! Too bad!" He seized Ruth's wrist. She tried to draw away from him, but he was much more powerful than she had supposed. One quick jerk and she was fairly dragged over the crouching figure of Copley and around the corner of the narrow passage. The head Chinaman darted forward and seized Chess. He likewise was dragged into the place. Amid the chattering of several high, sing-song voices, and only half seeing what was being done because of the flickering torchlight, Ruth knew that she was being hurried into a tunnel of some size that ran back into the island. It was rocky all about her--on both sides as well as under foot and overhead. It was a natural tunnel, not one made by man. The figures flitting before her were gnomelike. She saw clearly only the old man who led her, holding her tightly by the arm. She knew that the Chinaman was dragging Chess behind them, as though that unfortunate young man was a sack of potatoes. This outcome of their innocent adventure was entirely different from anything Ruth had dreamed of. If she did not exactly fear the queer old man who called himself the King of the Pipes, she certainly did fear the men who were with him in this cavern. CHAPTER XXI IN THE CHINESE DEN It was several minutes before Ruth could accustom her sight to the uncertain, flickering flame of the torches with which the cavern was illuminated. There was, too, a small fire on a stone hearth and above it a stone and cement chimney that portrayed ingenuity in its building. The cavern was a natural one, but man had made of it a not impossible habitation. She felt rugs under her feet as she was drawn along by the King of the Pipes, and when her eyes became accustomed to the half-gloom of the place she saw that there were several low tables and a couch or two, the latter likewise covered with rugs. Not only had some ingenuity been expended in fitting up the cave, but the furnishings must have occasioned the expenditure of considerable money. It was not at all the sort of place that she would have expected the queer old man to occupy on the lonely island. She was so much interested in Chessleigh's state, however, that she gave small attention to these other things. When she could break away from the King of the Pipes she flung herself down upon her knees beside the recumbent young man and raised his head in her arms. Chess had received a hard blow from the Chinaman's club. And he had not uttered a word. The latter fact caused Ruth more alarm than anything else. She feared that he was very badly injured, although he was not insensible. But there was no blood on his head and face. She passed her hand swiftly over his crown and found an unmistakable lump there, a lump raised by the blow. But, looking more closely into his half open eyes she saw more intelligence in their expression than she expected. Indeed, as she peered closely at him she distinctly saw him wink his left eye, and this act, with the bright look in his eyes, warned her that Copley was playing possum. Having been felled by the blow, and feeling himself out-matched by the Chinamen who had come jabbering to the scene, Chess had displayed much more helplessness than he need have shown. But Ruth decided that he was very wise to do this, and she was much relieved to discover this to be the fact. She did nothing to attract the attention of their captors to his real condition. She moaned over him, and made little pitying sounds as though she thought he had been very seriously hurt by the blow he had received. The King of the Pipes put his clawlike hand upon her shoulder again. "Let him alone. He will have to have his head off, of course. No hope for it. But I will try to postpone your decapitation until the thirty-first day of June, which comes when there are two Sundays in the same week. Eh? Isn't that shrewd? As King of the Pipes I have to show great astuteness. Oh, great astuteness!" "I am sure you will help us, sire," murmured Ruth, standing up once more and looking appealingly at the queer old man. "Well, I will do what I can. But, remember, we kings can't do what we once could. Seems to me I told you that before. The war did the business for us. And I would not dare suggest taking a consort. The Pipes would never stand for it." "Whom do you call 'the Pipes'?" Ruth asked wonderingly. "Look about you. See them? Already they are beginning to smoke up again. And it is a dirty smell. I have to go out and roam about the island to get away from it. Dreadful! To give up my throne room to nasty little brass pipes. Ugh!" While he was speaking the girl stared about her, now better able to see the place and the people in it. There were at least half a dozen men. And all were Chinamen, as far as she could see, although not all were dressed in blouse and loose trousers and wadded slippers--the usual costume of the un-westernized Chinaman. Two of the men were lying down, and there were tiny lamps sputtering on the low stools, or tables, set close to their heads. They held long-stemmed pipes with small brass bowls, and had begun to smoke something that had a very pungent and disagreeable odor. Ruth's mind had begun to clear. She remembered the heavy boxes she and Chess had seen brought ashore, and the Chinaman in the speed launch, and then the yellow-faced woman being taken on this very day toward the American shore. The whole puzzle began to fit together like a piece of patchwork. Chinamen; a high-powered boat going back and forth across the St. Lawrence; a hidden cave on this supposedly uninhabited island; the heavy boxes; the smoking of this vile paste which she now saw a third Chinaman dip out of a tiny bowl, on a stick, and drop into his pipe in the form of a "pill." _Opium!_ If these men--and the white men of the speed launch--did any smuggling it was not diamonds they smuggled. It was opium. And they were probably running Chinese across the border as well. Ruth knew that she was in a very serious predicament when she had swiftly thought this out, if she had not realized it before. What would these evil-looking yellow men do to her--and to poor Chess? The latter, she was relieved to feel, was biding his time. But what chance was likely to arise which would lead to their escape from this cavern? She looked about the place. Two of the yellow men were between her and the passage through which she and her companion had been dragged. If she wanted to, she could not make a dash for liberty. She turned again to the bedraggled and ragged-haired old man, curiosity about whom had led to this predicament. The King of the Pipes was watching her with eyes that glittered like a bird's. "Hush!" he whispered, moving nearer again. "You cannot escape. The Pipes are very strong and very agile. They would not let you. To tell the truth, they fear so much for my safety that I haven't the freedom myself that I would sometimes like." "Can't you leave this place?" Ruth asked softly. "Hush!" he warned her in his usual stealthy way. "Don't speak of it. Of course a king can do no wrong, and naturally a king can do as he pleases. Otherwise, what is kingship? But it is always well to bow to the peculiarities and the prejudices of one's subjects. They do not like me to leave the throne-room at certain times. So I do not attempt to do so. When you met me before, my dear, there was nobody on the island but myself. But to-night you see how many are here, and more yet to come." "More Chinamen?" she whispered. "No. Perhaps no more of the Pipes," and she thought he showed involuntary disgust of the opium-smokers. "But other subjects of mine who must be catered to. Oh, dear, yes! Being a king is not all it is cracked up to be, I assure you." For some reason Ruth felt more alarm because of this last statement of the poor old man than of anything that had gone before. She realized that he, of course, really had no influence with the opium smugglers. But she began to understand that there were other men coming here who might be more savage than the Chinamen. She remembered that there had been several white men in the launch when she had observed it, and that on one occasion Horatio Bilby had been one of them. Now, Ruth felt not only a great distaste for Bilby, but she feared him exceedingly. It might be that the red-faced fat man who had so fretted Mr. Hammond and her about Wonota, had only crossed the river in the launch as a passenger. He might have no close connection with the opium smugglers. But knowing Bilby as she did, Ruth could imagine that he might be mixed up in almost any illegal business that promised large returns in money. If he would attempt to steal the Indian girl, why would he not join hands with opium smugglers and Chinese runners, if he saw a possibility of gain in those industries? She wished she might talk to Chess and learn just what was working in his mind at that moment. She was quite sure that he was by no means as stunned as he appeared to be. She approved of his feigning, for as long as these men did not seek to injure her, why should he incur their further notice? He lay on the rug, quite as though he was helpless; but she knew he was alert and was ready, if occasion arose, to show much more agility than the Chinamen or the old King of the Pipes dreamed. CHAPTER XXII THE TWINS' ALARM It was fully an hour after the _Lauriette_ had chugged away from the dock at the island where the moving picture company was established that the motor-boat which had been to Oak Point returned with Tom Cameron aboard. Tom, with the other men who had been exploring and fishing all day, was ravenously hungry, but he went around to the veranda of the chief bungalow where his twin sister and Ruth stayed to see how they were before even going to wash and to see if he could bribe one of the cooks to set out "a cold snack." Tom found Helen on the porch, alone. At a glance, too, he saw that she was not in a pleasant mood. "What's gone wrong?" demanded Tom. And with a brother's privilege of being plain-spoken, he added: "You look cross. Go in search of your temper." "Who says I've lost it?" demanded Helen sharply. "I Cagliostro--Merlin--wizard that I am," chuckled Tom. "I am still little Brighteyes, and I can see just as far into a spruce plank as the next one." "Well, I am mad, if you want to know," sniffed Helen. "Where's Ruth?" "She's whom I am mad at," declared the girl, nodding. "I don't believe it," said Tom soothingly. "We could not really be mad at Ruth Fielding." "Don't you feel that way yourself--the way she acts with Chess Copley?" "I wouldn't mind punching 'Lasses' head," returned Tom. "But that's different." "Is that so? What do you know about their being out on the river together right now? Humph!" "Where have they gone?" asked her brother. "Why aren't you with them? Are they alone?" This brought out the full particulars of the affair, and Tom listened to the end of a rather excited account of what had happened that afternoon--both on the island where Helen and Ruth had been "marooned" and here at the camp--together with the suspicions and curiosity about the island which had been dubbed the Kingdom of Pipes. Nor did it lack interest in Tom's ears in spite of his sister's rather excited way of telling it. "But look here," he asked. "Why didn't you go with Ruth and 'Lasses?" "Humph! They didn't want me," sniffed Helen. "Now, Helen, you know better. Ruth never slighted you in the world. I know her better than that." "Well, she makes too much of Chess Copley. She is always praising him up to me. And I don't like it. I'll treat him just as I want to--so there!" Tom looked rather sober at this. He hesitated a moment. He wanted to ask his pettish sister a question, but evidently did not know how to go about it. "It can't be helped now, I suppose. They will be back after a while. Where were they going besides to that crazy fellow's island?" "Just there. That's all." "Come on and watch me eat. I'm starved." "Thanks! I watched the pythons fed at the zoo once," said Helen with unwonted sharpness. "I will sit here till the scene of savagery is over. You can come back." "You are in a fine mood, I see," observed Tom, and went off chuckling. Nevertheless, he was not feeling very happy himself over the thought that Ruth and Chess Copley were out on the river together. "Looks mighty fishy," muttered Tom Cameron. "I could punch 'Lasses' head, the way I feel." These thoughts seemed to take Tom's appetite away. To his sister's surprise, he returned in a very few minutes to the front porch of the bungalow. "I told you that you had boa-constrictor habits," she gasped. "Why, Tom Cameron! you must have swallowed your supper whole." "I didn't swallow as much as I expected," returned the young man, smiling. But he grew serious again. "How long was Chess going to stay out in his boat?" he asked. "You don't suppose that I saw him go?" asked Helen, with surprise. "Do you know that it is after eleven o'clock?" said her brother. "If they went no further than that crazy man's island, what do you suppose is keeping them?" "Mercy's sake! is that the time, Tommy-boy? Why, the crazy man himself must be keeping them! Do you suppose the King of the Pipes has captured Ruth and Chess?" "Don't try to be funny," advised Tom. "It may be no laughing matter." "Well, I like that!" "I don't think that Chess would keep her out so late if everything was all right. Sure they were not going to Copley Island?" "Sure. The girls have gone away. There's no fun going on there." "Well, of course the motor-boat may have broken down. Such things happen," said Tom reflectively. "Now you have got me stirred up," cried Helen. "I had no idea it was so late. And Ruthie does not believe in late hours." "She would not stay out on the river with me half the night, that is sure," grumbled Tom. "Oh, Tommy-boy!" exclaimed his sister, "I don't believe she cares so much for Chess. I really don't." "Well, that is not here nor there. What's to be done? Where's Mr. Hammond--or Willie?" "They haven't got back from Chippewa Bay with the _Gem_." "This clumsy old _Tamarack_ is too big for me to handle alone. And the boys have all gone to bed by this time." "The canoes aren't too big for us to handle," Helen said. "Us?" "Yes. I insist on going, too, if you start out to look for the _Lauriette_. And it will look better too. If we are simply paddling about, there being nothing the matter with Chess and Ruth, they won't be able to laugh at us. Come on!" exclaimed Helen, picking up her sweater. "I am a loyal sister, Tom Cameron." "Right-o!" he agreed, more cheerfully. "I suppose there really is nothing the matter. Yet, whatever else Chess Copley is, he's not the sort of fellow to keep a girl out till midnight on the river when there is nobody else along." "Humph! Do you think Ruth is a mere chit of a flapper? You are old-fashioned, Tommy-boy. The day of the chaperon is about over." "You know it isn't over in our set, and never will be," he returned. "You girls have a lot of freedom, I admit. But there are limits." "Baa!" was Helen's utterly impudent remark. They ran down to the shore and got out one of the canoes. Helen was familiar with the use of the paddle and served her brother as a good second. They drove the canoe out into the open river, but only just for a look up its expanse. There was no motor-boat in sight or hearing--not even the distant lights of one. The current was so strong that the Cameron twins went back among the islands where the water was smoother. Besides, it was much more romantic, Helen said wickedly, among the islands, and Chess and Ruth were more likely to remain in the tortuous passages. The two laid a pretty direct course, however, for the Kingdom of Pipes. As they spied it, and drew nearer, Tom suddenly stopped paddling and held up his hand. "What's the matter?" demanded his sister, likewise raising her paddle out of the water. "Listen," warned Tom. Faintly there came the noise of a motor-boat to their straining ears. "Here they are!" shrilled Helen. "Will you be still?" demanded her brother. "That's not Copley's boat. It's a deal bigger craft. She's on the other side of the island." Helen leaned forward and caught at his sleeve. "Look there!" she whispered. "There is the _Lauriette_." She had been the first to see the outline of the Copley launch moored close to the shore of the island at its upper end. "They've gone ashore," said Tom. "Where can they be? If that other boat is approaching this island----" "Oh, Tom! The pirates!" "Oh, fudge!" "The smugglers, then. Chess said he believed there were smugglers here." "What do they smuggle?" demanded Tom with some scorn. "I don't know. He did not seem very clear about it." "Just the same," Tom observed, sinking his paddle again in the water, "there may be trouble in the air." "Trouble on the river, I guess you mean," giggled Helen. But she giggled because she was excited and nervous. She was quite as alarmed as Tom was over the possibility that Chess and Ruth had got into some difficulty on the King of the Pipes' island. CHAPTER XXIII TROUBLE ENOUGH Returning to Ruth Fielding in the cavern: Although her heart beat rapidly and she really was fearful, she showed little perturbation in her countenance and manner after she had talked with Charley Pond, if that was the real name of the King of the Pipes. Just how mentally disturbed the old man was it was difficult for the girl to judge. But she feared that he had, after all his claims, absolutely no influence with the Chinamen. She believed that the leader of the Orientals was the heavy-set Chinaman who had struck Chessleigh Copley down with the club. The others--some smoking the little brass pipes, and others not smoking--were probably men who were endeavoring to get into the States without the knowledge of the emigration authorities. Indeed, they were already in New York. This island was south of the American line. But from the Kingdom of Pipes to any city where the Chinamen would be safe from apprehension was a pretty big jump. As for the opium--the smoke of which Ruth smelled now for the first time--she had no idea how that commodity might be handled or disposed of. She knew that it was valuable, even when imported for medicinal purposes. There was a heavy tariff on it, as well as restrictions upon the trading in it. If those boxes--each as heavy as a man could lift and which she and Chess had seen brought ashore on this island--contained opium, there might be many thousand of dollars' worth of the drug, in its paste form, here now. Perhaps it was hidden somewhere in this cave. Ruth had seated herself upon the end of one of the low tables. She knew that all the furniture in the cavern, including the rugs, must be of Chinese manufacture. There could be no doubt that the place was fitted up for the convenience of the Orientals. She looked about, trying to penetrate the obscurity of the place. Were there passages besides the one by which she and Chess had been dragged in? Were there other apartments in the cavern, shut off by some of the hanging rugs which she saw? Her principal thought, however, was of the possibility of escape. And she wished heartily that she and Copley could get out of the cave before the arrival of the "others" of whom the King of the Pipes had spoken. Whoever they might be--or whether Horatio Bilby was one of them--Ruth did not want to meet the smugglers and Chinese runners. She feared very much for her safety, and for that of her companion. The law-breakers would know immediately that their safety was threatened. They must know that if they allowed Ruth and Chess to depart from the cave, their presence here and what they were doing would be reported to the police. And men like Bilby, who would stoop to anything for money, were not likely to give over such a profitable business as the smuggling of opium without a fight. Just how much did Bilby and his companions care for the law? It was a question that created no little anxiety in Ruth's mind. And she wondered, too, what Chess thought about it. The young fellow lay upon the floor of the cavern, silent and immovable. She was quite sure, by the exceedingly knowing wink that he had given her, that he was neither panic-stricken nor seriously hurt. He was merely waiting to see what would turn up. And what would happen when the new chance did turn up? Already Chess was in opposition to at least seven Chinamen, if he attempted anything. And if those the old man had spoken of, likewise appeared, what could Copley do against such numbers? There was nothing Ruth, herself, could do. She sat quietly on the end of the low table and looked sadly about the dimly lighted place. This was certainly a situation from which her usually ingenious mind could invent no means of escape. Suddenly the old man who called himself the monarch of this island came from the corner where he had been standing, watching Ruth, and made his way swiftly to the entrance to the cave. The big Chinaman got up and looked at him. The King of the Pipes waved his hand and pointed through the passage. It seemed to be sufficiently clear--that gesture--for the Chinaman began to gabble to his friends. They scrambled to their feet--all but two who had fallen into a sluggish state after their indulgence in the use of the drug. They looked toward the cavern entrance. The King of the Pipes disappeared through the passage. Ruth stole a stealthy glance at Chess. She saw that he had moved. He was lying with his right hand covered by his body. There seemed an alertness about him--in posture and in gleaming, half-closed eyes--that startled Ruth. What had the young fellow in his mind to do. For what was he waiting? In a minute she heard the ring of quick steps upon the rock-floor of the tunnel. Ruth shrank away from the table and stood at her companion's head. What would the newcomers--Bilby, perhaps--do to Copley and to her? And it was Bilby! The little, red-faced, greenish-eyed man, projected himself into the cavern as though he had been shot out of a gun. "What's the matter here? What's going on, I want to know? That crazy-head is trying to tell me something--Ye gods! A girl?" He saw Ruth vaguely. Then he glanced down at the prostrate Copley. "Who knocked him out?" demanded Bilby. The burly Chinaman was the one he addressed, who answered in a form of English: "Allee same me. I get um, Mist' Blibly." "For mercy's sake!" whined Bilby, wringing his fat hands. "These people aren't police. They are some of the summer visitors. Now we _are_ in a mess!" "Allee same look-see," growled the Chinaman. He kicked Chessleigh, and not gently. "Number one sneakee--him! She----" He nodded violently toward Ruth, thus drawing Bilby's attention to the girl. Bilby strained his fat neck forward to see the girl more closely. There were other sounds coming from the passage. "What's doing, Mr Bilby?" asked a gruff voice. The fat little man was panting. He pointed waveringly at Ruth. "Here's a pretty mess," he gasped. "What between these Chinks and that crazy old duffer, they have got me in a nice mess. I know this girl. She belongs to that moving picture outfit. Now what are we going to do?" "Knock her in the head," was the advice of the growling voice. The advice probably was not intended to be followed. It was said perhaps to scare Ruth. But it excited somebody else besides the girl of the Red Mill. Before Bilby could reply or anybody else could speak, Copley came to his feet with all the suddenness of a jumping-jack. Bilby squealed and started back, falling against the gruff man who had followed him into the cave and who was evidently the boatman. "What's this?" ejaculated this man. But that was all he said. The Chinamen squealed in unison, and that was all from them. Bilby himself faintly groaned. "Put your hands up--all of you!" commanded Copley, and one of the most amazing things about the whole wild extravaganza was that the young fellow's voice was perfectly unshaken. Lads that have been in the army are apt to consider circumstances like these as meat and drink to them. Chessleigh had not served Uncle Sam in vain. He was as cool as the proverbial cucumber! "Put your hands up--all of you! There are ten shots in this magazine and every one of them will get its man. Quick! Up with 'em!" In all probability only one of the Chinamen understood this strictly American form of expression. But when the burly Chinaman elevated his yellow hands, his fellow countrymen did the same. As for Bilby and the boatman, they reached toward the roof of the cavern hastily. There was no hesitation on their part. Although Copley was alone, his unwavering attitude and the threat of the automatic pistol, played hob with such shreds of courage as the malefactors possessed. CHAPTER XXIV A LETTER COMES Nobody had come through the passage into the cave save Bilby and the boatman. Chess stood where he could keep half an eye, at least, upon the opening, and although the passage was filled with shadow he was quite sure there was nobody lurking there who was friendly to the law-breakers. "Just step around behind those two men and see if they are armed, Miss Ruth, will you?" went on Copley. "Take 'em from behind. Don't get in line with my pistol. For if I begin to shoot, somebody is bound to get hit. Keep your hands up, you fellows!" and he gestured toward the Chinamen. Even the two of their number who had been half-overcome with the fumes of opium had come to attention when Chess produced his pistol. The Chinamen huddled together at one side. The boatman and Bilby were opposite the doorway of the tunnel. Ruth promptly obeyed Chess and went around behind the last-named two of the enemy. Ruth hesitated a moment in the dusk there at the opening of the passage. She hated to touch either Bilby or the other man. But probably both of them were armed, and for the sake of safety their weapons must be taken from them. While she hesitated she heard a faint rustle in the passage. Then came the softest possible whisper: "Ss-st!" Ruth jumped and glanced over her shoulder. Was it friend or enemy who evidently tried to attract her attention by this sibilant sound? A figure moved in the gloom. Before she could cry any warning to Copley an arm was put firmly about her and Ruth was almost lifted to one side. She saw the gleam of a weapon in the other hand of her neighbor, and the point of this weapon was dug suddenly into the broad back of the gruff boatman who was Bilby's companion. "Don't get nervous, 'Lasses," came in Tom Cameron's voice. "We're all friends here. Ah! A nice automatic pistol from our friend, Mr. Bilby. Just so. Here, Nell!" But it was Ruth's hand that took the captured weapon, although Helen stood at her side squeezing her other hand and whispering: "My goodness, Ruthie, what a perfectly glorious experience! Are those the real smugglers?" "I shouldn't wonder," replied her friend. Then she accepted the revolver extracted from the hip pocket of the boatman by Tom Cameron. "Where is the King of the Pipes?" "Taking the air. We heard the talk below here through the hollow tree. Do you know," whispered Helen, "that old beech is a regular chimney. And we saw the boat come here. Then we grabbed the King of the Pipes outside." "Tom did not hurt him, I hope?" murmured Ruth. "Not a bit of it. In fact, the queer old fellow said he was willing to abdicate in Tom's favor, and now, I suppose, Tommy-boy is King of the Pipes," and Helen, the irrepressible, grinned. The two ex-army men, however, took the matter quite seriously. Tom disarmed the Chinamen as well as the white men. And to search and disarm a squirming Oriental, they found not easy work. "But I disarmed enough Fritzies in Europe to learn my job pretty well. How's the weather, Sergeant?" "All right here, Captain Cameron," said Copley seriously. "Then I'll back out with this bunch of junk. Here's a pair of brass knuckles in the bunch. I'll use 'em on any of these fellows who try to run. We'll keep 'em hived up here till the police come. One fellow can hold 'em. Unless they try to climb up that hollow beech tree." "No fear," said Copley. "Get the girls out first." Tom had already loaded both Ruth and Helen down with the loot from the malefactors' pockets. He motioned to the girls to leave the cavern. "Hold on! Hold on!" Bilby cried. "I beg of you, don't leave me with these men. I only happen to be here by chance--" "A bad chance for you, then," said Chess Copley. "Don't listen to him, Captain Cameron." "No, don't listen to him," said Ruth severely. "I know he is worse than the others. Why, Tom! he is the man who has made us all that trouble about Wonota and my picture." "Sure," agreed Tom. "I know the snake. Go ahead, girls. Chess and I will follow you. And one of us will be right in this passage all the time," he added, addressing the two white men. "Don't make any mistake. We'll shoot if you try to come out until you are told to." The girls were already feeling their way through the darkness of the tunnel. At the turn Ruth kicked something, and, stooping, secured Chess' electric torch. She pressed the switch and the illumination allowed the two young men to overtake them with more certainty, Chess backing out with his pistol trained on the opening into the cavern. When once the four friends were around the turn and out of hearing of the prisoners, Tom Cameron began to chuckle. "This is no laughing matter!" exclaimed his sister. "I am so excited I don't know what to do." "Keep right on," said Ruth. "I want to get home just as soon as I can. I don't believe I shall care hereafter to leave the island until we are through with the picture and can go back to the Red Mill. What are you laughing about, Tom Cameron?" "I don't know how 'Lasses is fixed," said the amused Tom. "But my pistol isn't loaded. It is my old service automatic and needs repairing, anyway." "Don't fret, Cameron. Mine is loaded all right," said Chess grimly. "Then you stay and guard the cave," said Tom. "You bet you! You couldn't get me away from here until you have sent for the sheriff and he comes for the gang. I believe we have done a good night's work." "Oh, you were wonderful!" Helen burst out. "And Ruth says they knocked you down and hurt you." "I shall get over that all right," returned Chess quietly. But when they were out of the passage and on the open shore Helen insisted upon fussing around Chessleigh, bathing the lump on his head, and otherwise "mothering" him in a way that secretly delighted Ruth. Tom looked at his sister in some amazement. "What do you know about that?" he whispered to Ruth. "She was as sore at him as she could be an hour ago." "You don't know your own sister very well, Tom," retorted Ruth. "Humph!" ejaculated Tom Cameron. "Perhaps we fellows don't understand any girl very well." But Ruth was not to be led into any discussion of that topic then. It was agreed that she and Helen and Tom should hurry back to the motion picture camp at once. "The King of the Pipes won't bite you," Tom said to Chess. "Only don't let him go back into the cave. Those fellows might do him some harm. And the sheriff will want him for a witness against the gang. He is not so crazy as he makes out to be." The night's adventures were by no means completed, for Ruth and Helen could not go to bed after they reached the bungalow until they knew how it all turned out. Mr. Hammond had returned before them, and Willie and Tom started at once for Chippewa Bay in the _Gem_. The capture of Bilby in connection with the smugglers and Chinese runners delighted the motion picture producer. "That will settle the controversy, I believe," Mr. Hammond said to the two girls. "Bilby's attempt to annoy us must fall through now. We will get Totantora and Wonota back from Canada and finish the picture properly. But, believe me! I have had all the experience I want with freak stars. The expense and trouble I have been put to regarding Wonota has taught me a lesson. I'd sell my contract with Wonota to-morrow--or after the picture is done--for a song." Ruth looked at him steadily for a moment. "Do you mean that, Mr. Hammond?" she asked quietly. "Yes, I do." Helen laughed. "I guess Ruth is thinking of singing that song. Ruth believes in Wonota." "If I could carry the tune," her chum said, more lightly. "We'll talk of that later, Mr. Hammond." "Oh, I would give you first chance, Miss Ruth," said the producer. "By the way," and he turned to his desk. "I brought mail from the town. Here are several letters for you, Miss Ruth, and one for Miss Cameron." The girls began to open their letters as soon as they reached their room. But it was Helen's single epistle that created the most excitement. "It's from Carrie Perrin," she said to Ruth. Then, in a moment, she uttered a cry that drew Ruth's full attention. "Listen to this! What do you know about this, Ruth?" "What is it, my dear?" asked her chum, in her usual composed manner. "Just think of that!" cried Helen, in tears. "And I have treated him so hatefully. He'll never forgive me in this world, I suppose. It is about Chess," she sobbed, and handed her chum the letter. CHAPTER XXV THE HEART'S DESIRE "And what do you think of this, Nell? I've wormed out of Bill Kenmore the truth about that mean joke the boys played on us last spring when we were all at Jennie Stone's. Excuse! I suppose I should say Madame Marchand's. To think of Heavy Stone being an old married woman now! "Well, Bill Kenmore always did have a crazy streak--and he wasn't shell-shocked in France, either. You remember the time you went away down town in answer to a telegram, thinking it was somebody who needed you very much, and you walked into that place and found the boys all dressed up and ready to give you the 'ha, ha!'? "I know it got you awfully mad--and I don't blame you. Chess was there, I know. But he didn't even know what the row was all about. Bill engineered the whole thing, and he thinks still that it was an awfully good joke. His ideas of humor must have originated in the Stone Age. "I made him tell me all about it, he thinking I would be amused. Then I turned him right out of our parlor and told him not to call again. I hear that he thinks I am a regular cat! "But who wouldn't be cattish with a fellow who has no more sense? Anyhow, we know the truth now. Perhaps Chess Copley is not very sharp, but I couldn't think of his doing anything really mean. So now you know. If Chess is up there at the Thousand Islands you can tell him from me, at least, that 'all is forgiven.' Sounds like a newspaper personal, doesn't it?" * * * * * Ruth stopped reading there, and looked brightly at her chum. "What do you think of that?" asked the latter, wiping her eyes. "Well, my dear, I shouldn't cry about it," said Ruth. "I think it is an occasion to be joyful." "But, Chess--" "Is of a forgiving nature, I think," Ruth said. "At any rate, I would not let the matter stand between me and a nice boy friend any longer. I could never suspect Chess of doing an unkind thing." "But I have wronged him!" cried Helen, who was, after all, tender-hearted. "Do you know," said her friend, "I believe you can make it up to him very nicely, if you want to, Helen?" The _Gem_ returned to the island just at daybreak. The girls ran down to the dock to meet the returned young men and Willie. Chess Copley had come to get his own motor-boat, and the report they made of the end of the smuggling affair was very satisfactory. The sheriff and his posse in a big motor-boat had gone to the Kingdom of Pipes and relieved Chess of his duty as guardian of the cave. The Chinamen, who were hiding there until they could be shipped into the States dressed in feminine garments, were all handcuffed, together with the owner of the launch and Horatio Bilby, and loaded into the sheriff's launch. "And you should have heard Bilby squeal," said Tom. "There is one bad egg who is likely to pay a considerable penalty for his crimes. He'll not get out of the mess very easy." "What of the King of the Pipes?" asked Ruth. "Poor old Charley-Horse Pond," Willie, the boatman, said, "will be detained as a witness. Already he has got a new name for himself. He isn't 'King of the Pipes' any longer." "What do you mean?" Ruth inquired, for she was interested in the queer old man and his fate. "He told me that he was Major André," chuckled Willie. "He is a Number One spy. The sheriff knows him well and knows there isn't a mite of harm in him." Later it came out that the old man had been living on the island for some time, having found the cave there. The smugglers of opium and the Chinese found him there and made use of him. But when the court proceedings came on, Pond was merely used by the prosecution as a witness. His harmlessness was too apparent for the court to doubt him. That particular day had to be a day of rest for Ruth and her friends, for they had had no sleep the night before. But while they slept Mr. Hammond's representative went in search of Totantora and Wonota and the two Osage Indians were brought back to the moving picture camp before night. The work of making the last scenes of "The Long Lane's Turning" was taken up at once, and until the last scene was taken Ruth and her associates were very busy indeed. The Cameron twins spent most of the ensuing time with the Copleys and the other summer visitors. And it was noticeable that Helen was attended by Chess Copley almost everywhere she went. Tom saw this with some wonder; but he found very little opportunity to talk to Ruth about it. And when he tried to question Helen regarding her change toward Chess, she quite ignored the subject. "Looks to me," Tom said to himself, "as though I was shut out in the cold. I wish I hadn't come up here. I might as well be slaving in that old office. Gee, I'm an unlucky dog!" For Tom, no more than Helen, could not see that Ruth's attitude toward the matter of strenuous occupation for a wealthy young man was a fair one. Tom certainly had none of Uncle Jabez Potter's blood in his veins. The big scene at the end of the picture--the throne room of the French king--was as carefully made as the other parts of the picture had been. And because of Ruth's coaching Wonota did her part so well that Mr. Hooley was enthusiastic--and to raise enthusiasm in the bosom of a case-hardened director is no small matter. "The Boss is rather sore on the whole business," Hooley said to Ruth. "It has been an expensive picture, I admit. We have gone away over the studio estimate. "But that is not my fault, nor your fault, nor the Indian girl's fault. Mr. Hammond is not to be blamed either, I suppose, for feeling worried. The motion picture business is getting to that stage now where lavish expenditure must be curtailed. I fancy Mr. Hammond will make only five-reel program pictures for some time. And where will your big feature pictures come in, Miss Fielding?" "The program pictures are sure-fire, I suppose," the girl admitted. "But it doesn't take much of a story to make those. Nor does it give the stars as good a chance." "Well, lean years may be coming. We shall all have to draw in our horns. Remember me, Miss Fielding, if you decide to produce with some other firm. I like to work with you, and I have a more or less elastic contract with the Alectrion Corporation." Ruth actually did have an idea for the future. It was in embryo as yet. But, as will be seen in the next volume of this series, entitled, "Ruth Fielding Treasure Hunting; Or, A Moving Picture that Became Real," it led the girl of the Red Mill into new fields and drew her and her friends into new adventures. The last scene being completed, Ruth and Helen packed their trunks. But Helen was to ship hers to the Copley's island up the river, where she would stay for a week or so before returning to Cheslow. Ruth was going back to the Red Mill, and after that she was not sure of her movements. Tom would accompany her home. She was glad of this, for she knew that, once at home, he must of necessity take up his work again with his father. Tom Cameron, however, confessed that he "hated" the dry goods business. Chess Copley showed his appreciation of Ruth's kindness and friendship in a very pretty way indeed. He came to her secretly with a jeweler's box in his hand. "You know, Ruth, you have been just like a sister to me since you have been up here. I think as much of you as I do of Sara and Jean--I declare I do! And I know Helen--or--or anybody, won't mind if you wear this little trinket. When you wear it remember you've got a good friend whose initials are engraved on the inside." Ruth accepted the present frankly, for she liked Chess. But she did not know how beautiful the bracelet was until after Copley had disappeared in his _Lauriette_. It was more costly than Ruth thought a present from that source should be. So, rather doubtful, she said nothing to Tom Cameron about the bracelet, although she wore it. She knew that she would have refused such a present from Tom himself. But, then--there was a difference! She did not intend to be rushed into any agreement with Tom Cameron that would at all interfere with her freedom. She still had her career in mind. They got back to Cheslow early in July. And how glad Aunt Alvirah was to see her pretty. As for Uncle Jabez, his interest was in the commercial end of the picture Ruth had made. Was it going to make money when it was distributed? How much money had Ruth already drawn in advance royalties? And a multitude of other questions of that character came from the old miller's lips. "And when do you begin on another of them pictures, Niece Ruth?" he added. "You ain't going to stop now, when there is so much to be made in 'em?" "I do not know exactly what I shall do next," she told him, shaking her head. "But I think I shall try to make my next picture under different circumstances. But as I don't really know, how can I tell you?" "Never mind, my pretty," put in Aunt Alvirah, "you are here with us now, and that means a lot. You certainly deserve a rest," and the old woman placed an affectionate hand on Ruth's shoulder. At this the girl of the Red Mill smiled. "Maybe I do," she replied, "after all those strenuous happenings on the St. Lawrence." THE END ------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL or Jasper Parole's Secret RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOODHALL or Solving the Campus Mystery RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP or Lost in the Backwoods RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT or Nita, the Girl Castaway RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH or Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND or The Old Hunter's Treasure Box RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM or What Became of the Raby Orphans RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES or The Missing Pearl Necklace RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES or Helping the Dormitory Fund RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE or Great Days in the Land of Cotton RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE or The Missing Examination Papers RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE or College Girls in the Land of Gold RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS or Doing Her Bit for Uncle Sam RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT or The Hunt for a Lost Soldier RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND or A Red Cross Worker's Ocean Perils RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST or The Hermit of Beach Plum Point RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST or The Indian Girl Star of the Movies RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE or The Queer Old Man of the Thousand Islands RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING or A Moving Picture that Became Real RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH or The Lost Motion Picture Company RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS or The Perils of an Artificial Avalanche CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York ------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE BETTY GORDON SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON Author of the Famous "Ruth Fielding" Series 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid A series of stories by Alice B. Emerson which are bound to make this writer more popular than ever with her host of girl readers. 1. BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM or The Mystery of a Nobody At the age of twelve Betty is left an orphan. 2. BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON or Strange Adventures in a Great City In this volume Betty goes to the National Capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. 3. BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL or The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune From Washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. A splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. 4. BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL or The Treasure of Indian Chasm Seeking the treasure of Indian Chasm makes an exceedingly interesting incident. 5. BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP or The Mystery of Ida Bellethorne At Mountain Camp Betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in Washington. 6. BETTY GORDON AT OCEAN PARK or School Chums on the Boardwalk A glorious outing that Betty and her chums never forgot. 7. BETTY GORDON AND HER SCHOOL CHUMS or Bringing the Rebels to Terms Rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies make a fascinating story. 8. BETTY GORDON AT RAINBOW RANCH or Cowboy Joe's Secret Betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York ------------------------------------------------------------------------- BILLIE BRADLEY SERIES By JANET D. WHEELER 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid 1. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER INHERITANCE or The Queer Homestead at Cherry Corners Billie Bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. How Billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. 2. BILLIE BRADLEY AT THREE-TOWERS HALL or Leading a Needed Rebellion Three-Towers Hall was a boarding school for girls. For a short time after Billie arrived there all went well. But then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! The girls wired for the head to come back--and all ended happily. 3. BILLIE BRADLEY ON LIGHTHOUSE ISLAND or The Mystery of the Wreck One of Billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on Lighthouse Island, near the coast. The school girls made up a party and visited the Island. There was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. They could tell nothing of themselves, and Billie and her chums set to work to solve the mystery of their identity. 4. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER CLASSMATES or The Secret of the Locked Tower Billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who have broken through the ice. There is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. 5. BILLIE BRADLEY AT TWIN LAKES or Jolly Schoolgirls Afloat and Ashore A tale of outdoor adventure in which Billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. They visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. Billie befriended Hulda and the mystery surrounding the girl was finally cleared up. Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York 
51074	----	Don't Shoot By ROBERT ZACKS Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] A man has to have a place to confess a horrible sin ... and this is as good as any other! I can no longer keep my terrible secret, although the thought of what will happen to me, when I tell my story, gives me a trembling from head to toe. Without doubt, word will flash to the proper authorities and stern-faced men with sympathetic eyes will bring straitjacket and sedatives, and hunt me down to tear me from Mary's clinging arms. A padded cell will be made ready for another unfortunate. Nevertheless what we have just read in the newspapers has made us fearfully agree that I must tell all, regardless of my own fate. So let me say this: If it is true that an expedition is being organized in London to go to the cold and rocky wastes of the Himalayas for the purpose of investigating that astonishing primeval creature called 'The Abominable Snowman,' then I am forced to tell you immediately ... _the Abominable Snowman is none other than Mr. Eammer, the famous movie magnate_. And I am the one responsible for this amazing situation. I and my invention which Mr. Eammer had hired me to develop, an invention which would put 3-D and Cinemascope and the new Largoscope process so far behind in the fierce Hollywood battle for supremacy that Mr. Eammer would at last have complete control of the industry, and, for that matter, television also. You will say this is impossible because one or two glimpses of the Abominable Snowman have shown it to be an apelike creature? And the animal's body is covered with thick, coarse hair? Well, did you ever see Mr. Eammer lounging beside his elaborate Beverly Hills swimming pool? He looks as if he's just climbed down from a tree. The last young movie lovely an agent had brought around to talk contracts took one look, screamed and fainted. It is said she was hysterical for two days. * * * * * But let me tell how it all started. Remember those awful days when television, like a monster with a wild pituitary gland, grew until it took the word 'colossal' away from filmdom? What a battle! Like two giant bears rearing up face to face, roaring, screaming, swapping terrible blows of mighty paws, the two industries fought, with the film industry reeling bloodily, at first, then rallying with 3-D, then Cinemascope, and television pressing home the fierce attack with color TV. And who was caught in the middle of all this, without _any_ protection? Mr. Eammer. Why? Well, let me give you some background on that character. When talkies killed the era of silent films, Mr. Eammer nearly got shaken loose in the change. He'd scornfully dismissed the new development. "Ha," he'd said. "People come to my movies for one of two things. To fall asleep, or to look at the pretty girlies." When the movie industry began to look for good stories and material that stimulated the mind as well as the emotion, Mr. Eammer had jeered. "Ha. People are stupid, people are sheep. They don't want to think, they just want to see the pretty girlies." Six months later, Mr. Eammer had sent emissaries to England to try to hire this guy Billy Shakespeare. "Offer him anything," ordered Mr. Eammer grimly. "Tell him we'll fill the water cooler in his office with gin, he can pick any secretary he likes from among our starlets, and ... and ..." he swallowed, then recklessly added, "we'll even give him screen credit." Of course the men he'd sent out searching knew Billy Shakespeare had kicked off, though they weren't sure whether it was last year or ten years ago. But it was a fine trip on the expense account and after a few weeks of riotous searching in London's gayer areas, they wired that Shakespeare had caught a bad cold, the penicillin had run out and he'd not lasted the night. But Mr. Eammer pulled out of his situation. He bought up just the right to use the titles of great classic novels, ignored the contents, and had entirely different stories written. "Not enough girlies in their versions," he explained, frowning. "Them hack writers don't have stuff with real interest to it." * * * * * By the time the customers were in the packed movie houses, they were so stunned with the spectacle of unclad femininity that they'd completely forgotten what they'd come to see. Half of them had never read the classics anyway. So the dough rolled in and Mr. Eammer's estate was photographed in color and published in "Beautiful Homes" magazines, and high school newspapers sent nervous young reporters to ask advice for graduates yearning to get into the movie business. How, they asked humbly, could they carve a place for themselves? Mr. Eammer beamed and said, "Girlies. Use plenty of girlies. It gets them every time." The printed interview, as approved and edited by high school faculty advisors, did not contain this advice. But the girlies weren't enough to save Mr. Eammer when television hit the movies on its glass jaw. He didn't believe what was happening, until it was too late. When his studio started hitting the skids, he hastily withdrew funds and liquidated assets and rented a number of safe-deposit boxes. Then he sat back and let his creditors scream a symphony of threats. It was at that time that Mr. Eammer heard that I, a young physicist interested in optics, had stumbled across an oddity which might revolutionize the movie industry. He'd heard of this through Mary, whom I love with all my heart, and who will sometimes embarrass me by proudly telling people how intelligent I am. As Mr. Eammer's secretary, she let him know all about me, just as she let me know all I have just told you about him. Mary is not a reticent person; she is too loving of her fellow man to withhold even the slightest information and perhaps I should have kept my astonishing discovery to myself. In any case the phone rang in my very small laboratory one day and Mary's excited voice said, "Joe, darling. It's me. I told him about your invention. Come down right away." "Who?" I said. "Where? What are you talking about?" "To the studio," she said impatiently. "To see my boss, Mr. Eammer. He says if your invention is...." "Now wait a minute," I shouted with indignation. "I told you not to tell _anybody_ about it. It's not perfected. In fact, I don't understand how it works exactly." "Stop being so modest," she said firmly. "I know you. You're a genius and genius is never, never satisfied. I read all about it. You want us to get married, don't you?" "Yes," I said, sudden longing surging through my heart. "Can we afford to? No. So come on down. Anyway, I already told him. Don't make me into a ... a liar," begged Mary. "If he likes your invention, maybe he'll buy it." * * * * * The things we do for the women we love. I went there in fear and was trembling with good reason. Not knowing quite how my invention operated, it could be stolen from me, because it might not be patentable. It was more _discovery_ than _invention_. Oh, I can tell you, I went to see Mr. Eammer in a cold sweat of fear that I might be losing my hold on the strange and accidental phenomena across which I'd stumbled. I got quite a greeting. When I walked into his elaborate outer offices, the workers were sitting hushed in fear before their desks. From within his private offices I could hear bellowing and the sounds of things smashing. Mary hurried over to me, her warm, brown eyes pleading. Before she could say anything, I heard Mr. Eammer say in a shout, right through the partly opened door, "Well, what have you done about it?" A trembling voice said, "Sir, I've cut staff fifty per cent." "Stupid!" roared Mr. Eammer's voice. "Who's talking about that? Did you ask Peterson of World Studios if he'll license us to use his new Largoscope system?" "Y-yes." A moment of terrified silence. "He s-said your outfit could use his Largoscope on only one occasion. When they f-film your funeral." There was a gasp, then the door opened and a perspiring, harried, bald-headed man lurched out. With glazed eyes, he made a beeline for the outer door. "Let's go in," said Mary eagerly "He'll be so glad to see you." I looked at her incredulously, but she took my arm and dragged me inside. There Mr. Eammer sat twitching and shuddering, his head in his pudgy hands. He looked dully at us from tiny eyes. "Everybody hates my genius," he said, waggling his head from side to side. "Everybody envies me. The wild dogs are gathering to pull down the noble elk." As he glared at us, Mary said swiftly, "Yes, sir." "The wounded lion," whispered Mr. Eammer dramatically, tears of self-pity coming to his eyes. "Surrounded by jackals and laughing hyenas. I am dying of my wounds." He uttered a wail. "Everybody's got a new filming system but me." He drew a deep breath. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "He's...." began Mary. "Wait a minute," he said. He grabbed a phone from the six on his desk. "Hey. Publicity.... Hey, Mike. I want rumors spread about Largoscope. Top doctors say it'll ruin the eyes, make you stone blind." He paused, his face purpling. "Okay, if you can't do it, then get another job. You're fired." He slammed the phone down. "No cooperation from anybody," he said heavily. "Surrounded by incompetents." He glared at me. "Who the hell are you?" "I'm ..." I began. * * * * * At this moment, the door opened and in came a man with a sheaf of papers and a film of sweat on his forehead. "I hate to interrupt, Mr. Eammer," he said doggedly, "but I got your note on the Lolita Vaughn contract we drew up. I knew there must be some mistake, so...." "Mistake, what kind of mistake?" snapped Mr. Eammer. "I want you to tear the contract up. I said we aren't going to sign after all. I got a bigger name for the picture than her." The man winced. "Well," he said. "I ... I was just wondering. I mean, after all, we talked her into turning down that fat part in the new Broadway show that opened last night. It's a smash hit, I read today...." "Tough," shouted Mr. Eammer. "My heart bleeds. Did I know when I made that promise that I could get a big star at such a cheap price? I acted hastily, I made a mistake, so I corrected that mistake." He looked stern. "Would it be fair to the stockholders if I took Lolita under these conditions?" "But _you_ own all the stock!" "That's what I said, you fool!" roared Mr. Eammer. "Get out of here." As the man fled, I stared at Mr. Eammer in horror and disgust. Never would I trust a man like this, was my thought. He glared at me. "Who the hell are you?" he snarled. "I keep asking you and you stand there like a dummy." "He's the scientist I told you about," said Mary. "He's a genius. He has a new invention that will make Largoscope obsolete." "This?" said the producer with incredulity. "This beanpole is a scientist? I don't believe it." He stared morosely at me, shaking his head. "He looks like an elevator operator who can't figure out what button to push." "I beg your pardon!" I said with indignation. "I am a graduate of M.I.T. I graduated _summa cum laude_." "Anybody can pick up a few words of French," he sneered. "If you're such a genius, how much money have you got, hah?" As I looked at him numbly, my jaw hanging open, he tapped his chest with a sausagelike forefinger. "Now _I_ am a genius, see? I'm the guy who hires _you_. Now that we got that straight, what's this nonsense about you being smart enough to figure out a new invention that will make Largoscope obsolete?" The weary cynicism in his gross face enraged me. If ever I had an immediate yearning to crush a man, to make him say 'uncle,' to have him beg and yearn, it was at that moment and toward this insufferable moron. * * * * * Within half an hour, we had driven back to my small laboratory. He peered suspiciously at the involved maze of wiring and electronic equipment. I pointed to the small un-roofed cabinet on my long work-table. It was two feet deep and the four walls, which were three feet long, were studded with small tubes I'd rather not describe, since I've developed them myself and they produce a new kind of ray. "That's my camera," I said. "It looks more like a diathermy machine or a sweatbox for reducing," he said skeptically. "How's it operate?" I set a few dials and went to find Susie, my white cat. "Here pussy, pussy," I said tenderly. "The man's gone nuts," said Mr. Eammer in disgust. "Take it easy," I snapped. "That's how I made my strange discovery. I was doing a test on the effect of a new kind of radiation on fabrics. And Susie, my cat, walked over the equipment. First she stepped on a dial, turning it accidentally to full power, then she wandered into the box." "So what?" "Watch and see," I said. I got Susie and she complacently allowed herself to be put into the box. I placed Mary at the dials with instructions and took Mr. Eammer to the next room and pointed to a huge circle chalked on the floor. The movie magnate waited impatiently. "Mary," I shouted. "Okay. Turn dial number one to full force." We heard a click. Then Mr. Eammer yelped and cowered behind me. Because in front of us, within the chalked circle, appeared a giant eight-foot-tall cat, an enormous duplicate of Susie. Susie was licking her paw with a tongue that was nearly two feet long. "Don't be afraid," I said proudly. "It's just an image. Look." I stepped forward and ran my hand through the air where the giant figure of Susie ignored me. My hand disappeared into the image, and I felt the usual puzzling tingle, as if I were getting a shock. And Susie, from the next room, uttered a faint meow and stopped licking her paw as if she, too, felt something. "But ... but there's no _screen_," Eammer said. "And ... and it looks _real_. It's got three dimensions like an actual body." He cautiously approached, his hands shaking with excitement. He tip-toed around behind the cat image. He choked, "It's like a real, living cat all around." "You haven't seen anything yet," I said happily. "Watch this. Mary," I yelled again. "Turn dial number two very slowly." * * * * * As we stared, the image of the three-dimensional Susie shrank from eight feet all the way down to a three-dimensional miniature cat the size of a thimble. Mr. Eammer looked as if he might faint. "Good-by, Largoscope," I said grimly. "This will make all 3-D and large screen systems obsolete. It will revolutionize television, too. People will sit home and see actual _figures_, three-dimensional figures of real people. There will be no screens at all. The effects of depth and solidity, as you see, are perfect...." Suddenly Susie in the next room gave a yelping meow and Mary gasped. We jumped, then ran inside. Mary was wringing her hand. There was a little smoke in the room. "My hand hit a wire," said Mary, embarrassed. "I guess I caused a short circuit or something. I'm sorry. All this smoke." She put her hands to her eyes, rubbing. "Susie all right?" I said. "I guess so," she said. "She moved so fast I could hardly see...." "My dear fellow." Mr. Eammer was most cordial. He put his arm around my shoulders. He was beaming at me. He was offering me a fat cigar. "What a wonderful invention. You are indeed a genius and I offer you my humblest apologies." "I accept them," I said, pushing him away with distaste. "You may leave now, Mr. Eammer." "Leave? Not until we've signed a contract, my friend. I want that invention." "Mr. Eammer, that invention isn't perfected yet. I don't even know how it works. The principles are beyond me. It is something new in the world of physics and optics, and...." "That's all right," he cried. "I'll give you six months. A year. More. But I want it...." "No. I'm afraid I don't trust you," I said. Far from being offended, he was delighted. He laughed as if I'd said something witty. "Of course you don't," he said. "You don't trust me and you don't like me. But just listen to my offer." * * * * * Right then and there Mr. Eammer made an offer that had my head swimming. He would, first of all, deposit in an account in my name the sum of one million dollars--free of taxes. Second, he would include in the contract a stipulation that I'd get fifty per cent of all royalties. Third--and _very_ important to me--in the event that the patent he would apply for in my name was refused, or if it was broken by further research, I could keep the million dollars. "And last," said Mr. Eammer, his nostrils flaring as he closed in for the kill, "I'll make your girl friend, Mary, a big movie star." Mary's eyes widened. She clasped her hands before her, nervously. "Me?" she whispered. "B-but I can't act." "What's that got to do with it?" Mr. Eammer asked impatiently. "You just got to hold still when the male lead grabs you. Leave it all to him, he knows what to do." "No," I cried, appalled. "I don't want anybody else kissing Mary." "Neither do I," said Mary, blushing. "You're absolutely right." Mr. Eammer uttered a deep sigh. "Such deep love, such clean emotion, it cuts my heart out, honestly. Okay, we'll give the script a scrubbing. Nobody'll put a finger on her." "I don't think I'm interested," said Mary regretfully. Mr. Eammer was staggered. He recovered immediately and said hastily, "Smart girl. What intelligence. It's no life for you." "But, Mary," I said, kind of liking the idea of my Mary on the screen; of being sole owner of her sweetness with millions of people knowing nobody could kiss this girl but myself. "It's such a rare opportunity. Every girl wants to be a movie star. Do it!" "Sure," cried Mr. Eammer. "Don't be a dope. How many girls get a chance like this?" Mary whispered, her eyes shining, "Well, all right, dear, if you insist." "You have a deal, Mr. Eammer," I said quickly. Mary typed the contract on my portable as dictated by Mr. Eammer. "Put in a clause," I said cautiously, remembering his ethics, "that the contract is effective only when the million is deposited in my account." Mr. Eammer frowned. "Put in a clause for me, too," he said. "He can't draw on the million without a signed receipt from me saying he's delivered all his blueprints and technical notebooks on the invention--and a full-size camera model, big enough to hold people." "I agree," I said. "I'll have it built and delivered immediately." I shook Mr. Eammer's clammy hand and he departed with Mary to get the million dollars out of his secret safe-deposit boxes. * * * * * I stared dreamily after them, mentally spending that money on all the wonderful things I'd always wanted. A scintillometer. A centrifuge. Maybe I could even build my own private cyclotron. And I could visualize Mary cooking dinner in a little white cottage with a picket fence. Within the week, I had delivered the full-size camera to Mr. Eammer's studio. As he left me, whimpering with joy and carefully locking the iron doors of the room he'd set aside for my equipment, I stared at the signed receipt in my hand. A million dollars. I was rich. At this moment, Mary appeared at the studio gate and ran toward me, her face deathly pale. "What's the matter?" I cried. "Remember how we couldn't find Susie all week?" she gasped. "Well, I just found her." Mary held out her fist, opened her fingers and I recoiled in astonishment. In her palm was Susie, my cat. But a Susie that was one inch long ... the smallest, tiniest cat I'd ever seen. She was alive and seemed healthy as she licked her white fur and uttered a meow I barely could hear. My throat was so dry I could hardly get the words out. "Good Lord. The invention. Something went wrong. It not only sends the _image_ in three dimensions without a screen to receive it; it also transmits the _actual body itself_ through space. _I've created a matter transmitter._" "But ... but why is Susie so small?" wailed Mary. "Apparently it transmits whatever size the image is set at. Remember we had reduced the image of Susie and at that time you short-circuited the wires? That short circuit is what did it. If Susie's image had been large at that moment, we would have had an eight-foot-tall cat on our hands...." I paused appalled, my eyes clinging to the incredible one-inch cat now peering over the edge of Mary's hand at the ground below. It shrank back fearfully. "My God," I whispered. I turned and, with Mary close behind me, made a beeline for Mr. Eammer. * * * * * We finally found him and got him alone. Mary opened her palm and, without a word, showed him Susie. Mr. Eammer's eyes bulged and his jowls turned ashen. Susie scratched her ear with her miniature rear left foot and I idly wondered just how small Susie's fleas were. "I warned you," I said grimly, "that I didn't know how this thing worked or the principles behind it. This is what's liable to happen whenever there is a short circuit in the camera box. I don't know _why_ it happens, but it's too dangerous to use. If you want to call off our deal...." "No, no, no," said Mr. Eammer rapidly. A cunning look came over his face. "I'm sure you can work the bugs out of it, can't you? I'm sure you're anxious to do more research on it?" "Indeed, I am," I said warmly. "You are a man with the true scientific spirit." "Go right to work," he said urgently, his fascinated eyes never leaving Susie. "Work night and day, day and night. I'll never leave your side. We must learn how this gadget works." That's what we did. Making Susie comfortable in a matchbox, we set to work in the dead of night when no inquisitive eyes might see our strange experiments. Mary made us pots of steaming coffee and Mr. Eammer paced helpfully back and forth uttering unclear mumbles, as I toiled the long, wearying hours. It did not take long for me to gain an empirical understanding of what I had, by which I mean that, like electricity in its early days, the mysterious force could be utilized, made to perform, without complete understanding of its basic nature. The night came when I had full control of the machine. We stood staring at it in awe. We had made Susie her normal size again. We had enlarged the image of an old shoe, recklessly aimed the projector out toward the country and flicked the short circuit switch that sent it out in space as solid matter. After three breathless days, we read the puzzled report in the newspapers. A shoe eight feet long and three feet high had been found in the backyard of a summer cottage. It was a three-day wonder, until somebody advanced the theory that it was obviously a prop of some kind of musical comedy movie. * * * * * I looked at my machine with the sense of having created one of the greatest wonders of science. My voice was trembling with pride as I said to Mary and Mr. Eammer, "The things that can be done with this invention. The incredible things...." "Yes," said Mr. Eammer, gloating. "And it's mine, all mine." "You'll be the biggest man in the movie industry," I said solemnly. "You made a good investment." Mr. Eammer gave me a strange smile. "You are a great inventor, my boy, but you have a small imagination. _Biggest_ man in Hollywood, did you say? The _only_ man in Hollywood, you mean. Why, do you realize what I can do with this machine? I can own Hollywood, Television, Broadway. And I'll make a list of people I don't like that I'll get even with. Why, I can be Master of the Entertainment World...." The blinding realization of what I had done flared in my numbed brain. I had given a tremendous scientific weapon to a ruthless moron. And there was nothing I could do, because he had my blueprints locked in his safe.... I stepped forward and with full force hit Mr. Eammer on the jaw. As he sagged, I grabbed him and shoved him into the transmitter. "Look out," cried Mary. "He's getting up." "No," he said in a strangled voice as he struggled to his knees. "No. I'll ... _I'll fix you_...." I turned the dials full power, hit the directional switch with my open palm and closed my eyes. Mr. Eammer's voice cut off abruptly. When I opened my eyes, he was gone. "Thank heaven," gasped Mary in relief. * * * * * I immediately made computations and my figures showed that Mr. Eammer must have been transported to the Himalayas. That's the area where the Abominable Snowman had been sighted. That is why I must speak now, regardless of any opinions about the state of my sanity. I would not want Mr. Eammer shot by mistake, as he comes rushing toward a party of explorers. It's all right to bring him back now. I've smashed the machine beyond repair and, since Mary was Mr. Eammer's private secretary, she knew where to get the combination of his safe, so we were able to destroy my blueprints and technical notebooks. I've turned the million dollars over to Mr. Eammer's lawyers and they are now fighting off the creditors, who all think Mr. Eammer is deliberately hiding from them. Whatever you do, please don't take a shot at the Abominable Snowman. It is Mr. Eammer. 
31716	----	Science fiction, in collaboration with the idea-men and technicians of Hollywood, has been responsible for many horrors, dating back to "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" and "The Lost World." But Hollywood has created one real-life horror that tops all creations of fantasy--the child star. In this story we at last see such a brat meet Things from Alien Space. jimsy and the monsters by ... Walt Sheldon Hollywood could handle just about anything--until Mildume's machine brought in two real aliens. Mr. Maximilian Untz regarded the monsters with a critical eye. Script girls, cameramen, sometimes even stars quailed under Mr. Untz's critical eye--but not these monsters. The first had a globelike head and several spidery legs. The second was willowy and long-clawed. The third was covered with hair. The prop department had outdone itself. "Get Jimsy," said Mr. Untz, snapping his fingers. A young earnest assistant producer with a crew cut turned and relayed the summons. "Jimsy--Jimsy LaRoche!" Down the line of cables and cameras it went. _Jimsy_ ... _Jimsy_.... A few moments later, from behind the wall flat where he had been playing canasta with the electricians, emerged Jimsy LaRoche, the eleven-year-old sensation. He took his time. He wore powder-blue slacks and a sports shirt and his golden hair was carefully ringleted. He was frowning. He had been interrupted with a meld of a hundred and twenty. "Okay, so what is it now?" he said, coming up to Mr. Untz. Mr. Untz turned and glared down at the youth. Jimsy returned the glare. There was a sort of cold war between Mr. Untz and Master Jimsy LaRoche, the sort you could almost hear hotting up. Mr. Untz pointed to the monsters. "Look, Jimsy. Look at them. What do you think?" He watched the boy's expression carefully. Jimsy said, "To use one of your own expressions, Max--_pfui_. They wouldn't scare a mouse." And then Jimsy shrugged and walked away. Mr. Untz turned to his assistant. "Harold," he said in an injured tone. "You saw it. You heard it. You see what I've got to put up with." "Sure," said Harold Potter sympathetically. He had mixed feelings toward Mr. Untz. He admired the producer's occasional flashes of genius, he deplored his more frequent flashes of stupidity. On the whole, however, he regarded himself as being on Mr. Untz's side in the war between Mr. Untz and the world and Hollywood. He knew Mr. Untz's main trouble. Some years ago Maximilian Untz had been brought to Hollywood heralded as Vienna's greatest producer of musicals. So far he had been assigned to westerns, detectives, documentaries, a fantasy of the future--but no musicals. And now it was a psychological thriller. Jimsy played the killer as a boy and there was to be a dream sequence, a nightmare full of monsters. Mr. Untz was determined it should be the most terrifying dream sequence ever filmed. Only up to now he wasn't doing so good. "I would give," said Mr. Untz to Harold Potter, "my right eye for some _really_ horrible monsters." He gestured at the world in general. "Think of it, Harold. We got atom bombs and B-29's, both vitamins and airplanes, and stuff to cure you of everything from broken legs to dropsy. A whole world of modern science--but nobody can make a fake monster. It looks anything but fake and wouldn't scare an eleven-year-old boy." "It's a thought," agreed Harold Potter. He had a feeling for things scientific; he had taken a B.S. in college but had drifted into photography and thence into movie production. He had a wife and a spaniel and a collection of pipes and a house in Santa Monica with a workshop basement. "I got to do some thinking," Mr. Untz said. "I believe I will change my clothes and take a shower. Come along to the cottage, Harold." "Okay," said Harold. He never liked to say yes for fear of being tagged a yes-man. Anyway, he enjoyed relaxing in the office-cottage while Mr. Untz showered and changed, which Mr. Untz did some three or four times a day. When he got there Mr. Untz disappeared into the dressing-room and Harold picked up a magazine. There was a knock on the door. Harold got up and crossed the soft cream-colored carpet and opened the door and saw a goat-like person. "Yes?" said Harold. "Mildume," said the goat-like person. "Dr. John Mildume. Don't ask a lot of questions about how I got in. Had a hard enough time as it was. Fortunately I have several relatives connected with the studio. That's how I heard of your problem as a matter of fact." "My problem?" said Harold. Dr. Mildume pushed right in. He was no more than five feet five but had a normal sized head. It was domelike. Wisps of tarnished white hair curled about his ears and crown. He had an out-thrust underjaw with a small white beard on its prow. He was dressed in moderately shabby tweeds. He moved across the room in an energetic hopping walk and took the place on the sofa Harold had vacated. "Now, then, Mr. Untz," he said, "the first thing we must do is come to terms." "Just a minute," said Harold. "I'm Mr. Untz's assistant, Harold Potter. Mr. Untz is in the shower. Was he expecting you?" Dr. Mildume blinked. "No, not exactly. But he can't afford _not_ to see me. I know all about it." "All about what?" asked Harold. "The beasts," the doctor said. "The _which_?" "Beasts, Potter," snapped the goat-like man. "The nightmare monsters. Get with it, lad. And what is a dream sequence without them? Ha!" "Uh--yes," said Harold a little uncertainly. Mildume's finger shot out. "You fellows understand that I'm no dreamy-eyed impractical scientist. Let's face it--it takes money to carry on experiments like mine. Good old-fashioned money. I'll need at least ten thousand dollars." Harold raised his eyebrows. "Just what, Dr. Mildume, do you propose to give us for ten thousand dollars?" "Beasts," said Mildume. "_Real_ monsters." "I beg your pardon?" said Harold. He began to work out strategies in his mind. Maybe he could casually walk over to the phone and pick it up quickly and call the studio police. Maybe he could get the jump on this madman before he pulled a knife. The thing to do was to humor him meanwhile.... Dr. Mildume said, "I will not deal with underlings. I demand to see Mr. Untz himself." "Well," said Harold, "you understand that Mr. Untz is a busy man. It's my job to check propositions people have for him. Suppose you tell me about these beasts of yours." Mildume shrugged. "Doubt if you'll understand it any better than Untz will. But it's no more complicated than television when you boil it right down. You're familiar, I take it, with the basic principle of television?" "Oh, sure," said Harold, brightening. "Keep things moving. Have a master of ceremonies who keeps jumping in and out of the act. Give something away to the audience, if possible, to make them feel ashamed not to tune in." "No, no, no, no, _no_!" said Mildume. "I mean the technical principles. A photo-electric beam scans the subject, translates light and dark into electrical impulses, which eventually alter a cathode ray played upon a fluorescent screen. Hence, the image. You grasp that roughly, I take it?" "Roughly," said Harold. "Well," continued Mildume, "just as spots of light and dark are the building blocks of an image, so sub-atomic particles are the building blocks of matter. Once we recognize this the teleportation theory becomes relatively simple. There are engineering difficulties, of course. "We must go back to Faraday's three laws of electrolysis--and Chadwick's establishment in nineteen thirty-one of the fact that radiation is merely the movement of particles of proton mass without proton charge. Neutrons, you see. Also that atomic weights are close integers, when hydrogen is one point zero zero eight. Thus I use hydrogen as a basis. Simple, isn't it?" Harold frowned. "Wait a minute. What's this you're talking about--_teleportation_? You mean a way of moving matter through space, just as television moves an image through space?" "Well, not precisely," said Mildume. "It's more a duplication of matter. My Mildume beam--really another expression of the quanta or light energy absorbed by atoms--scans and analyzes matter. The wave variations are retranslated into form, or formulae, at a distant point--the receiving point." Harold lowered one eyebrow. "And this really works?" "Of course," said Mildume. "Oh, it's still crude. It doesn't work all the time. It works only along vast distances. I won't announce it until I perfect it further. Meanwhile I need more money to carry on and when, through certain relatives, I heard of Mr. Untz's problem--well, it was simply too much to resist. You see, I've managed to teleport a couple of frightful monsters from somewhere out of space. I was wondering what on earth to do with them." "Where--where are they?" asked Harold. "In my back yard," said Dr. Mildume. At that point Mr. Maximilian Untz abruptly reappeared. He smelled of lotion and he was now dressed in a relatively conservative gabardine of forest green with a lavender shirt and a black knitted tie. "Hello," he said. He looked at Mildume. "So who is this?" "He says he has monsters for the dream sequence in his back yard," explained Harold. "_Real_ ones." "Look," said Mr. Untz, "kindly ask the gentleman to get lost, will you, Harold?" "No, wait," Harold said. "He may have something. He explained some of it to me. It sounds almost possible. We can't lose much by taking a look." "Only a few thousand dollars a minute," said Mr. Untz. "_Bah--money!_" said Dr. Mildume. "Which reminds me--these monsters of mine are going to cost you. Let's have that understood, right now." * * * * * Mr. Untz's eyebrows went up. This kind of talk he understood. He reached into the side pocket of the gabardine for his cigarette case. He kept a separate gold case in each suit. "_Yeeeeow!_" said Mr. Untz. His hand came out of the pocket with a small green snake in it. "Drop it! Stand back!" said Harold, being cool. "Don't worry about it," said Dr. Mildume in a calmer voice. He was blinking mildly at the snake. "It's merely an ordinary species of garden snake, sometimes erroneously called garter snake. Curious it should be there." Harold looked at Dr. Mildume sharply. "This teleportation of yours wouldn't have anything to do with it by any chance?" "Of course not," snapped Mildume. "_I_ know how it got here!" said Mr. Untz, his jowls trembling. He had already dropped the snake. "A certain child star whose initials are Jimsy LaRoche! Last week he gives me a hotfoot. Monday a wet seat--soaked newspapers in my chair under one thin dry one. Yesterday a big frog in my shower. I should take that brat over my knee and spank him to his face!" "Mm--ah--of course," said Dr. Mildume without much interest in the topic. "Shall we go to inspect the monsters now?" Mr. Untz thought it over, only long enough to keep himself within the time limits of a Man of Decision. Then he said, "Okay, so we'll go now." They passed Jimsy LaRoche on the way out. He was drinking pineapple juice and sitting with his tutor, studying his lines. He smirked as Mr. Untz passed. Mr. Untz scowled back but didn't say anything. In Jovian silence he led the way to his car. It turned out to be a longer ride than they had expected. Dr. Mildume lived in Twenty-nine Palms and, as Mr. Untz explained it, this was too short for an airplane and too long for an automobile. Mr. Untz was not in his best humor when they stopped before Dr. Mildume's stucco and tile-roof house. Mildume directed them immediately to a walled-in patio in the rear of the place. A shed-roof covered one side of the patio and under it were racks of equipment. Harold recognized banks of relays, power amplifiers, oscillographs and some other familiar devices. There were also some strange ones. Mildume waved his long fingers at all of it. "My teleportation set-up is entirely too bulky so far for practical use, as you can see." "Nph," said Mr. Untz, eyeing it. During the drive Dr. Mildume and Harold had explained more to him about teleportation and the monsters and he was more doubtful than ever about the whole thing. "So let's see the monsters," he said now. "Time is fleeing." Mildume went in his hopping step across the patio to a huge tarpaulin that covered something square and bulky. He worried the tarpaulin away. Two steel cages stood there. "Sacred carp!" said Mr. Untz. Two _somethings_ were in the steel cages. They were both iridescent greenish-gray in color, they had globular bodies, no discernible heads and eyes on stalks growing from their bodies. Three eyes apiece. If they _were_ eyes--anyway, they looked like eyes. Sweeping fibrillae came down to the ground and seemed to serve as feet. Great saw-toothed red gashes in the middle of each body might have been mouths. "They're--they're _real_. They're _alive_!" said Harold Potter hoarsely. That was the thing about them. They had the elusive quality of life about them--and of course they were thus infinitely more terrifying than the prop department's fake monsters. "They're alive all right," said Dr. Mildume chattily. "Took me quite a bit of experimenting to discover what to feed them. They like glass--broken glass. They're evidently a silicon rather than a carbon form of life." "This I'll buy," said Mr. Untz, still staring. "Of course," said Mildume. "I knew you would. They will cost you exactly ten thousand dollars per day. Per twenty-four hour period." "Profiteer--burglar!" said Mr. Untz, glaring at Mildume. Mildume shrugged. There was an abrupt, high-pitched squeak. Harold stared at the monsters. The smaller one was quivering. "They do that when they're angry," Dr. Mildume said. "Some sort of skin vibration. This smaller one here seems to take the initiative in things. Must be a male. Unless there's female dominance, as in birds of prey, wherever these things come from. I've--uh--been unable to ascertain which is which, if any." Mr. Untz frowned suddenly. "Look--just how dangerous are these things?" "Don't know _exactly_," said Dr. Mildume. "A pigeon got too near the cages the other day. They seemed to enjoy it. Although, as I say, their staple appears to be silicon forms. I carelessly set a Weston analyzer too near them the other day and they had it for lunch." "If they're too dangerous ..." began Mr. Untz. "What if they are?" said Mildume. "You make pictures with wild lions and tigers and alligators, don't you? Seems to me you can find a way. I don't recommend letting them out of the cage however." Mr. Untz nodded and said, "Well, maybe we can get Etienne Flaubert to do something with them. He's the animal trainer we call on. Anyway Untz always figures something out. Only that's why I like musicals better. There isn't so much to figure out and you can play Victor Herbert backwards and get new tunes out of him. So anyway, we'll get a truck and get these monsters to the studio right away." It was arranged. It was arranged with utmost secrecy too. There were other studios, after all, and in spite of their wealth of creative talent it was easier to steal an idea than cook up a new one. Atom bomb secrecy descended upon the Crusader Pictures lot and most especially upon Sound Stage Six, where the dream sequence for the psychological thriller, "Jolt!" was being filmed. Even Jimsy LaRoche, the star of the picture, was excluded from the big barn-like stage. Mr. Untz prepared to get his first stock shots of the beasts. There were gasps and much popping of eyebrows when Dr. Mildume--who had come along as technical adviser--removed the tarpaulins from the cages. The cameramen, the grips, the electricians, the sound men--all stared unbelievingly. The script girl grabbed Mr. Untz's hand and dug her fingernails into it. The makeup stylist clutched the lapels of his mauve jacket and fainted. "Nothing to be afraid of," Mr. Untz said to everybody. He was sort of convincing himself too. "Dr. Mildume here knows all about the monsters. He's got everything under control. So tell everybody about them, Doctor." Mildume nodded, bobbing his short white beard. He thrust his hands into his tweed jacket, looked all around for a moment, then said, "I don't know exactly where the monsters are from. I had my Q-beam pointed into space, and I was focussing it, intending to put it on Mars at the time of proper conjunction. All very complicated. However the beam must have worked prematurely. These monsters began to form in the hydrogen chamber." Several of the listeners looked at other listeners with unmistakable doubt. Unruffled, Dr. Mildume went on, "Now, we can make certain rough assumptions from the form and structure of these monsters. You will notice that except for their appendages they are globularly formed. Any engineer can tell you that the arch and hemisphere sustain the greatest weight for their mass. "We may concede that they come from a planet of very strong gravity. Their skin, for instance, is tough and rigid compared with ours. They have difficulty staying rooted to earth--often a simple multipod movement will send them bouncing to the top of the cage. There is one other factor--the smaller of these creatures seems the more dominant--suggesting that on their home planet smaller beings are more agile and therefore better able to take care of themselves." "There, you see?" interrupted Mr. Untz, slipping into a pause. "That's all there is to it. So now let us please get down to business." So they got down to business. And it was not easy business, photographing these monsters. Keeping the cage wires out of focus required a critical distance for each lens but whenever a camera came too near a fibrilla would shoot forward--at the glass, no doubt--and scare the wits out of the cameramen. The shorter lenses got too much of the surrounding area into the picture. The crew tried and tried. One technician muttered darkly that the organization contract didn't cover this sort of thing. Mr. Untz pleaded and cajoled and heckled and moved about and tried to keep things going. Somehow, anyhow. Eddie Tamoto, the chief cameraman, finally came up to him and said, "It's no use, Max. These cages simply don't allow us to do anything. Why don't we put them in the cages they use for jungle pictures? They're big and camouflaged, and the mesh size is right." "So maybe we'll have to do that," said Mr. Untz. Dr. Mildume dipped his head. "I don't know. I'd like to see these other cages first." "Look," said Mr. Untz. "Don't worry about it. If they hold lions they will hold your whatever-you-call-thems. I'll get the animal trainer, Flaubert, to stand by. He practically talks to animals--except horses, which is his hard luck." The jungle cages were duly summoned and so was Etienne Flaubert of the Golden West Animal Education Studios on Sunset Boulevard. While they waited Mr. Untz stood aside with Harold Potter. He mopped his brow--he gestured at the whole group. "This," he said, "is the story of my life." "It is?" asked Harold. Mr. Untz nodded. "Me, I am an expert on musicals. Musicals I can do with my left hand. But ever since I am in Hollywood I do everything _but_ a musical. And always something gets fouled up. Always there is trouble. You will not believe this, Harold, but I am an unhappy man." "I believe it," said Harold. Mr. Untz looked at him sharply and said, "You don't have to believe it so quickly. You could give me a chance to explain." "Look," said Harold--now being truly interested and forgetting some of the first principles of buttering-up one's boss, "take the scientific attitude. Everything is _relative_." "Yes," said Mr. Untz, "In Hollywood everything is relatives, believe me." "No, no--I wasn't referring to nepotism," said Harold. "I was thinking that you and many others, of course, prefer musicals. But there are vast other groups who prefer westerns, detectives, comedies or what have you. One man's meat is another's poison. "But nourishment stays the same in principle. The artistic demands still hold and a good picture is a picture, whatever its field. Now, if you, as a producer, can shift to the other fellow's viewpoint--find out why the thing that terrifies you amuses him--or vice versa." "Harold," said Mr. Untz, not without suspicion, "are you an assistant producer or a philosopher?" "Sometimes to be the one," sighed Harold, "you have to be the other." The big jungle cage arrived presently. While it was being set up another assistant came to Mr. Untz and said, "Jimsy LaRoche is outside, yelling to get in, Mr. Untz." Mr. Untz whirled on the assistant and said, "Tell that overpaid brat--who I personally didn't want in my picture in the first place--tell him in the second place the President of the United States could not get in here this afternoon. No, wait a minute, that wouldn't mean anything to him--he makes more money than the President. Just tell him no." "Yes, sir," said the assistant. He left. About then the animal trainer, Etienne Flaubert, was admitted. He walked right up to Mr. Untz. Flaubert was nearly seven feet tall. He had tremendous shoulders and none of it was coat padding. He had a chest one might have gone over Niagara Falls in. He had a huge golden beard. When he spoke it sounded like the bass viol section of the Los Angeles Symphony tuning up. He said to Mr. Untz, "Where are these monsters I hear about? I'd like to see the monster that isn't just a big kitty, like all the rest. Big kitties, that's all they are. You gotta know how to handle them." Mr. Untz led Flaubert to the cage and said, "There." Flaubert gasped. Then he steadied himself. The monsters had been maneuvered into the bigger cage by now--Dr. Mildume had enticed them with broken electric light bulbs and slammed the drop-doors behind them by a remote-control rope. They had finished their meal of glass. They were curled in a corner of the cage now, tentacles wrapped about each other, squeaking contentedly. Flaubert recovered a bit. "Kitties, just big kitties," he growled. Eddie Tamoto called, "Hey, Max, we'd like to get 'em in the center of the cage for a shot." He was gesturing from the camera boom seat. "Only moving around. You know--looking fierce." "Can you do it, Flaubert?" said Mr. Untz, turning to the big trainer. "Just big kitties," said Flaubert. He had brought his own whip and blank cartridge pistol. His assistant stood by with a .30-30 rifle. Dr. Mildume opened the door quickly and Flaubert slipped into the cage. "Okay--get set, everybody!" yelled Mr. Untz. People scurried. An attendant switched on the warning light and rocker arm that warned people outside of the stage not to barge in. "Quiet!" yelled Mr. Untz. "Quiet--_quiet_!" yelled several assistants. The order went down the line. Through channels. And there stood Etienne Flaubert, huge and more or less unafraid, in the middle of the cage. The monsters in the corner began slowly to uncoil their tentacles from about each other. Their eye-stalks rose and began to wave slowly. Their red saw-toothed mouths worked into pouts, gapes and grins. The smaller of the two suddenly shuddered all over. Its angry chirping noise shrilled through the sound stage. Its tough skin vibrated--blurred. It sprang suddenly to its multipods and charged Flaubert. Flaubert screamed an unholy scream. He threw the chair and the whip and the gun at the monster and dove from the exit. Dr. Mildume opened the cage door with his rope and Flaubert went through it--himself a blur. The monster, in his wake, slammed into the door and stayed there, trembling, still chirping its rage. "Hully gee, what kitties!" said Flaubert, pale and sweating. Mr. Untz groaned. "I got some of it!" yelled Eddie Tamoto from his camera. "It was terrific! But we need more!" Then--simultaneously--there were several loud screams of alarm. Mr. Untz looked at the cage again. The smaller monster had found a crack, and was moving the cage door and squeezing through. "Harold!" shouted Mr. Untz. "_Do something!_" Harold stepped forward. "Back everybody," he said in his best calm voice. "Walk--do not run--to the nearest exit." The second monster was already vibrating across the cage and the smaller one was holding the door open for it. Dr. Mildume had tried to maneuver the control ropes to close the door again, but hadn't been able to work them--and now he had left his post. Harold pointed to the man with the rifle and said, "Fire!" The rifleman fired. Nothing--nothing at all happened. He fired several times more. The monsters didn't even jerk when the bullets hit them. "They're--they're impervious yet!" cried Mr. Untz. After that it was every man for himself. Moments later Harold found himself outside of the sound stage and on the studio street, bunched with the others and staring at the thick closed door. Nobody spoke. Everybody just thrummed silently with the knowledge that two alien monsters were in there, wreaking heaven knew what damage.... And then, as they stared, the thick door began to open again. "It isn't locked!" breathed Mr. Untz. "Nobody remembered to lock it again!" A tentacle peeked out of the crack of the door. Everybody scattered a second time. Harold never remembered the order in which things happened amidst the confusion that followed. It seemed he and Mr. Untz ran blindly, side by side, down the studio street for awhile. It seemed all kinds of people were also running, in all kinds of directions. Bells were ringing--sirens blew--a blue studio police car took a corner on two wheels and barely missed them. Harold had a glimpse of uniformed men with drawn pistols. They ended up somehow at Mr. Untz's office-cottage. They went inside and Mr. Untz locked the door and slammed his back to it. He leaned there, panting. He said, "Trouble, trouble, trouble. I should have stayed in Vienna. And in Vienna I should have stood in bed." The door of the shower and dressing-room opened and Jimsy LaRoche came out. He had a number of snails in his out-stretched hand and he coolly kept them there, making no attempt to conceal his obvious purpose in the shower. He looked directly at Mr. Untz with his dark disconcerting eleven-year-old eyes and said, "Well, Max, what goof-off did you pull this time?" "_You!_" roared Mr. Untz, whirling and shooting a finger at the child star. A focusing point for all his troubles, at last. His jowls shook. "You, Jimsy LaRoche," he said, "are going to get your first old fashioned spanking on the bottom! From me, personally!" He advanced toward the boy, who backed away hastily. Jimsy began to look a little frightened. "Now wait a minute, Max," said Harold, stepping forward. "We've got enough _big_ monsters to think about without worrying about this _little_ monster too." Mr. Untz stared at Harold queerly. Suddenly he said, "Why didn't I think of it before?" "Think of what?" asked Harold. But Mr. Untz had already grabbed Jimsy LaRoche's hand and dragged him through the door. There were several reasons why Harold Potter did not immediately pursue. For one thing he stood there for several moments stupified with surprise. Then, when he did recover, he plunged forward and promptly tripped on the cream-colored carpet and fell flat on his face. He tripped again going over the step to the cottage door. He bumped into a studio policeman rounding the next corner. He snagged his coat on a fence picket going around the corner after that. But he kept Mr. Untz and the dragged youngster in sight. Eventually he came to the door of Sound Stage Six. Speaking from a police standpoint all laymen had disappeared. A ring of studio police and firemen, along with some policemen and detectives from the outside, had been drawn around the monsters and everybody and his brother was shooting off pistols and rifles at them. With no result, of course. Nor did anyone dare get too close. Harold caught up with Mr. Untz about the time a man he recognized as a reporter did. The reporter was stout, freckled and bespectacled. "_Untz!_" barked the reporter, with all the power of the press in his voice, "do you realize this is a national danger? If those monsters can't be stopped by bullets, what will stop them? Where will it all end? Where did they come from?" "Look in tomorrow's paper!" growled Mr. Untz, brushing the reporter aside. He kept Jimsy's arm in a firm grip. Jimsy was bawling at the top of his lungs now. Mr. Untz breasted the police cordon, broke through. "Max! _Stop!_" shouted Harold. "Max--have you gone mad?" Max evidently had. He moved so swiftly that everyone was too surprised to stop him. He burst into the small human-walled arena where the two bewildered monsters squatted and he thrust little Jimsy LaRoche out before him--right at the monsters. An extraordinary thing happened. The monsters suddenly began to quiver and squeak again but this time--it was clear to the ear somehow--not with rage, but with _fear_. Pure and terrible fear. They trained their eye-stalks on Jimsy LaRoche, they paled to a lighter shade of brown and green, then slowly they began to back away. "Hold your fire, men!" called a police captain, probably just to get into the act. Dr. Mildume appeared again from somewhere. So did Etienne Flaubert. So did Eddie Tamoto and some of the other technicians. They gaped and stared. Slowly, inexorably, using Jimsy LaRoche as his threat, Mr. Untz backed the two monsters into the studio, and gradually to the cage. Dr. Mildume leaped forward to shut them in once more. And through it all Jimsy LaRoche continued to bawl at the top of his lungs. * * * * * Later, in Mr. Untz's office-cottage, Harold read the newspaper accounts. He read every word while Mr. Untz was in the other room taking a shower. He had to admit that Max had even thrown a little credit his way. "My assistant, Mr. Potter," Untz was quoted as saying, "indirectly gave me the idea when he said that one man's meat was another man's poison. "Dr. Mildume had already explained that the monsters came from a high-gravity planet--that the smaller of the species evidently seemed the more capable, and therefore the dominant one." Harold was sure now that the statement had been polished up a bit by the publicity department. "The only logical assumption, then," the statement continued, "was that small stature would dominate these life forms, rather than large stature, as in the environment we know. They were, in other words, terrified by tiny Jimsy LaRoche--whose latest picture, 'The Atomic Fissionist and the Waif,' is now at your local theatre, by the way--as an Earth-being might have been terrified by a giant!" Mr. Untz came out of the shower at that point. He was radiant in a canary-colored rayon sharkskin. He was rubbing his hands. He was beaming. "Harold," he said, "they're putting me on a musical next. I got them twined around my little finger. Life is good. I think that screwy Dr. Mildume was smart to send those things back out into space before they could get to him. Otherwise we might have _had_ to put them in pictures and with contracts yet." "Max," said Harold, staring at him quietly. "Yes, Harold?" "Just answer me one thing truthfully. I swear I'll never repeat it--or even blame you. But for my own curiosity I've got to know." "Why certainly, Harold, what is it?" Harold Potter swallowed hard. "Did you," he asked, "_really_ figure out that Jimsy would scare the beasts--or were you about to _throw_ the little brat to them?" Transcriber Notes This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, January 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication has been renewed. 
23116	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 23116-h.htm or 23116-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/1/1/23116/23116-h/23116-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/1/1/23116/23116-h.zip) RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST Or The Hermit of Beach Plum Point by ALICE B. EMERSON Author of "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," "Ruth Fielding at Sunrise Farm," "Ruth Fielding Homeward Bound," Etc. Illustrated [Illustration: TOM CAST ASIDE HIS SWEATER AND PLUNGED INTO THE TIDE. _Ruth Fielding Down East Page 113_] New York Cupples & Leon Company Publishers Books for Girls BY ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST CUPPLES & LEON CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. Copyright, 1920, by Cupples & Leon Company Ruth Fielding Down East Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE WIND STORM 1 II. THE MYSTERY OF IT 7 III. THE DERELICT 14 IV. THE CRYING NEED 22 V. OFF AT LAST 29 VI. "THE NEVERGETOVERS" 35 VII. MOVIE STUNTS 43 VIII. THE AUCTION BLOCK 52 IX. A DISMAYING DISCOVERY 67 X. A WILD AFTERNOON 77 XI. MR. PETERBY PAUL--AND "WHOSIS" 86 XII. ALONGSHORE 95 XIII. THE HERMIT 104 XIV. A QUOTATION 113 XV. AN AMAZING SITUATION 122 XVI. RUTH SOLVES ONE PROBLEM 129 XVII. JOHN, THE HERMIT'S, CONTRIBUTION 136 XVIII. UNCERTAINTIES 144 XIX. COUNTERCLAIMS 152 XX. THE GRILL 159 XXI. A HERMIT FOR REVENUE ONLY 171 XXII. AN ARRIVAL 180 XXIII. TROUBLE--PLENTY 186 XXIV. ABOUT "PLAIN MARY" 193 XXV. LIFTING THE CURTAIN 199 RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST CHAPTER I THE WIND STORM Across the now placidly flowing Lumano where it widened into almost the proportions of a lake just below the picturesque Red Mill, a bank of tempestuous clouds was shouldering into view above the sky line of the rugged and wooded hills. These slate-colored clouds, edged with pallid light, foredoomed the continuance of the peaceful summer afternoon. Not a breath of air stirred on the near side of the river. The huge old elms shading the Red Mill and the farmhouse connected with it belonging to Mr. Jabez Potter, the miller, were like painted trees, so still were they. The brooding heat of midday, however, had presaged the coming storm, and it had been prepared for at mill and farmhouse. The tempest was due soon. The backyard of the farmhouse--a beautiful lawn of short grass--sloped down to the river. On the bank and over the stream itself was set a summer-house of fair proportions, covered with vines--a cool and shady retreat on the very hottest day of midsummer. A big robin redbreast had been calling his raucous weather warning from the top of one of the trees near the house; but, with her back to the river and the coming storm, the girl in the pavilion gave little heed to this good-intentioned weather prophet. She did raise her eyes, however, at the querulous whistle of a striped creeper that was wriggling through the intertwined branches of the trumpet-vine in search of insects. Ruth Fielding was always interested in those busy, helpful little songsters. "You cute little thing!" she murmured, at last catching sight of the flashing bird between the stems of the old vine. "I wish I could put _you_ into my scenario." On the table at which she was sitting was a packet of typewritten sheets which she had been annotating, and two fat note books. She laid down her gold-mounted fountain pen as she uttered these words, and then sighed and pushed her chair back from the table. Then she stood up suddenly. A sound had startled her. She looked all about the summer-house--a sharp, suspicious glance. Then she tiptoed to the door and peered out. The creeper fluttered away. The robin continued to shout his warning. Had it really been a rustling in the vines she had heard? Was there somebody lurking about the summer-house? She stepped out and looked on both sides. It was then she saw how threatening the aspect of the clouds on the other side of the river were. The sight drove from her thoughts for the moment the strange sound she had heard. She did not take pains to look beneath the summer-house on the water side. Instead, another sound assailed her ears. This time one that she could not mistake for anything but just what it was--the musical horn of Tom Cameron's automobile. Ruth turned swiftly to look up the road. A dark maroon car, long and low-hung like a racer, was coming along the road, leaving a funnel of dust behind it. There were two people in the car. The girl beside the driver--black-haired and petite--fluttered her handkerchief in greeting when she saw Ruth standing by the summer-house. At once the latter ran across the yard, over the gentle rise, and down to the front gate of the Potter farmhouse. She ran splendidly with a free stride of untrammeled limbs, but she held one shoulder rather stiffly. "Oh, Ruth!" "Oh, Helen!" The car was at the gate, and Tom brought it to a prompt stop. Helen, his twin sister, was out of it instantly and almost leaped into the bigger girl's arms. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" sobbed Helen. "You _are_ alive after all that horrible experience coming home from Europe." "And you are alive and safe, dear Helen," responded Ruth Fielding, quite as deeply moved. It was the first time they had met since separating in Paris a month before. And in these times of war, with peace still an uncertainty, there were many perils to fear between the port of Brest and that of New York. Tom, in uniform and with a ribbon and medal on his breast, grinned teasingly at the two girls. "Come, come! Break away! Only twenty seconds allowed in a clinch. Don't Helen look fine, Ruth? How's the shoulder?" "Just a bit stiff yet," replied the girl of the Red Mill, kissing her chum again. At this moment the first sudden swoop of the tempest arrived. The tall elms writhed as though taken with St. Vitus's dance. The hens began to screech and run to cover. Thunder muttered in the distance. "Oh, dear me!" gasped Ruth, paling unwontedly, for she was not by nature a nervous girl. "Come right into the house, Helen. You could not get to Cheslow or back home before this storm breaks. Put your car under the shed, Tom." She dragged her friend into the yard and up the warped flag stones to the side door of the cottage. A little old woman who had been sitting on the porch in a low rocking chair arose with difficulty, leaning on a cane. "Oh, my back, and oh, my bones!" murmured Aunt Alvirah Boggs, who was not long out of a sick bed herself and would never again be as "spry" as she once had been. "Do come in, dearies. It is a wind storm." Ruth stopped to help the little old woman. She continued pale, but her thought for Aunt Alvirah's comfort caused her to put aside her own fear. The trio entered the house and closed the door. In a moment there was a sharp patter against the house. The rain had begun in big drops. The rear door was opened, and Tom, laughing and shaking the water from his cap, dashed into the living room. He wore the insignia of a captain under his dust-coat and the distinguishing marks of a very famous division of the A. E. F. "It's a buster!" he declared. "There's a paper sailing like a kite over the roof of the old mill----" Ruth sprang up with a shriek. She ran to the back door by which Tom had just entered and tore it open. "Oh, do shut the door, deary!" begged Aunt Alvirah. "That wind is 'nough to lift the roof." "What _is_ the matter, Ruth?" demanded Helen. But Tom ran out after her. He saw the girl leap from the porch and run madly down the path toward the summer-house. Back on the wind came a broken word or two of explanation: "My papers! My scenario! The best thing I ever did, Tom!" He had almost caught up to her when she reached the little pavilion. The wind from across the river was tearing through the summer-house at a sixty-mile-an-hour speed. "Oh! It's gone!" Ruth cried, and had Tom not caught her she would have dropped to the ground. There was not a scrap of paper left upon the table, nor anywhere in the place. Even the two fat notebooks had disappeared, and, too, the gold-mounted pen the girl of the Red Mill had been using. All, all seemed to have been swept out of the summer-house. CHAPTER II THE MYSTERY OF IT For half a minute Tom Cameron did not know just what to do for Ruth. Then the water spilled out of the angry clouds overhead and bade fair to drench them. He half carried Ruth into the summer-house and let her rest upon a bench, sitting beside her with his arm tenderly supporting her shoulders. Ruth had begun to sob tempestuously. Ruth Fielding weeping! She might have cried many times in the past, but almost always in secret. Tom, who knew her so well, had seen her in dangerous and fear-compelling situations, and she had not wept. "What is it?" he demanded. "What have you lost?" "My scenario! All my work gone!" "The new story? My goodness, Ruth, it couldn't have blown away!" "But it has!" she wailed. "Not a scrap of it left. My notebooks--my pen! Why!" and she suddenly controlled her sobs, for she was, after all, an eminently practical girl. "Could that fountain pen have been carried away by the windstorm, too?" "There goes a barrel through the air," shouted Tom. "That's heavier than a fountain pen. Say, this is some wind!" The sound of the dashing rain now almost drowned their voices. It sprayed them through the porous shelter of the vines and latticework so that they could not sit on the bench. Ruth huddled upon the table with Tom Cameron standing between her and the drifting mist of the storm. She looked across the rain-drenched yard to the low-roofed house. She had first seen it with a home-hungry heart when a little girl and an orphan. How many, many strange experiences she had had since that time, which seemed so long ago! Nor had she then dreamed, as "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill," as the first volume of this series is called, that she would lead the eventful life she had since that hour. Under the niggard care of miserly old Jabez Potter, the miller, her great uncle, tempered by the loving kindness of Aunt Alvirah Boggs, the miller's housekeeper, Ruth's prospects had been poor indeed. But Providence moves in mysterious ways. Seemingly unexpected chances had broadened Ruth's outlook on life and given her advantages that few girls in her sphere secure. First she was enabled to go to a famous boarding school, Briarwood Hall, with her dearest chum, Helen Cameron. There she began to make friends and widen her experience by travel. With Helen, Tom, and other young friends, Ruth had adventures, as the titles of the series of books run, at Snow Camp, at Lighthouse Point, at Silver Ranch, on Cliff Island, at Sunrise Farm, with the Gypsies, in Moving Pictures, and Down in Dixie. With the eleventh volume of the series Ruth and her chums, Helen Cameron and Jennie Stone, begin their life at Ardmore College. As freshmen their experiences are related in "Ruth Fielding at College; Or, The Missing Examination Papers." This volume is followed by "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle; Or, College Girls in the Land of Gold," wherein Ruth's first big scenario is produced by the Alectrion Film Corporation. As was the fact with so many of our college boys and girls, the World War interfered most abruptly and terribly with Ruth's peaceful current of life. America went into the war and Ruth into Red Cross work almost simultaneously. In "Ruth Fielding in the Red Cross; Or, Doing Her Bit for Uncle Sam," the Girl of the Red Mill gained a very practical experience in the work of the great peace organization which does so much to smooth the ravages of war. Then, in "Ruth Fielding at the War Front; Or, The Hunt for the Lost Soldier," the Red Cross worker was thrown into the very heart of the tremendous struggle, and in northern France achieved a name for courage that her college mates greatly envied. Wounded and nerve-racked because of her experiences, Ruth was sent home, only to meet, as related in the fifteenth volume of the series, "Ruth Fielding Homeward Bound; Or, A Red Cross Worker's Ocean Perils," an experience which seemed at first to be disastrous. In the end, however, the girl reached the Red Mill in a physical and mental state which made any undue excitement almost a tragedy for her. The mysterious disappearance of the moving picture scenario, which had been on her heart and mind for months and which she had finally brought, she believed, to a successful termination, actually shocked Ruth Fielding. She could not control herself for the moment. Against Tom Cameron's uniformed shoulder she sobbed frankly. His arm stole around her. "Don't take on so, Ruthie," he urged. "Of course we'll find it all. Wait till this rain stops----" "It never blew away, Tom," she said. "Why, of course it did!" "No. The sheets of typewritten manuscript were fastened together with a big brass clip. Had they been lose and the wind taken them, we should have seen at least some of them flying about. And the notebooks!" "And the pen?" murmured Tom, seeing the catastrophe now as she did. "Why, Ruthie! Could somebody have taken them all?" "Somebody must!" "But who?" demanded the young fellow. "You have no enemies." "Not here, I hope," she sighed. "I left them all behind." He chuckled, although he was by no means unappreciative of the seriousness of her loss. "Surely that German aviator who dropped the bomb on you hasn't followed you here." "Don't talk foolishly, Tom!" exclaimed the girl, getting back some of her usual good sense. "Of course, I have no enemy. But a thief is every honest person's enemy." "Granted. But where is the thief around the Red Mill?" "I do not know." "Can it be possible that your uncle or Ben saw the things here and rescued them just before the storm burst?" "We will ask," she said, with a sigh. "But I can imagine no reason for either Uncle Jabez or Ben to come down here to the shore of the river. Oh, Tom! it is letting up." "Good! I'll look around first of all. If there has been a skulker near----" "Now, don't be rash," she cried. "We're not behind the German lines now, Fraulein Mina von Brenner," and he laughed as he went out of the summer-house. He did not smile when he was searching under the house and beating the brush clumps near by. He realized that this loss was a very serious matter for Ruth. She was now independent of Uncle Jabez, but her income was partly derived from her moving picture royalties. During her war activities she had been unable to do much work, and Tom knew that Ruth had spent of her own means a great deal in the Red Cross work. Ruth had refused to tell her friends the first thing about this new story for the screen. She believed it to be the very best thing she had ever originated, and she said she wished to surprise them all. He even knew that all her notes and "before-the-finish" writing was in the notebooks that had now gone with the completed manuscript. It looked more than mysterious. It was suspicious. Tom looked all around the summer-house. Of course, after this hard downpour it was impossible to mark any footsteps. Nor, indeed, did the raider need to leave such a trail in getting to and departing from the little vine-covered pavilion. The sward was heavy all about it save on the river side. The young man found not a trace. Nor did he see a piece of paper anywhere. He was confident that Ruth's papers and notebooks and pen had been removed by some human agency. And it could not have been a friend who had done this thing. CHAPTER III THE DERELICT "Didn't you find anything, Tom?" Ruth Fielding asked, as Helen's twin re-entered the summer-house. His long automobile coat glistened with wet and his face was wind-blown. Tom Cameron's face, too, looked much older than it had--well, say a year before. He, like Ruth herself, had been through much in the war zone calculated to make him more sedate and serious than a college undergraduate is supposed to be. "I did not see even a piece of paper blowing about," he told her. "But before we came down from the house you said you saw a paper blow over the roof like a kite." "That was an outspread newspaper. It was not a sheet of your manuscript." "Then it all must have been stolen!" she cried. "At least, human agency must have removed the things you left on this table," he said. "Oh, Tom!" "Now, now, Ruth! It's tough, I know----" But she recovered a measure of her composure almost immediately. Unnerved as she had first been by the disaster, she realized that to give way to her trouble would not do the least bit of good. "An ordinary thief," Tom suggested after a moment, "would not consider your notes and the play of much value." "I suppose not," she replied. "If they are stolen it must be by somebody who understands--or thinks he does--the value of the work. Somebody who thinks he can sell a moving picture scenario." "Oh, Tom!" "A gold mounted fountain pen would attract any petty thief," he went on to say. "But surely the itching fingers of such a person would not be tempted by that scenario." "Then, which breed of thief stole my scenario, Tom?" she demanded. "You are no detective. Your deductions suggest two thieves." "Humph! So they do. Maybe they run in pairs. But I can't really imagine two light-fingered people around the Red Mill at once. Seen any tramps lately?" "We seldom see the usual tramp around here," said Ruth, shaking her head. "We are too far off the railroad line. And the Cheslow constables keep them moving if they land _there_." "Could anybody have done it for a joke?" asked Tom suddenly. "If they have," Ruth said, wiping her eyes, "it is the least like a joke of anything that ever happened to me. Why, Tom! I couldn't lay out that scenario again, and think of all the details, and get it just so, in a year!" "Oh, Ruth!" "I mean it! And even my notes are gone. Oh, dear! I'd never have the heart to write that scenario again. I don't know that I shall ever write another, anyway. I'm discouraged," sobbed the girl suddenly. "Oh, Ruth! don't give way like this," he urged, with rather a boyish fear of a girl's tears. "I've given way already," she choked. "I just feel that I'll never be able to put that scenario into shape again. And I'd written Mr. Hammond so enthusiastically about it." "Oh! Then he knows all about it!" said Tom. "That is more than any of us do. You wouldn't tell us a thing." "And I didn't tell him. He doesn't know the subject, or the title, or anything about it. I tell you, Tom, I had _such_ a good idea----" "And you've got the idea yet, haven't you? Cheer up! Of course you can do it over." "Suppose," demanded Ruth quickly, "this thief that has got my manuscript should offer it to some producer? Why! if I tried to rewrite it and bring it out, I might be accused of plagiarizing my own work." "Jimminy!" "I wouldn't dare," said Ruth, shaking her head. "As long as I do not know what has become of the scenario and my notes, I will not dare use the idea at all. It is dreadful!" The rain was now falling less torrentially. The tempest was passing. Soon there was even a rift in the clouds in the northwest where a patch of blue sky shone through "big enough to make a Scotchman a pair of breeches," as Aunt Alvirah would say. "We'd better go up to the house," sighed Ruth. "I'll go right around to the neighbors and see if anybody has noticed a stranger in the vicinity," Tom suggested. "There's Ben! Do you suppose he has seen anybody?" A lanky young man, his clothing gray with flour dust, came from the back door of the mill and hastened under the dripping trees to reach the porch of the farmhouse. He stood there, smiling broadly at them, as Ruth and Tom hurriedly crossed the yard. "Good day, Mr. Tom," said Ben, the miller's helper. Then he saw Ruth's troubled countenance. "Wha--what's the matter, Ruthie?" "Ben, I've lost something." "Bless us an' save us, no!" "Yes, I have. Something very valuable. It's been stolen." "You don't mean it!" "But I do! Some manuscript out of the summer-house yonder." "And her gold-mounted fountain pen," added Tom. "That would tempt somebody." "My goodness!" Ben could express his simple wonderment in a variety of phrases. But he seemed unable to go beyond these explosive expressions. "Ben, wake up!" exclaimed Ruth. "Have you any idea who would have taken it?" "That gold pen, Ruthie? Why--why---- A thief!" "Old man," said Tom with suppressed disgust, "you're a wonder. How did you guess it?" "Hush, Tom," Ruth said. Then: "Now, Ben, just think. Who has been around here to-day? Any stranger, I mean." "Why--I dunno," said the mill hand, puckering his brows. "Think!" she commanded again. "Why--why----old Jep Parloe drove up for a grinding." "He's not a stranger." "Oh, yes he is, Ruthie. Me nor Mr. Potter ain't seen him before for nigh three months. Your uncle up and said to him, 'Why, you're a stranger, Mr. Parloe.'" "I mean," said Ruth, with patience, "anybody whom you have never seen before--or anybody whom you might suspect would steal." "Well," drawled Ben stubbornly, "your uncle, Ruthie, says old Jep ain't any too honest." "I know all about that," Ruth said. "But Parloe did not leave his team and go down to the summer-house, did he?" "Oh, no!" "Did you see anybody go down that way?" "Don't believe I did--savin' you yourself, Ruthie." "I left a manuscript and my pen on the table there. I ran out to meet Tom and Helen when they came." "I seen you," said Ben. "Then it was just about that time that somebody sneaked into that summer-house and stole those things." "I didn't see anybody snuck in there," declared Ben, with more confidence than good English. "Say!" ejaculated Tom, impatiently, "haven't you seen any tramp, or straggler, or Gypsy--or anybody like that?" "Hi gorry!" suddenly said Ben, "I do remember. There was a man along here this morning--a preacher, or something like that. Had a black frock coat on and wore his hair long and sort o' wavy. He was shabby enough to be a tramp, that's a fact. But he was a real knowledgeable feller--he was that. Stood at the mill door and recited po'try for us." "Poetry!" exclaimed Tom. "To you and Uncle Jabez?" asked Ruth. "Uh-huh. All about 'to be or not to be a bean--that is the question.' And something about his having suffered from the slung shots and bow arrers of outrageous fortune--whatever that might be. I guess he got it all out of the Scriptures. Your uncle said he was bugs; but I reckoned he was a preacher." "Jimminy!" muttered Tom. "A derelict actor, I bet. Sounds like a Shakespearean ham." "Goodness!" said Ruth. "Between the two of you boys I get a very strange idea of this person." "Where did he go, Ben?" Tom asked. "I didn't watch him. He only hung around a little while. I think he axed your uncle for some money, or mebbe something to eat. You see, he didn't know Mr. Potter." "Not if he struck him for a hand-out," muttered the slangy Tom. "Oh, Ben! don't you know whether he went toward Cheslow--or where?" cried Ruth. "Does it look probable to you," Tom asked, "that a derelict actor---- Oh, Jimminy! Of course! _He_ would be just the person to see the value of that play script at a glance!" "Oh, Tom!" "Have you no idea where he went, Ben?" Tom again demanded of the puzzled mill hand. "No, Mister Tom. I didn't watch him." "I'll get out the car at once and hunt all about for him," Tom said quickly. "You go in to Helen and Aunt Alvirah, Ruth. You'll be sick if you let this get the best of you. I'll find that miserable thief of a ham actor--if he's to be found." He added this last under his breath as he ran for the shed where he had sheltered his automobile. CHAPTER IV THE CRYING NEED Tom Cameron chased about the neighborhood for more than two hours in his fast car hunting the trail of the man who he had decided must be a wandering theatrical performer. Of course, this was a "long shot," Tom said; but the trampish individual of whom Ben had told was much more likely to be an actor than a preacher. Tom, however, was able to find no trace of the fellow until he got to the outskirts of Cheslow, the nearest town. Here he found a man who had seen a long-haired fellow in a shabby frock coat and black hat riding toward the railroad station beside one of the farmers who lived beyond the Red Mill. This was following the tempest which had burst over the neighborhood at mid-afternoon. Trailing this information farther, Tom learned that the shabby man had been seen about the railroad yards. Mr. Curtis, the railroad station master, had observed him. But suddenly the tramp had disappeared. Whether he had hopped Number 10, bound north, or Number 43, bound south, both of which trains had pulled out of Cheslow within the hour, nobody could be sure. Tom returned to the Red Mill at dusk, forced to report utter failure. "If that bum actor stole your play, Ruth, he's got clear way with it," Tom said bluntly. "I'm awfully sorry----" "Does that help?" demanded his sister snappishly, as though it were somewhat Tom's fault. "You go home, Tom. I'm going to stay with Ruthie to-night," and she followed her chum into the bedroom to which she had fled at Tom's announcement of failure. "Jimminy!" murmured Tom to the old miller who was still at the supper table. "And we aren't even sure that that fellow did steal the scenario." "Humph!" rejoined Uncle Jabez. "You'll find, if you live to be old enough, young feller, that women folks is kittle cattle. No knowing how they'll take anything. That pen cost five dollars, I allow; but them papers only had writing on 'em, and it does seem to me that what you have writ once you ought to be able to write again. That's the woman of it. She don't say a thing about that pen, Ruthie don't." However, Tom Cameron saw farther into the mystery than Uncle Jabez appeared to. And after a day or two, with Ruth still "moping about like a moulting hen," as the miller expressed it, the young officer felt that he must do something to change the atmosphere of the Red Mill farmhouse. "Our morale has gone stale, girls," he declared to his sister and Ruth. "Worrying never did any good yet." "That's a true word, Sonny," said Aunt Alvirah, from her chair. "'Care killed the cat.' my old mother always said, and she had ten children to bring up and a drunken husband who was a trial. He warn't my father. He was her second, an' she took him, I guess, 'cause he was ornamental. He was a sign painter when he worked. But he mostly advertised King Alcohol by painting his nose red. "We children sartain sure despised that man. But mother was faithful to her vows, and she made quite a decent member of the community of that man before she left off. And, le's see! We was talkin' about cats, warn't we?" "You were, Aunty dear," said Ruth, laughing for the first time in several days. "Hurrah!" said Tom, plunging head-first into his idea. "That's just what I wanted to hear." "What?" demanded Helen. "I have wanted to hear Ruth laugh. And we all need to laugh. Why, we are becoming a trio of old fogies!" "Speak for yourself, Master Tom," pouted his sister. "I do. And for you. And certainly Ruth is about as cheerful as a funeral mute. What we all need is some fun." "Oh, Tom, I don't feel at all like 'funning,'" sighed Ruth. "You be right, Sonny," interjected Aunt Alvirah, who sometimes forgot that Tom, as well as the girls, was grown up. She rose from her chair with her usual, "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones! You young folks should be dancing and frolicking----" "But the war, Auntie!" murmured Ruth. "You'll neither make peace nor mar it by worriting. No, no, my pretty! And 'tis a bad thing when young folks grow old before their time." "You're always saying that, Aunt Alvirah," Ruth complained. "But how can one be jolly if one does not feel jolly?" "My goodness!" cried Tom, "you were notoriously the jolliest girl in that French hospital. Didn't the _poilus_ call you the jolly American? And listen to Grandmother Grunt now!" "I suppose it is so," sighed Ruth. "But I must have used up all my fund of cheerfulness for those poor _blessés_. It does seem as though the font of my jollity had quite dried up." "I wish Heavy Stone were here," said Helen suddenly. "_She'd_ make us laugh." "She and her French colonel are spooning down there at Lighthouse Point," scoffed Ruth--and not at all as Ruth Fielding was wont to speak. "Say!" Tom interjected, "I bet Heavy is funny even when she is in love." "_That's_ a reputation!" murmured Ruth. "They are not at Lighthouse Point. The Stones did not go there this summer, I understand," Helen observed. "I am sorry for Jennie and Colonel Marchand if they are at the Stones' city house at this time of the year," the girl of the Red Mill said. "Bully!" cried Tom, with sudden animation. "That's just what we will do!" "What will we do, crazy?" demanded his twin. "We'll get Jennie Stone and Henri Marchand--he's a good sport, too, as I very well know--and we'll all go for a motor trip. Jimminy Christmas! that will be just the thing, Sis. We'll go all over New England, if you like. We'll go Down East and introduce Colonel Marchand to some of our hard-headed and tight-fisted Yankees that have done their share towards injecting America into the war. We will----" "Oh!" cried Ruth, breaking in with some small enthusiasm, "let's go to Beach Plum Point." "Where is that?" asked Helen. "It is down in Maine. Beyond Portland. And Mr. Hammond and his company are there making my 'Seaside Idyl.'" "Oh, bully!" cried Helen, repeating one of her brother's favorite phrases, and now quite as excited over the idea as he. "I do so love to act in movies. Is there a part in that 'Idyl' story for me?" "I cannot promise that," Ruth said. "It would be up to the director. I wasn't taking much interest in this particular picture. I wrote the scenario, you know, before I went to France. I have been giving all my thought to---- "Oh, dear! If we could only find my lost story!" "Come on!" interrupted Tom. "Let's not talk about that. Will you write to Jennie Stone?" "I will. At once," his sister declared. "Do. I'll take it to the post office and send it special delivery. Tell her to wire her answer, and let it be 'yes.' We'll take both cars. Father won't mind." "Oh, _but_!" cried Helen. "How about a chaperon?" "Oh, shucks! I wish you'd marry some nice fellow, Sis, so that we'd always have a chaperon on tap and handy." She made a little face at him. "I am going to be old-maid aunt to your many children, Tommy-boy. I am sure you will have a full quiver. We will have to look for a chaperon." "Aunt Kate!" exclaimed Ruth. "Heavy's Aunt Kate. She is just what Helen declares she wants to be--an old-maid aunt." "And a lovely lady," cried Helen. "Sure. Ask her. Beg her," agreed Tom. "Tell her it is the crying need. We have positively got to have some fun." "Well, I suppose we may as well," Ruth sighed, in agreement. "Yes. We have always pampered the boy," declared Helen, her eyes twinkling. "I know just what I'll wear, Ruthie." "Oh, we've clothes enough," admitted the girl of the Red Mill rather listlessly. "Shucks!" said Tom again. "Never mind the fashions. Get that letter written, Sis." So it was agreed. Helen wrote, the letter was sent. With Jennie Stone's usual impulsiveness she accepted for herself and "_mon Henri_" and Aunt Kate, promising to be at Cheslow within three days, and all within the limits of a ten-word telegram! CHAPTER V OFF AT LAST "The ancients," stated Jennie Stone solemnly, "burned incense upon any and all occasions--red letter days, labor days, celebrating Columbus Day and the morning after, I presume. But we moderns burn gasoline. And, phew! I believe I should prefer the stale smoke of incense in the unventilated pyramids of Egypt to this odor of gas. O-o-o-o, Tommy, do let us get started!" "You've started already--in your usual way," he laughed. This was at Cheslow Station on the arrival of the afternoon up train that had brought Miss Stone, her Aunt Kate, and the smiling Colonel Henri Marchand to join the automobile touring party which Jennie soon dubbed "the later Pilgrims." "And that big machine looks much as the _Mayflower_ must have looked steering across Cape Cod Bay on that special occasion we read of in sacred and profane history, hung about with four-poster beds and whatnots. In our neighborhood," the plump girl added, "there is enough decrepit furniture declared to have been brought over on the _Mayflower_ to have made a cargo for the _Leviathan_." "Oh, _ma chere_! you do but stretch the point, eh?" demanded the handsome Henri Marchand, amazed. "I assure you----" "Don't, Heavy," advised Helen. "You will only go farther and do worse. In my mind there has always been a suspicion that the _Mayflower_ was sent over here by some shipped knocked-down furniture factory. Miles Standish and Priscilla Mullins and John Alden must have hung on by their eyebrows." "Their eyebrows--_ma foi_!" gasped Marchand. "Say, old man," said Tom, laughing, "if you listen to these crazy college girls you will have a fine idea of our historical monuments, and so forth. Take everything with a grain of salt--do." "_Oui, Monsieur!_ But I must have a little pepper, too. I am 'strong,' as you Americans say, for plentiful seasoning." "Isn't he cute?" demanded Jenny Stone. "He takes to American slang like a bird to the air." "Poetry barred!" declared Helen. "Say," Tom remarked aside to the colonel, "you've got all the pep necessary, sure enough, in Jennie." "She is one dear!" sighed the Frenchman. "And she just said you were a bird. You'll have a regular zoo about you yet. Come on. Let's see if we can get this baggage aboard the good ship. It does look a good deal of an ark, doesn't it?" Although Ruth and Aunt Kate had not joined in this repartee, the girl of the Red Mill, as well as their lovely chaperon, enjoyed the fun immensely. Ruth had revived in spirits on meeting her friends. Jennie had flown to her arms at the first greeting, and hugged the girl of the Red Mill with due regard to the mending shoulder. "My dear! My dear!" she had cried. "I _dream_ of you lying all so pale and bloody under that window-sill stone. And what I hear of your and Tom's experiences coming over----" "But worse has happened to me since I arrived home," Ruth said woefully. "No? Impossible!" "Yes. I have had an irreparable loss," sighed Ruth. "I'll tell you about it later." But for the most part the greetings of the two parties was made up as Tom said of "Ohs and Ahs." "Take it from me," the naughty Tom declared to Marchand, "two girls separated for over-night can find more to tell each other about the next morning than we could think of if we should meet at the Resurrection!" The two Cameron cars stood in the station yard, and as the other waiting cars, taxicabs and "flivvers" departed, "the sacred odor of gasoline," which Jennie had remarked upon, was soon dissipated. The big touring car was expertly packed with baggage, and had a big hamper on either running-board as well. There was room remaining, however, for the ladies if they would sit there. But as Tom was to drive the big car he insisted that Ruth sit with him in the front seat for company. As for his racing car, he had turned that over to Marchand. It, too, was well laden; but at the start Jennie squeezed in beside her colonel, and the maroon speeder was at once whisperingly dubbed by the others "the honeymoon car." "Poor children!" said Aunt Kate in private to the two other girls. "They cannot marry until the war is over. _That_ my brother is firm upon, although he thinks well of Colonel Henri. And who could help liking him? He is a most lovable boy." "'Boy!'" repeated Ruth. "And he is one of the most famous spies France has produced in this war! And a great actor!" "But we believe he is not acting when he tells us he loves Jennie," Aunt Kate said. "Surely not!" cried Helen. "He is the soul of honor," Ruth declared. "I trust him as I do--well, Tom. I never had a brother." "I've always shared Tom with you," pouted Helen. "So you have, dear," admitted Ruth. "But a girl who has had no really-truly brother really has missed something. Perhaps good, perhaps bad. But, at least, if you have brothers you understand men better." "Listen to the wisdom of the owl!" scoffed Helen. "Why, Tommy is only a girl turned inside out. A girl keeps all her best and softest attributes to the fore, while a boy thinks it is more manly to show a prickly surface--like the burr of a chestnut." "Listen to them!" exclaimed Aunt Kate, with laughter. "All the wise sayings of the ancient world must be crammed under those pretty caps you wear, along with your hair." "That is what we get at college," said Helen seriously. "Dear old Ardmore! Ruth! won't you be glad to get back to the grind again?" "I--don't--know," said her chum slowly. "We have seen so much greater things than college. It's going to be rather tame, isn't it?" But this conversation was all before they were distributed into their seats and had started. Colonel Marchand was an excellent driver, and he soon understood clearly the mechanism of the smaller car. Tom gave him the directions for the first few miles and they pulled out of the yard with Mr. Curtis, the station master, and his lame daughter, who now acted as telegraph operator, waving the party good-bye. They would not go by the way of the Red Mill, for that would take them out of the way they had chosen. The inn they had in mind to stop at on this first night was a long four hours' ride. "Eastward, Ho!" shouted Tom. "This is to be a voyage of discovery, but don't discover any punctures or blow-outs this evening." Then he glanced at Ruth's rather serious face beside him and muttered to himself: "And we want to discover principally the smile that Ruth Fielding seems to have permanently lost!" CHAPTER VI "THE NEVERGETOVERS" After crossing the Cheslow Hills and the Lumano by the Long Bridge about twenty miles below the Red Mill, the touring party debouched upon one of the very best State roads. They left much of the dust from which they had first suffered behind them, and Tom could now lead the way with the big car without smothering the occupants of the honeymoon car in the rear. The highway wound along a pretty ridge for some miles, with farms dotting the landscape and lush meadows or fruit-growing farms dipping to the edge of the distant river. "Ah," sighed Henri Marchand. "Like _la belle_ France before the war. Such peace and quietude we knew, too. Fortunate you are, my friends, that _le Boche_ has not trampled these fields into bloody mire." This comment he made when they halted the cars at a certain overlook to view the landscape. But they could not stop often. Their first objective inn was still a long way ahead. They did not, however, reach the inn, which was a resort well known to motorists. Five miles away Tom noticed that the car was acting strangely. "What is it, Tom?" demanded Ruth quickly. "Steering gear, I am afraid. Something is loose." It did not take him long to make an examination, and in the meantime the second car came alongside. "It might hold out until we get to the hotel ahead; but I think we had better stop before that time if we can," was Tom's comment. "I do not want the thing to break and send us flying over a stone wall or up a tree." "But you can fix it, Tom?" questioned Ruth. "Sure! But it will take half an hour or more." After that they ran along slowly and presently came in sight of a place called the Drovers' Tavern. "Not a very inviting place, but I guess it will do," was Ruth's announcement after they had looked the inn over. The girls and Aunt Kate alighted at the steps while the young men wheeled the cars around to the sheds. The housekeeper, who immediately announced herself as Susan Timmins, was fussily determined to see that all was as it should be in the ladies' chambers. "I can't trust this gal I got to do the upstairs work," she declared, saying it through her nose and with emphasis. "Just as sure as kin be, if ye go for to help a poor relation you air always sorry for it." She led the way up the main flight of stairs as she talked. "This here gal will give me the nevergitovers, I know! She's my own sister's child that married a good-for-nothing and is jest like her father." "Bella! You Bella! Turn on the light in these rooms. Is the pitchers filled? And the beds turned down? If I find a speck of dust on this furniture I'll nigh 'bout have the nevergitovers! That gal will drive me to my grave, she will. Bella!" Bella appeared--a rather good looking child of fourteen or so, slim as a lath and with hungry eyes. She was dark--almost Gypsy-like. She stared at Ruth, Helen and Jennie with all the amazement of the usual yokel. But it was their dress, not themselves, Ruth saw, engaged Bella's interest. "When you ladies want any help, you call for Bella," announced Miss Susan Timmins. "And if she don't come running, you let me know, and I'll give her her nevergitovers, now I tell ye!" "No wonder this hotel is called 'Drovers' Tavern,'" said Jennie Stone. "That woman certainly is a driver--a slave driver." Ruth, meanwhile, was trying to make a friend of Bella. "What is your name, my dear?" she asked the lathlike girl. "You heard it," was the ungracious reply. "Oh! Yes. 'Bella.' But your other name?" "Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike. My father is Montague Fitzmaurice." She said it proudly, with a lift of her tousled head and a straightening of her thin shoulders. "Oh!" fairly gasped Ruth Fielding. "It--it sounds quite impressive, I must say. I guess you think a good deal of your father?" "Aunt Suse don't," said the girl ungraciously. "My mother's dead. And pa is resting this season. So I hafter stay here with Aunt Suse. I hate it!" "Your father is--er--what is his business?" Ruth asked. "He's one of the profession." "A doctor?" "Lands, no! He's a heavy." "A _what_?" "A heavy lead--and a good one. But these moving pictures knock out all the really good people. There are no chances now for him to play Shakespearean roles----" "Your father is an actor!" cried Ruth. "Of course. Montague Fitzmaurice. Surely you have heard the name?" said the lathlike girl, tossing her head. "Why--why----of course!" declared Ruth warmly. It was true. She had heard the name. Bella had just pronounced it! "Then you know what kind of an actor my pa is," said the proud child. "He did not have a very good season last winter. He rehearsed with four companies and was only out three weeks altogether. And one of the managers did not pay at all." "That is too bad." "Yes. It's tough," admitted Bella. "But I liked it." "You liked it when he was so unsuccessful?" repeated Ruth. "Pa wasn't unsuccessful. He never is. He can play any part," declared the girl proudly. "But the plays were punk. He says there are no good plays written nowadays. That is why so many companies fail." "But you said you liked it?" "In New York," explained Bella. "While he was rehearsing pa could get credit at Mother Grubson's boarding house on West Forty-fourth Street. I helped her around the house. She said I was worth my keep. But Aunt Suse says I don't earn my salt here." "I am sure you do your best, Bella," Ruth observed. "No, I don't. Nor you wouldn't if you worked for Aunt Suse. She says I'll give her her nevergitovers--an' I hope I do!" with which final observation she ran to unlace Aunt Kate's shoes. "Poor little thing," said Ruth to Helen. "She is worse off than an orphan. Her Aunt Susan is worse than Uncle Jabez ever was to me. And she has no Aunt Alvirah to help her to bear it. We ought to do something for her." "There! You've begun. Every waif and stray on our journey must be aided, I suppose," pouted Helen, half exasperated. But Tom was glad to see that Ruth had found a new interest. Bella waited on the supper table, was snapped at by Miss Timmins, and driven from pillar to post by that crotchety individual. "Jimminy Christmas!" remarked Tom, "that Timmins woman must be a reincarnation of one of the ancient Egyptians who was overseer in the brickyard where Moses learned his trade. If they were all like her, no wonder the Israelites went on a strike and marched out of Egypt." They were all very careful, however, not to let Miss Susan Timmins hear their comments. She had the true dictatorial spirit of the old-fashioned New England school teacher. The guests of Drovers' Tavern were treated by her much as she might have treated a class in the little red schoolhouse up the road had she presided there. She drove the guests to their chambers by the method of turning off the electric light in the general sitting room at a quarter past ten. Each room was furnished with a bayberry candle, and she announced that the electricity all over the house would be switched off at eleven o'clock. "That is late enough for any decent body to be up," she announced in her decisive manner. "That's when I go to bed myself. I couldn't do so in peace if I knew folks was burning them electric lights to all hours. 'Tain't safe in a thunder storm. "Why, when we first got 'em, Jed Parraday from Wachuset come to town to do his buyin' and stayed all night with us. He'd never seed a 'lectric bulb before, and he didn't know how to blow it out. And he couldn't sleep in a room with a light. "So, what does the tarnal old fool do but unhook the cord so't the bulb could be carried as far as the winder. And he hung it outside, shut the winder down on it, drawed the shade and went to bed in the dark. "Elnathan Spear, the constable, seen the light a-shining outside the winder in the middle of the night and he thought 'twas burglars. He _dreams_ of burglars, Elnathan does. But he ain't never caught none yet. "On that occasion, howsomever, he was sure he'd got a whole gang of 'em, and he waked up the whole hotel trying to find out what was going on. I charged Parraday ha'f a dollar for burning extry 'lectricity, and he got so mad he ain't stopped at the hotel since. "He'd give one the nevergitovers, that man would!" she concluded. CHAPTER VII MOVIE STUNTS Jennie Stone slept in Ruth's bed that night because, having been parted since they were both in France, they had a great deal to say to each other--thus proving true one of Tom Cameron's statements regarding women. Jennie was just as sympathetic--and as sleepy--as she could be and she "oh, dear, me'd" and yawned alternately all through the tale of the lost scenario and notebooks, appreciating fully how Ruth felt about it, but unable to smother the expression of her desire for sleep. "Maybe we ought not to have come on this automobile trip," said Jennie. "If the thief just did it to be mean and is somebody who lives around the Red Mill, perhaps you might have discovered something by mingling with the neighbors." "Oh! Tom did all that," sighed Ruth. "And without avail. He searched the neighborhood thoroughly, although he is confident that a tramp carried it off. And that seems reasonable. I am almost sure, Heavy, that my scenario will appear under the trademark of some other producing manager than Mr. Hammond." "Oh! How mean!" "Well, a thief is almost the meanest person there is in the world, don't you think so? Except a backbiter. And anybody mean enough to steal my scenario must be mean enough to try to make use of it." "Oh, dear! Ow-oo-ooo! Scuse me, Ruth. Yes, I guess you are right. But can't you stop the production of the picture?" "How can I do that?" "I don't----ow-oo!----know. Scuse me, dear." "Most pictures are made in secret, anyway. The public knows nothing about them until the producer is ready to make their release." "I--ow-oo!--I see," yawned Jennie. "Even the picture play magazines do not announce them until the first runs. Then, sometimes, there is a synopsis of the story published. But it will be too late, then. Especially when I have no notes of my work, nor any witnesses. I told no living soul about the scenario--what it was about, or----" "Sh-sh-sh----" "Why, Heavy!" murmured the scandalized Ruth. "Sh-sh-sh--whoo!" breathed the plump girl, with complete abandon. "My goodness!" exclaimed Ruth, tempted to shake her, "if you snore like that when you are married, Henri will have to sleep at the other end of the house." But this was completely lost on the tired Jennie Stone, who continued to breathe heavily until Ruth herself fell asleep. It seemed as though the latter had only closed her eyes when the sun shining into her face awoke the girl of the Red Mill. The shades of the east window had been left up, and it was sunrise. Plenty of farm noises outside the Drovers' Tavern, as well as a stir in the kitchen, assured Ruth that there were early risers here. Jennie, rolled in more than her share of the bedclothes, continued to breathe as heavily as she had the night before. But suddenly Ruth was aware that there was somebody besides herself awake in the room. She sat up abruptly in bed and reached to seize Jennie's plump shoulder. Ruth had to confess she was much excited, if not frightened. Then, before she touched the still sleeping Jennie Stone, Ruth saw the intruder. The door from the anteroom was ajar. A steaming agateware can of water stood on the floor just inside this door. Before the bureau which boasted a rather large mirror for a country hotel bedroom, pivoted the thin figure of Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike! From the neatly arranged outer clothing of the two girls supposedly asleep in the big four-poster, Bella had selected a skirt of Ruth's and a shirt-waist of Jennie's, arraying herself in both of these borrowed garments. She was now putting the finishing touch to her costume by setting Ruth's cap on top of her black, fly-away mop of hair. Turning about and about before the glass, Bella was so much engaged in admiring herself that she forgot the hot water she was supposed to carry to the various rooms. Nor did she see Ruth sitting up in bed looking at her in dawning amusement. Nor did she, as she pirouetted there, hear her Nemesis outside in the hall. The door suddenly creaked farther open. The grim face of Miss Susan Timmins appeared at the aperture. "Oh!" gasped Ruth Fielding aloud. Bella turned to glance in startled surprise at the girl in bed. And at that moment Miss Timmins bore down upon the child like a shrike on a chippy-bird. "Ow-ouch!" shrieked Bella. "Oh, don't!" begged Ruth. "What is it? Goodness! _Fire!_" cried Jennie Stone, who, when awakened suddenly, always remembered the dormitory fire at Briarwood Hall. "You little pest! I'll larrup ye good! I'll give ye your nevergitovers!" sputtered the hotel housekeeper. But the affrighted Bella wriggled away from her aunt's bony grasp. She dodged Miss Timmins about the marble-topped table, retreated behind the hair-cloth sofa, and finally made a headlong dash for the door, while Jennie continued to shriek for the fire department. Ruth leaped out of bed. In her silk pajamas and slippers, and without any wrap, she hurried to reach, and try to separate, the struggling couple near the door. Miss Timmins delivered several hearty slaps upon Bella's face and ears. The child shrieked. She got away again and plunged into the can of hot water. Over this went, flooding the rag-carpet for yards around. "Fire! Fire!" Jennie continued to shriek. Helen dashed in from the next room, dressed quite as lightly as Ruth, and just in time to see the can spilled. "Oh! Water! Water!" "Drat that young one!" barked Miss Timmins, ignoring the flood and everything else save her niece--even the conventions. She dashed after Bella. The latter had disappeared into the hall through the anteroom. "Oh, the poor child!" cried sympathetic Ruth, and followed in the wake of the angry housekeeper. "Fire! Fire!" moaned Jennie Stone. "Cat's foot!" snapped Helen Cameron. "It's water--and it is flooding the whole room." She ran to set the can upright--after the water was all out of it. Without thinking of her costume, Ruth Fielding ran to avert Bella's punishment if she could. She knew the aunt was beside herself with rage, and Ruth feared that the woman would, indeed, give Bella her "nevergetovers." The corridor of the hotel was long, running from front to rear of the main building. The window at the rear end of it overlooked the roof of the back kitchen. This window was open, and when Ruth reached the corridor Bella was going head-first through the open window, like a circus clown diving through a hoop. She had discarded Jennie's shirt-waist between the bedroom and the window. But Ruth's skirt still flapped about the child's thin shanks. Miss Timmins, breathing threatenings and slaughter, raced down the hall in pursuit. Ruth followed, begging for quarter for the terrified child. But the housekeeper went through the open window after Bella, although in a more conventional manner, paying no heed to Ruth's plea. The frightened girl, however, escaped her aunt's clutch by slipping off the borrowed skirt and descending the trumpet-vine trellis by the kitchen door. "Do let her go, Miss Timmins!" begged Ruth, as the panting woman, carrying Ruth's skirt, returned to the window where the girl of the Red Mill stood. "She is scared to death. She was doing no harm." "I'll thank you to mind your own business, Miss," snapped Miss Timmins hotly. "I declare! A girl growed like you running 'round in men's overalls--or, what be them things you got on?" At this criticism Ruth Fielding fled, taking the skirt and Jennie's shirt-waist with her. But Aunt Kate was aroused now and the four women of the automobile party swiftly slipped into their negligees and appeared in the hall again, to meet Tom and Colonel Marchand who came from their room only partly dressed. The critical Miss Timmins had darted downstairs, evidently in pursuit of her unfortunate niece. The guests crowded to the back window. "Where did she go?" demanded Tom, who had heard some explanation of the early morning excitement. "Is she running away?" "What a child!" gasped Aunt Kate. "My waist!" moaned Jennie. "Look at Ruth's skirt!" exclaimed Helen. "I do not care for the skirt," the girl of the Red Mill declared. "It is Bella." "Her aunt will about give her those 'nevergetovers' she spoke of," chuckled Tom. "_Ma foi!_ look you there," exclaimed Colonel Marchand, pointing through the window that overlooked the rear premises of the hotel. At top speed Miss Timmins was crossing the yard toward the big hay barn. Bella had taken refuge in that structure, and the housekeeper's evident intention was to harry her out. The woman grasped a clothes-stick with which she proposed to castigate her niece. "The cruel thing!" exclaimed Helen, the waters of her sympathy rising for Bella Pike now. "There's the poor kid!" said Tom. Bella appeared at an open door far up in the peak of the haymow. The hay was packed solidly under the roof; but there was an air space left at either end. "She has put herself into the so-tight corner--no?" suggested the young Frenchman. "You've said it!" agreed Tom. "Why! it's regular movie stunts. She's come up the ladders to the top of the mow. If auntie follows her, I don't see that the kid can do anything but jump!" "Tom! Never!" cried Ruth. "He is fooling," said Jennie. "Tell me how she can dodge that woman, then," demanded Tom. "Ah!" murmured Henri Marchand. "She have arrive'." Miss Timmins appeared at the door behind Bella. The spectators heard the girl's shriek. The housekeeper struck at her with the clothes stick. And then---- "Talk about movie stunts!" shouted Tom Cameron, for the frightened Bella leaped like a cat upon the haymow door and swung outward with nothing more stable than air between her and the ground, more than thirty feet below! CHAPTER VIII THE AUCTION BLOCK Helen Cameron and Jennie Stone shrieked in unison when Miss Susan Timmins' niece cast herself out of the haymow upon the plank door and swung as far as the door would go upon its creaking hinges. Ruth seized Tom's wrist in a nervous grip, but did not utter a word. Aunt Kate turned away and covered her eyes with her hands that she might not see the reckless child fall--if she did fall. "Name of a name!" murmured Henri Marchand. "_Au secours!_ Come, Tom, _mon ami_--to the rescue!" He turned and ran lightly along the hall and down the stairs. But Tom went through the window, almost as precipitately as had Bella Pike herself, and so over the roof of the kitchen ell and down the trumpet-vine trellis. Tom was in the yard and running to the barn before Marchand got out of the kitchen. Several other people, early as the hour was, appeared running toward the rear premises of Drovers' Tavern. "See that crazy young one!" some woman shrieked. "I know she'll kill herself yet." "Stop that!" commanded Tom, looking up and shaking a threatening hand at Miss Timmins. For in her rage the woman was trying to strike her niece with the stick, as Bella clung to the door. "Mind your own business, young man!" snapped the virago. "And go back and put the rest of your clothes on. You ain't decent." Tom was scarcely embarrassed by this verbal attack. The case was too serious for that. Miss Timmins struck at the girl again, and only missed the screaming Bella by an inch or so. Helen and Jennie screamed in unison, and Ruth herself had difficulty in keeping her lips closed. The cruel rage of the hotel housekeeper made her quite unfit to manage such a child as Bella, and Ruth determined to interfere in Bella's behalf at the proper time. "I wish she would pitch out of that door herself!" cried Helen recklessly. Tom had run into the barn and was climbing the ladders as rapidly as possible to the highest loft. Scolding and striking at her victim, Miss Susan Timmins continued to act like the mad woman she was. And Bella, made desperate at last by fear, reached for the curling edges of the shingles on the eaves above her head. "Don't do that, child!" shrieked Jennie Stone. But Bella scrambled up off the swinging door and pulled herself by her thin arms on to the roof of the barn. There she was completely out of her aunt's reach. "Oh, the plucky little sprite!" cried Helen, in delight. "But--but she can't get down again," murmured Aunt Kate. "There is no scuttle in that roof." "Tom will find a way," declared Ruth Fielding with confidence. "And my Henri," put in Jennie. "That horrid old creature!" "She should be punished for this," agreed Ruth. "I wonder where the child's father is." "Didn't you find out last night?" Helen asked. "Only that he is 'resting'." "Some poor, miserable loafer, is he?" demanded Aunt Kate, with acrimony. "No. It seems that he is an actor," Ruth explained. "He is out of work." "But he can't think anything of his daughter to see her treated like this," concluded Aunt Kate. "She is very proud of him. His professional name is Montague Fitzmaurice." "Some name!" murmured Jennie. "Their family name is Pike," said Ruth, still seriously. "I do not think the man can know how this aunt treats little Bella. There's Tom!" The young captain appeared behind the enraged housekeeper at the open door of the loft. One glance told him what Bella had done. He placed a firm hand on Miss Timmins' shoulder. "If you had made that girl fall you would go to jail," Tom said sternly. "You may go, yet. I will try to put you there. And in any case you shall not have the management of the child any longer. Go back to the house!" For once the housekeeper was awed. Especially when Henri Marchand, too, appeared in the loft. "Madame will return to the house. We shall see what can be done for the child. _Gare!_" Perhaps the woman was a little frightened at last by what she had done--or what she might have done. At least, she descended the ladders to the ground floor without argument. The two young men planned swiftly how to rescue the sobbing child. But when Tom first spoke to Bella, proposing to help her down, she looked over the edge of the roof at him and shook her head. "No! I ain't coming down," she announced emphatically. "Aunt Suse will near about skin me alive." "She shall not touch you," Tom promised. "She'll give me my nevergitovers, just as she says. You can't stay here and watch her." "But we'll find a way to keep her from beating you when we are gone," Tom promised. "Don't you fear her at all." "I don't care where you put me, Aunt Suse will find me out. She'll send Elnathan Spear after me." "I don't know who Spear is----" "He's the constable," sobbed Bella. "Well, he sha'n't spear you," declared Tom. "Come on, kid. Don't be scared, and we'll get you down all right." He found the clothes-stick Miss Timmins had abandoned and used it for a brace. With a rope tied to the handle of the plank door and drawn taut, it was held half open. Tom then climbed out upon and straddled the door and raised his arms to receive the girl when she lowered herself over the eaves. She was light enough--little more than skin and bone, Tom declared--and the latter lowered her without much effort into Henri's arms. When the three girls and Aunt Kate at the tavern window saw this safely accomplished they hurried back to their rooms to dress. "Something must be done for that poor child," Ruth Fielding said with decision. "Are you going to adopt her?" Helen asked. "And send her to Briarwood?" put in Jennie. "That might be the very best thing that could happen to her," Ruth rejoined soberly. "She has lived at times in a theatrical boarding house and has likewise traveled with her father when he was with a more or less prosperous company. "These experiences have made her, after a fashion, grown-up in her ways and words. But in most things she is just as ignorant as she can be. Her future is not the most important thing just now. It is her present." Helen heard the last word from the other room where she was dressing, and she cried: "That's it, Ruthie. Give her a present and tell her to run away from her aunt. She's a spiteful old thing!" "You do not mean that!" exclaimed her chum. "You are only lazy and hate responsibility of any kind. We must do something practical for Bella Pike." "How easily she says 'we'," Helen scoffed. "I mean it. I could not sleep to-night if I knew this child was in her aunt's control." A knock on the door interrupted the discussion. Ruth, who was quite dressed now, responded. A lout of a boy, who evidently worked about the stables, stood grinning at the door. "Miz Timmins says you folks kin all get out. She won't have you served no breakfast. She don't want none of you here." "My goodness!" wailed Jennie. "Dispossessed--and without breakfast!" "Where is the proprietor of this hotel, boy?" Ruth asked. "You mean Mr. Drovers? He ain't here. Gone to Boston. But that wouldn't make no dif'rence. Suse Timmins is boss." "Oh, me! Oh, my!" groaned Jennie, to whom the prospect was tragic. Jennie's appetite was never-failing. The boy slouched away just as Tom and Henri Marchand appeared with Bella between them. "You poor, dear child!" cried Ruth, running along the hall to meet them. Bella struggled to escape from the boys. But Tom and Colonel Marchand held her by either hand. "Easy, young one!" advised Captain Cameron. "I never meant to do no harm, Miss!" cried Bella. "I--I just wanted to see how I'd look in them clothes. I never do have anything decent to wear." "Why, my dear, don't mind about that," said Ruth, taking the lathlike girl in her arms. "If you had asked us we would have let you try on the things, I am sure." "Aunt Suse would near 'bout give me my nevergitovers--and she will yet!" "No she won't," Ruth reassured her. "Don't be afraid of your aunt any longer." "That is what I tell her," Tom said warmly. "Say! You won't put me in no home, will you?" asked Bella, with sudden anxiety. "A 'home'?" repeated Ruth, puzzled. "She means a charitable institution, poor dear," said Aunt Kate. "That's it, Missus," Bella said. "I knew a girl that was out of one of them homes. She worked for Mrs. Grubson. She said all the girls wore brown denim uniforms and had their hair slicked back and wasn't allowed even to whisper at table or after they got to bed at night." "Nothing like that shall happen to you," Ruth declared. "Where is your father, Bella?" Tom asked. "I don't know. Last I saw of him he came through here with a medicine show. I didn't tell Aunt Suse, but I ran away at night and went to Broxton to see him. But he said business was poor. He got paid so much a bottle commission on the sales of Chief Henry Red-dog's Bitters. He didn't think the show would keep going much longer." "Oh!" "You know, they didn't know he was Montague Fitzmaurice, the great Shakespearean actor. Pa often takes such jobs. He ain't lazy like Aunt Suse says. Why, once he took a job as a ballyhoo at a show on the Bowery in Coney Island. But his voice ain't never been what it was since." "Do you expect him to return here for you?" Ruth asked, while the other listeners exchanged glances and with difficulty kept their faces straight. "Oh, yes, Miss. Just as soon as he is in funds. Or he'll send for me. He always does. He knows I hate it here." "Does he know how your aunt treats you?" Aunt Kate interrupted. "N--not exactly," stammered Bella. "I haven't told him all. I don't want to bother him. It--it ain't always so bad." "I tell you it's got to stop!" Tom said, with warmth. "Of course she shall not remain in this woman's care any longer," Aunt Kate agreed. "But we must not take Bella away from this locality," Ruth observed. "When her father comes back for her she must be here--somewhere." "Oh, lady!" exclaimed Bella. "Send me to New York to Mrs. Grubson's. I bet she'd keep me till pa opens somewhere in a good show." But Ruth shook her head. She had her doubts about the wisdom of the child's being in such a place as Mrs. Grubson's boarding house, no matter how kindly disposed that woman might be. "Bella should stay near here," Ruth said firmly, "as long as we cannot communicate with Mr. Pike at once." "Let's write a notice for one of the theatrical papers," suggested Helen eagerly. "You know--'Montague Fitzmaurice please answer.' All the actors do it." "But pa don't always have the money to buy the papers," said Bella, taking the suggestion quite seriously. "At least, if Bella is in this neighborhood he will know where to find her," went on Ruth. "Is there nobody you know here, child, whom you would like to stay with till your father returns?" Bella's face instantly brightened. Her black eyes flashed. "Oh, I'd like to stay at the minister's," she said. "At the minister's?" repeated Ruth. "Why, if he would take you that would be fine. Who is he?" "The Reverend Driggs," said Bella. "Do you suppose the clergyman would take the child?" murmured Aunt Kate. "Why do you want to go to live with the minister?" asked Tom with curiosity. "'Cause he reads the Bible so beautifully," declared Bella. "Why! it sounds just like pa reading a play. The Reverend Driggs is an educated man like pa. But he's got an awful raft of young ones." "A poor minister," said Aunt Kate briskly. "I am afraid that would not suit." "If the Driggs family is already a large one," began Ruth doubtfully, when Bella declared: "Miz Driggs had two pairs of twins, and one ever so many times. There's a raft of 'em." Helen and Jennie burst out laughing at this statement and the others were amused. But to Ruth Fielding this was a serious matter. The placing of Bella Pike in a pleasant home until her father could be communicated with, or until he appeared on the scene ready and able to care for the child, was even more serious than the matter of going without breakfast, although Jennie Stone said "No!" to this. "We'd better set up an auction block before the door of the hotel and auction her off to the highest bidder, hadn't we?" suggested Helen, who had been rummaging in her bag. "Here, Bella! If you want a shirt-waist to take the place of that calico blouse you have on, here is one. One of mine. And I guarantee it will fit you better than Heavy's did. She wears an extra size." "I don't either," flashed the plump girl, as the boys retreated from the room. "I may not be a perfect thirty-six----" "Is there any doubt of it?" cried Helen, the tease. "Well!" "Never mind," Ruth said. "Jennie is going to be thinner." "And it seems she will begin to diet this very morning," Aunt Kate put in. "Ow-wow!" moaned Jennie at this reminder that they had been refused breakfast. Captain Tom, however, had handled too many serious situations in France to be browbeaten by a termagant like Miss Susan Timmins. He went down to the kitchen, ordered a good breakfast for all of his party, and threatened to have recourse to the law if the meal was not well and properly served. "For you keep a public tavern," he told the sputtering Miss Timmins, "and you cannot refuse to serve travelers who are willing and able to pay. We are on a pleasure trip, and I assure you, Madam, it will be a pleasure to get you into court for any cause." On coming back to the front of the house he found two of the neighbors just entering. One proved to be the local doctor's wife and the other was a kindly looking farmer. "I knowed that girl warn't being treated right, right along," said the man. "And I told Mirandy that I was going to put a stop to it." "It is a disgrace," said the doctor's wife, "that we should have allowed it to go on so long. I will take the child myself----" "And so'll Mirandy," declared the farmer. "It is an auction," whispered Helen, overhearing this from the top of the stairs. The party of guests came down with their bags now, bringing Bella in their midst--and in the new shirt-waist. "Let her choose which of these kind people she will stay with," Tom advised. "And," he added, in a low voice to Ruth, "we will pay for her support until we can find her father." "Like fun you will, young feller!" snorted the farmer, overhearing Tom. "I could not hear of such a thing," said the doctor's wife. "I'd like to know what you people think you're doing?" demanded Miss Timmins, popping out at them suddenly. "Now, Suse Timmins, we're a-goin' to do what we neighbors ought to have done long ago. We're goin' to take this gal----" "You start anything like that--taking that young one away from her lawful guardeen--an' I'll get Elnathan Spear after you in a hurry, now I tell ye. I'll give you your nevergitovers!" "If Nate Spear comes to my house, I'll ask him to pay me for that corn he bought off'n me as long ago as last fall," chuckled the farmer. "Just because you're own cousin to Nate don't put _all_ the law an' the gospel on your side, Suse Timmins. I'll take good care of this girl." "And so will I, if Bella wants to live with me," said the doctor's wife. "Mirandy will be glad to have her." "And she'd be company for me," rejoined the other neighbor. "I haven't any children." "Bella must choose for herself," said Ruth kindly. "I guess I'll go with Mr. Perkins," said the actor's daughter. "Miz Holmes is real nice; but Doctor Holmes gives awful tastin' medicine. I might be sick there and have to take some of it. So I'll go to Miz Perkins. She has a doctor from Maybridge and he gives candy-covered pellets. I ate some once. Besides, Miz Perkins is lame and can't get around so spry, and I can do more for her." "Now listen to that!" exclaimed the farmer. "Ain't she a noticing child?" "Well, Mrs. Perkins will be good to her, no doubt," agreed the doctor's wife. "I'd like to know what you fresh city folks butted into this thing for!" demanded Miss Timmins. "If there's any law in the land----" "_You'll_ get it!" promised Tom Cameron. "Go get anything you own that you want to take with you, Bella," Ruth advised the shrinking child. With another fearful glance at her aunt, Bella ran upstairs. Miss Timmins might have started after her, but Tom planted himself before that door. The lout of a boy began bringing in the breakfast for the automobile party. Ruth talked privately with the doctor's wife and Mr. Perkins, and forced some money on the woman to be expended for a very necessary outfit of clothing for Bella. Miss Timmins finally flounced back into the kitchen where they heard her venting her anger and chagrin on the kitchen help. Bella returned bearing an ancient extension bag crammed full of odds and ends. She kissed Ruth and shook hands with the rest of the company before departing with Mr. Perkins. The doctor's wife promised to write to Ruth as soon as anything was heard of Mr. Pike, and the automobile party turned their attention to ham and eggs, stewed potatoes, and griddle cakes. "Only," said Jennie, sepulchrally, "I hope the viands are not poisoned. That Miss Timmins would certainly like to give us all our 'nevergetovers'." CHAPTER IX A DISMAYING DISCOVERY "'The Later Pilgrims' are well out of that trouble," announced Helen, when the cars were underway, the honeymoon car ahead and the other members of the party packed into the bigger automobile. "And I hope," she added, "that Ruth will find no more waifs and strays." "Don't be knocking Ruthie all the time," said Tom, glancing back over his shoulder. "She's all right." "And you keep your eyes straight ahead, young man," advised Aunt Kate, "or you will have this heavy car in the ditch." "Watch out for Henri and Heavy, too," advised Helen. "They do not quite know what they are about and you may run them down. There! See his horizon-blue sleeve steal about her? He's got only one hand left to steer with. Talk about a perfect thirty-six! It's lucky Henri's arm is phenomenally long, or he could never surround _that_ baby!" "I declare, Helen," laughed Ruth. "I believe you are covetous." "Well, Henri is an awfully nice fellow--for a Frenchman." "And you are the damsel who declared you proposed to remain an old maid forever and ever and the year after." "I can be an old maid and still like the boys, can't I? All the more, in fact. I sha'n't have to be true to just one man, which, I believe, would be tedious." "You should live in that part of New York called Greenwich Village and wear a Russian blouse and your hair bobbed. Those are the kind of bon mots those people throw off in conversation. Light and airy persiflage, it is called," said Tom from the front seat. "What do you know about such people, Tommy?" demanded his sister. "There were some co-eds of that breed I met at Cambridge. They were exponents of the 'new freedom,' whatever that is. Bolshevism, I guess. Freedom from both law and morals." "Those are not the kind of girls who are helping in France," said Ruth soberly. "You said it!" agreed Tom. "That sort are so busy riding hobbies over here that they have no interest in what is going on in Europe unless it may be in Russia. Well, thank heaven, there are comparatively few nuts compared with us sane folks." Such thoughts as these, however, did not occupy their minds for long. Just as Tom had declared, they were out for fun, and the fun could be found almost anywhere by these blithe young folk. Ruth's face actually changed as they journeyed on. She was both "pink and pretty," Helen declared, before they camped at the wayside for luncheon. The hampers on the big car were crammed with all the necessities of food and service for several meals. There were, too, twin alcohol lamps, a coffee boiler and a teapot. Altogether they were making a very satisfactory meal and were having a jolly time at the edge of a piece of wood when a big, black wood-ant dropped down Jennie Stone's back. At first they did not know what the matter was with her. Her mouth was full, the food in that state of mastication that she could not immediately swallow it. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" choked the plump girl, trying to get both hands at once down the neck of her shirt-waist. "What _is_ the matter, Heavy?" gasped Helen. "Jennie, dear!" murmured Ruth. "Don't!" "_Ma chere!_" gasped Henri Marchand. "Is she ill?" "Jennie, behave yourself!" cried her aunt. "I saw a toad swallow a hornet once," Tom declared. "She acts just the same way." "As the hornet?" demanded his sister, beginning to giggle. "As the toad," answered Tom, gravely. But Henri had got to his feet and now reached the wriggling girl. "Let me try to help!" he cried. "If you even begin wiggling that way, Colonel Marchand," declared Helen, "you will be in danger of arrest. There is a law against _that_ dance." "Ow! Ow! Ow!" burst out Jennie once more, actually in danger of choking. "What _is_ it?" Ruth demanded, likewise reaching the writhing girl. "Oh, he bit me!" finally exploded Jennie. Ruth guessed what must be the trouble then, and she forced Jennie's hands out of the neck of her waist and ran her hand down the plump girl's back. Between them they killed the ant, for Ruth finally recovered a part of the unfortunate creature. "But just think," consoled Helen, "how much more awful it would have been if you had swallowed him, Heavy, instead of his wriggling down your spinal column." "Oh, don't! I can feel him wriggling now," sighed Jennie. "That can be nothing more than his ghost," said Tom soberly, "for Ruth retrieved at least half of the ant's bodily presence." "You'll give us all the fidgets if you keep on wriggling, Jennie," declared Aunt Kate. "Well, I don't want to sit on the grass in a woodsy place again while we are on this journey," sighed Jennie. "Ugh! I always did hate creepy things." "Including spiders, snakes, beetles and babies, I suppose?" laughed Helen. "Come on now. Let us clear up the wreck. Where do we camp to-night, Tommy?" "No more camping, I pray!" squealed Jennie. "I am no Gypsy." "The hotel at Hampton is recommended as the real thing. They have a horse show every year at Hampton, you know. It is in the midst of a summer colony of wealthy people. It is the real thing," Tom repeated. They made a pleasant and long run that afternoon and arrived at the Hampton hotel in good season to dress for dinner. Jennie and her aunt met some people they knew, and naturally Jennie's fiancé and her friends were warmly welcomed by the gay little colony. Men at the pleasure resorts were very scarce that year, and here were two perfectly good dancers. So it was very late when the automobile party got away from the dance at the Casino. They were late the next morning in starting on the road to Boston. Besides, there was thunder early, and Helen, having heard it rumbling, quoted: "'Thunder in the morning, Sailors take warning!'" and rolled over for another nap. Ruth, however, at last had to get up. She was no "lie-abed" in any case, and in her present nervous state she had to be up and doing. "But it's going to ra-a-ain!" whined Jennie Stone when Ruth went into her room. "You're neither sugar nor salt," said Ruth. "Henri says I'm as sweet as sugar," yawned Jennie. "He is not responsible for what he says about you," said her aunt briskly. "When I think of what that really nice young man is taking on his shoulders when he marries you----" "But, Auntie!" cried Jennie, "he's not going to try to carry me pickaback, you know." "Just the same, it is wrong for us to encourage him to become responsible for you, Jennie," said her aunt. "He really should be warned." "Oh!" gasped the plump girl. "Let anybody dare try to get between me and my Henri----" "Nobody can--no fear--when you are sitting with him in the front seat of that roadster of Tom's," said Ruth. "You fill every atom of space, Heavy." She went to the window and looked out again. Heavy rolled out of bed--a good deal like a barrel, her aunt said tartly. "What is it doing outside?" yawned the plump girl. "Well, it's not raining. And it is a long run to Boston. We should be on our way now. The road through the hills is winding. There will be no time to stop for a Gypsy picnic." "Thank goodness for that!" grumbled Jennie, sitting on the floor, schoolgirl fashion, to draw on her stockings. "I'll eat enough at breakfast hereafter to keep me alive until we reach a hotel, if you folks insist on inviting wood ants and other savage creatures of the forest to our luncheon table." When the party finally gathered for breakfast in the hotel dining room on this morning, it was disgracefully late. Tom had been over both cars and pronounced them fit. He had ordered the tanks filled with gasoline and had tipped one of the garage men liberally to see that this was properly done. Afterward Captain Tom declared he would never trust a garage workman again. "The only way to get a thing done well is to do it yourself--and a tip never bought any special service yet," declared the angry Tom. "It is merely a form of highway robbery." But this was afterward. The party started off from Hampton in high fettle and with a childlike trust in the honesty of a garage attendant. There were banks of clouds shrouding the horizon both to the west and north--the two directions from which thunder showers usually rise in this part of New England in which they were traveling. And yet the shower held off. It was some time past noon before the thunder began to mutter again. The automobile party was then in the hilly country. Heretofore farms had been plentiful, although hamlets were few and far between. "If it rains," said Ruth cheerfully, "of course we can take refuge in some farmhouse." "Ho, for adventure among the savage natives!" cried Helen. "I hope we shall meet nobody quite as savage as Miss Susan Timmins," was Aunt Kate's comment. They ran into a deep cut between two wooded hills and there was not a house in sight. Indeed, they had not passed a farmstead on the road for the last five miles. Over the top of the wooded crest to the north curled a slate colored storm cloud, its upper edge trembling with livid lightnings. The veriest tyro of a weather prophet could see that a storm was about to break. But nobody had foretold the sudden stopping of the honeymoon car in the lead! "What is the matter with you?" cried Helen, standing up in the tonneau of the big car, when Tom pulled up suddenly to keep from running the maroon roadster down. "Don't you see it is going to rain? We want to get somewhere." "I guess we have got somewhere," responded Jennie Stone. "As far as we are concerned, this seems to be our stopping place. The old car won't go." Tom jumped out and hurried forward to join Henri in an examination of the car's mechanism. "What happened, Colonel?" he asked the Frenchman, worriedly. "I have no idea, _mon ami_," responded Marchand. "This is a puzzle, eh?" "First of all, let's put up the tops. That rain is already beating the woods on the summit of the hill." The two young men hurried to do this, first sheltering Jennie and then together dragging the heavy top over the big car, covering the baggage and passengers. Helen and Ruth could fasten the curtains, and soon the women of the party were snug enough. The drivers, however, had to get into rain garments and begin the work of hunting the trouble with the roadster. The thunder grew louder and louder. Flashes of lightning streaked across the sky overhead. The electric explosions were soon so frequent and furious that the girls cowered together in real terror. Jennie had slipped out of the small car and crowded in with her chums and Aunt Kate. "I don't care!" she wailed, "Henri and Tom are bound to take that car all to pieces to find what has happened." But they did not have to go as far as that. In fact, before the rain really began to fall in earnest, Tom made the tragic discovery. There was scarcely a drop of gasoline in the tank of the small machine. Tom hurried back to the big car. He glanced at the dial of the gasoline tank. There was not enough of the fluid to take them a mile! And the emergency tank was turned on! It was at this point that he stated his opinion of the trustworthiness of garage workmen. CHAPTER X A WILD AFTERNOON This was a serious situation. Five miles behind the automobile party was the nearest dwelling on this road, and Tom was sure that the nearest gasoline sign was all of five miles further back! Ahead lay more or less mystery. As the rain began to drum upon the roofs of the two cars, harder and harder and faster and faster, Tom got out the road map and tried to figure out their location. Ridgeton was ahead somewhere--not nearer than six miles, he was sure. And the map showed no gas sign this side of Ridgeton. Of course there might be some wayside dwelling only a short distance ahead at which enough gasoline could be secured to drive the smaller car to Ridgeton for a proper supply for both machines. But if all the gasoline was drained from the tank of the big car into that of the roadster, the latter would be scarcely able to travel another mile. And without being sure that such a supply of gas could be found within that distance, why separate the two cars? This was the sensible way Tom put it to Henri; and it was finally decided that Tom should start out on foot with an empty can and hunt for gasoline, while Colonel Marchand remained with the girls and Aunt Kate. When the two young men ran back through the pouring rain to the big car and announced this decision, they had to shout to make the girls hear. The turmoil of the rain and thunder was terrific. "I really wish you'd wait, Tom, till the tempest is over," Ruth anxiously said. "Suppose something happened to you on the road?" "Suppose something happened to _us_ here in the auto?" shrieked Helen. "But Henri Marchand will be with you," said her brother, preparing to depart. "And if I delay we may not reach Boston to-night." "Oh!" gasped Jennie. "Do please find some gas, Tom. I'd be scared to death to stay out here in these woods." "One of the autos may bite her," scoffed Helen, ready to scorn her own fears when her friend was even more fearful. "These cars are the wildest thing in these woods, I warrant." "Of course you must do what you think is best, Tom," said Ruth, gravely. "I hope you will not have to go far." "No matter how long I am gone, Ruth, don't be alarmed," he told her. "You know, nothing serious ever happens to me." "Oh, no!" cried his sister. "Of course not! Only you get carried away on a Zeppelin, or are captured by the Germans and Ruth has to go to your rescue. We know all about how immune you are from trouble, young man." "Thanks be! there are no Boches here in peaceful New England," exclaimed Jennie, after Tom had started off with the gasoline can. "Oh!" A sharp clap of thunder seemingly just overhead followed the flash that had made the plump girl shriek. The explosion reverberated between the hills in slowly passing cadence. Jennie finally removed her fingers from her ears with a groan. Aunt Kate had covered her eyes. With Helen they cowered together in the tonneau. Ruth had been sitting beside Tom in the front seat when the cars were stalled, and now Henri Marchand was her companion. "I heard something then, Colonel," Ruth said in a low tone, when the salvo of thunder was passed. "You are fortunate, Mademoiselle," he returned. "Me, I am deafened complete'." "I heard a cry." "Not from Captain Cameron?" "It was not his voice. Listen!" said the girl of the Red Mill, in some excitement. Despite the driving rain she put her head out beyond the curtain and listened. Her face was sheltered from the beating rain. It would have taken her breath had she faced it. Again the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed on its trail. Ruth did not draw in her head. She wore her raincoat and a rubber cap, and on her feet heavy shoes. The storm did not frighten her. She might be anxious for Tom's safety, but the ordinary chances of such a disturbance of the elements as this never bothered Ruth Fielding at all. As the rolling of thunder died away in the distance again, the splashing sound of the rain seemed to grow lighter, too; or Ruth's hearing became attuned to the sounds about her. There it was again! A human cry! Or was it? It came from up the hillside to the north of the road on which the automobiles were stalled. Was there somebody up there in the wet woods--some human creature lost in the storm? For a third time Ruth heard the wailing, long-drawn cry. Henri had his hands full soothing Jennie. Helen and Aunt Kate were clinging together in the depths of the tonneau. Possibly their eyes were covered against the glare of the lightning. Ruth slipped out under the curtain on the leeward side. The rain swept down the hillside in solid platoons that marched one after another from northwest to southeast. Dashing against the southern hillside, these marching columns dissolved in torrents that Ruth could hear roaring down from the tree-tops and rushing in miniature floods through the forest. The road was all awash. The cars stood almost hub-deep in a yellow, foaming flood. The roadside ditches were not deep here, and the sudden freshet was badly guttering the highway. Sheltered at first by the top of the big car, Ruth strained her ears again to catch that cry which had come down the wind from the thickly wooded hillside. There it was! A high, piercing scream, as though the one who uttered it was in great fear or agony. Nor did the cry seem to be far away. Ruth went around to the other side of the automobile. The rain was letting up--or seemed to be. She crossed to the higher ground and pushed through the fringe of bushes that bordered the road. Already her feet and ankles were saturated, for she had waded through water more than a foot in depth. Here on the steep hillside the flowing water followed the beds of small rivulets which carried it away on either side of her. The thick branches of the trees made an almost impervious umbrella above her head. She could see up the hill through the drifting mist for a long distance. The aisles between the rows of trees seemed filled with a sort of pallid light. Across the line of her vision and through one of these aisles passed a figure--whether that of an animal or the stooping body of a human being Ruth Fielding could not at first be sure. She had no fear of there being any savage creature in this wood. At least there could be nothing here that would attack her in broad daylight. In a lull in the echoing thunder she cried aloud: "Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo! Where are you?" She was sure her voice drove some distance up the hillside against the wind. She saw the flitting figure again, and with a desire to make sure of its identity, Ruth started in pursuit. Had Tom been present the girl of the Red Mill would have called his attention to the mystery and left it to him to decide whether to investigate or not. But Ruth was quite an independent person when she was alone; and under the circumstances, with Henri Marchand so busy comforting Jennie, Ruth did not consider for a moment calling the Frenchman to advise with her. As for Helen and Aunt Kate, they were quite overcome by their fears. Ruth was not really afraid of thunder and lightning, as many people are. She had long since learned that "thunder does not bite, and the bolt of lightning that hits you, you will never see!" Heavy as the going was, and interfering with her progress through her wet garments did, Ruth ran up the hill underneath the dripping trees. She saw the flitting, shadowy figure once more. Again she called as loudly as she could shout: "Wait! Wait! I won't hurt you." Whoever or whatever it was, the figure did not stay. It flitted on about two hundred yards ahead of the pursuing girl. At times it disappeared altogether; but Ruth kept on up the hill and her quarry always reappeared. She was quite positive this was the creature that had shrieked, for the mournful cry was not repeated after she caught sight of the figure. "It is somebody who has been frightened by the storm," she thought. "Or it is a lost child. This is a wild hillside, and one might easily be lost up here." Then she called again. She thought the strange figure turned and hesitated. Then, of a sudden, it darted into a clump of brush. When Ruth came panting to the spot she could see no trace of the creature, or the path which it had followed. But directly before Ruth was an opening in the hillside--the mouth of a deep ravine which had not been visible from the road below. Down this ravine ran a noisy torrent which had cut itself a wider and deeper bed since the cloudburst on the heights. Small trees, brush, and rocks had been uprooted by the force of the stream, but its current was now receding. One might walk along the edge of the brook into this hillside fastness. Determined to solve the mystery of the strange creature's disappearance, and quite convinced that it was a lost child or woman, Ruth Fielding ventured through the brush clump and passed along the ragged bank of the tumbling brook. Suddenly, in the muddy ground at her feet, the girl spied a shoe. It was a black oxford of good quality, and it had been, of course, wrenched from the foot of the person she pursued. This girl, or woman, must be running from Ruth in fear. Ruth picked up the shoe. It was for a small foot, but might belong to either a girl of fourteen or so or to a small woman. She could see the print of the other shoe--yes! and there was the impress of the stockinged foot in the mud. "Whoever she may be," thought Ruth Fielding, "she is so frightened that she abandoned this shoe. Poor thing! What can be the matter with her?" Ruth shouted again, and yet again. She went on up the side of the turbulent brook, staring all about for the hiding place of her quarry. The rain ceased entirely and abruptly. But the whole forest was a-drip. Far up through the trees she saw a sudden lightening of the sky. The clouds were breaking. But the smoke of the torrential downpour still rose from the saturated earth. When Ruth jarred a bush in passing a perfect deluge fell from the trembling leaves. The girl began to feel that she had come far enough in what appeared to be a wild-goose chase. Then suddenly, quite amazingly, she was halted. She plunged around a sharp turn in the ravine, trying to step on the dryer places, and found herself confronted by a man standing under the shelter of a wide-armed spruce. "Oh!" gasped Ruth, starting back. He was a heavy-set, bewhiskered man with gleaming eyes and rather a grim look. Worst of all, he carried a gun with the lock sheltered under his arm-pit from the rain. At Ruth's appearance he seemed startled, too, and he advanced the muzzle of the gun and took a stride forward at the same moment. "Hello!" he growled. "Be you crazy, too? What in all git out be you traipsing through these woods for in the rain?" CHAPTER XI MR. PETERBY PAUL AND "WHOSIS" Ruth Fielding was more than a little startled, for the appearance of this bearded and gruff-spoken man was much against him. She had become familiar, however, during the past months with all sorts and conditions of men--many of them much more dangerous looking than this stranger. Her experiences at the battlefront in France had taught her many things. Among them, that very often the roughest men are the most tender with and considerate of women. Ruth knew that the girls and women working in the Red Cross and the "Y" and the Salvation Army might venture among the roughest _poilus_, Tommies and our own Yanks without fearing insult or injury. After that first startled "Oh!" Ruth Fielding gave no sign of fearing the bearded man with the gun under his arm. She stood her ground as he approached her. "How many air there of ye, Sissy?" he wanted to know. "And air ye all loose from some bat factory? That other one's crazy as all git out." "Oh, did you see her?" "If ye mean that Whosis that's wanderin' around yellin' like a cat-o'-mountain----" "Oh, dear! It was she that was screaming so!" "I should say it was. I tried to cotch her----" "And that scared her more, I suppose." "Huh! Be I so scareful to look at?" the stranger demanded. "Or, mebbe _you_ ain't loony, lady?" "I should hope not," rejoined Ruth, beginning to laugh. "Then how in tarnation," demanded the bearded man, "do you explain your wanderin' about these woods in this storm?" "Why," said Ruth, "I was trying to catch that poor creature, too." "That Whosis?" he exclaimed. "Whatever and whoever she is. See! Here's one of her shoes." "Do tell! She's lost it, ain't she? Don't you reckon she's loony?" "It may be that she is out of her mind. But she couldn't hurt you--a big, strong man like you." "That's as may be. I misdoubted me she was some kind of a Whosis," said the woodsman. "I seen her a couple of times and heard her holler ev'ry time the lightning was real sharp." "The poor creature has been frightened half to death by the tempest," said Ruth. "Mebbe. But where did she come from? And where did you come from, if I may ask? This yere ain't a neighborhood that many city folks finds their way into, let me tell ye." Ruth told him her name and related the mishap that had happened to the two cars at the bottom of the hill. "Wal, I want to know!" he responded. "Out o' gasoline, heh? Wal, that can be mended." "Tom Cameron has gone on foot for some." "Which way did he go, Ma'am?" "East," she said, pointing. "Towards Ridgeton? Wal, he'll have a fine walk." "But we have not seen any gasoline sign for ever so far back on the road." "That's right. Ain't no reg'lar place. But I guess I might be able to scare up enough gas to help you folks out. Ye see, we got a saw mill right up this gully and we got a gasoline engine to run her. I'm a-watchin' the place till the gang come in to work next month. That there Whosis got me out in the rain----" "Oh! Where do you suppose the poor thing has gone?" interrupted Ruth. "We should do something for her." "Wal, if she don't belong to you folks----" "She doesn't. But she should not be allowed to wander about in this awful way. Is she a woman grown, or a child?" "I couldn't tell ye. I ain't been close enough to her. By the way, my name is Peterby Paul, and I'm well and fav'rably knowed about this mounting. I did have my thoughts about you, same as that Whosis, I must say. But you 'pear to be all right. Wait, and I'll bring ye down a couple of cans of gasoline, and you can go on and pick up the feller that's started to walk to Ridgeton." "But that poor creature I followed up here, Mr. Paul? We _must_ find her." "You say she ain't nothin' to you folks?" "But she is alone, and frightened." "Wal, I expect so. She did give me a start for fair. I don't know where she could have come from 'nless she belongs over toward Ridgeton at old Miz Abby Drake's. She's got some city folks stopping with her--" "There she is!" cried Ruth, under her breath. A hobbling figure appeared for a moment on the side of the ravine. The rain had ceased now, but it still dripped plentifully from the trees. "I'm going after her!" exclaimed Ruth. "All right, Ma'am," said Mr. Peterby Paul. "I guess she ain't no Whosis, after all." Ruth could run much faster than the strange person who had so startled both the woodsman and herself. And running lightly, the girl of the Red Mill was almost at her quarry's elbow before her presence was suspected by the latter. The woman turned her face toward Ruth and screeched in evident alarm. She looked wild enough to be called a "Whosis," whatever kind of supernatural apparition that might be. Her silk dress was in rags; her hair floated down her back in a tangled mane; altogether she was a sorry sight, indeed. She was a woman of middle age, dark, slight of build, and of a most pitiful appearance. "Don't be frightened! Don't be afraid of me," begged Ruth. "Where are your friends? I will take you to them." "It is the voice of God," said the woman solemnly. "I am wicked. He will punish me. Do you know how wicked I am?" she added in a tense whisper. "I have no idea," Ruth replied calmly. "But I think that when we are nervous and distraught as you are, we magnify our sins as well as our troubles." Really, Ruth Fielding felt that she might take this philosophy to herself. She had been of late magnifying her troubles, without doubt. "I have been a great sinner," said the woman. "Do you know, I used to steal my little sister's bread and jam. And now she is dead. I can never make it up to her." Plainly this was a serious matter to the excited mind of the poor woman. "Come on down the hill with me. I have got an automobile there and we can ride to Mrs. Drake's in it. Isn't that where you are stopping?" "Yes, yes. Abby Drake," said the lost woman weakly. "We--we all started out for huckleberries. And I never thought before how wicked I was to my little sister. But the storm burst--such a terrible storm!" and the poor creature cowered close to Ruth as the thunder muttered again in the distance. "It is the voice of God----" "Come along!" urged Ruth. "Lots of people have made the same mistake. So Aunt Alvirah says. They mistake some other noise for the voice of God!" The woman was now so weak that the strong girl could easily lead her. Mr. Peterby Paul looked at the forlorn figure askance, however. "You can't blame me for thinkin' she was a Whosis," he said to Ruth. "Poor critter! It's lucky you came after her. She give me such a start I might o' run sort o' wild myself." "Perhaps if you had tried to catch her it would only have made her worse," Ruth replied, gently patting the excited woman's hand. "The voice of God!" muttered the victim of her own nervousness. "And she traipsing through these woods in a silk dress!" exclaimed Mr. Paul. "I tell 'em all, city folks ain't got right good sense." "Maybe you are right, Mr. Paul," sighed Ruth. "We are all a little queer, I guess. I will take her down to the car." "And I'll be right along with a couple of cans of gasoline, Ma'am," rejoined Peterby Paul. "Ain't no use you and your friends bein' stranded no longer." "If you will be so kind," Ruth said. He turned back up the ravine and Ruth urged the lost woman down the hill. The poor creature was scarcely able to walk, even after she had put on her lost shoe. Her fears which had driven her into this quite irresponsible state, were the result of ungoverned nervousness. Ruth thought seriously of this fact as she aided her charge down the hillside. She must steady her own nerves, or the result might be quite as serious. She had allowed the loss of her scenario to shake her usual calm. She knew she had not been acting like herself during this automobile journey and that she had given her friends cause for alarm. Then and there Ruth determined to talk no more about her loss or her fears regarding the missing scenario. If it was gone, it was gone. That was all there was to it. She would no longer worry her friends and disturb her own mental poise by ruminating upon her misfortune. When she and the lost woman got out of the ravine, Ruth could hear the girls calling her. And there was Colonel Marchand's horizon-blue uniform in sight as he toiled up the ascent, looking for her. "Don't be frightened, dear," Ruth said to the startled woman. "These are my friends." Then she called to Helen that she was coming. Colonel Marchand hurried forward with an amazed question. "Never mind! Don't bother her," Ruth said. "The poor creature has been through enough--out in all this storm, alone. We must get her to where she is stopping as soon as possible. See the condition her clothes are in!" "But, Mademoiselle Ruth!" gasped the Frenchman. "We are stalled until Captain Tom comes back with the gasoline--is it not?" "We are going to have gas in a very few minutes," returned Ruth gaily. "I did more than find this poor woman up on the hill. Wait!" Helen and Jennie sprang at Ruth like a pair of terriers after a cat, demanding information and explanation all in a breath. But when they realized the state of mind of the strange woman, they calmed down. They wrapped her in a dry raincoat and put her in the back of the big car. She remained quietly there with Jennie's Aunt Kate while Ruth related her adventure with Mr. Peterby Paul and the "Whosis." "Goodness!" gasped Helen, "I guess he named her rightly. There must be something altogether wrong with the poor creature to make her wander about these wet woods, screeching like a loon." "I'd screech, too," said Jennie Stone, "if I'd torn a perfectly good silk dress to tatters as she has." "Think of going huckleberrying in a frock like that," murmured Ruth. "I guess you are both right. And Mr. Peterby Paul did have good reason for calling her a 'Whosis'." CHAPTER XII ALONGSHORE Mr. Peterby Paul appeared after a short time striding down the wooded hillside balancing a five-gallon gasoline can in either hand. "I reckon you can get to Ridgeton on this here," he said jovially. "Guess I'd better set up a sign down here so's other of you autermobile folks kin take heart if ye git stuck." "You are just as welcome as the flowers in spring, tra-la!" cried Helen, fairly dancing with delight. "You are an angel visitor, Mr. Paul," said the plump girl. "I been called a lot o' things besides an angel," the bearded woodsman said, his eyes twinkling. "My wife, 'fore she died, had an almighty tart tongue." "And _now_?" queried Helen wickedly. "Wal, wherever the poor critter's gone, I reckon she's l'arned to bridle her tongue," said Mr. Peterby Paul cheerfully. "Howsomever, as the feller said, that's another day's job. Mr. Frenchy, let's pour this gasoline into them tanks." Ruth insisted upon paying for the gasoline, and paying well. Then Peterby Paul gave them careful directions as to the situation of Abby Drake's house, at which it seemed the lost woman must belong. "Abby always has her house full of city folks in the summer," the woodsman said. "She is pretty near a Whosis herself, Abby Drake is." With which rather unfavorable intimation regarding the despised "city folks," Mr. Peterby Paul saw them start on over the now badly rutted road. Helen drove the smaller car with Ruth sitting beside her. Henri Marchand took the wheel of the touring car, and the run to Boston was resumed. "But we must not over-run Tom," said Ruth to her chum. "No knowing what by-path he might have tried in search of the elusive gasoline." "I'll keep the horn blowing," Helen said, suiting action to her speech and sounding a musical blast through the wooded country that lay all about. "He ought to know his own auto-horn." The tone of the horn was peculiar. Ruth could always distinguish it from any other as Tom speeded along the Cheslow road toward the Red Mill. But then, she was perhaps subconsciously listening for its mellow note. She tacitly agreed with Helen, however, that it might be a good thing to toot the horn frequently. And the signal brought to the roadside an anxious group of women at a sprawling farmhouse not a mile beyond the spot where the two cars had been stalled. "That is the Drake place. It must be!" Ruth exclaimed, putting out a hand to warn Colonel Marchand that they were about to halt. A fleshy woman with a very ruddy face under her sunbonnet came eagerly out into the road, leading the group of evidently much worried women. "Have you folks seen anything of----" "_Abby!_" shrieked the woman Ruth had found, and she struggled to get out of the car. "Well, I declare, Mary Marsden!" gasped the sunbonneted woman, who was plainly Abby Drake. "If you ain't a sight!" "I--I'm so scared!" quavered the unforunate victim of her own nerves, as Ruth ran back to help her out of the touring car. "God is going to punish me, Abby." "I certainly hope He will," declared her friend, in rather a hard-hearted way. "I told you, you ought to be punished for wearing that dress up there into the berry pasture, and---- Land's sakes alive! Look at her dress!" Afterward, when Ruth had been thanked by Mrs. Drake and the other women, and the cars were rolling along the highway again, the girl of the Red Mill said to Helen Cameron: "I guess Tom is more than half right. Altogether, the most serious topic of conversation for all kinds and conditions of female humans is the matter of dress--in one way or another." "How dare you slur your own sex so?" demanded Helen. "Well, look at this case," her chum observed. "This Mary Marsden had been lost in the storm and killed for all they knew, yet Abby Drake's first thought was for the woman's dress." "Well, it was a pity about the dress," Helen remarked, proving that she agreed with Abby Drake and the bulk of womankind--as her twin brother oft and again acclaimed. Ruth laughed. "And now if we could see poor dear Tommy----" The car rounded a sharp turn in the highway. The Drake house was perhaps a mile behind. Ahead was a long stretch of rain-drenched road, and Helen instantly cried: "There he is!" The figure of Tom Cameron with the empty gasoline can in his hand could scarcely be mistaken, although he was at least a mile in advance. Helen began to punch the horn madly. "He'll know that," Ruth cried. "Yes, he looks back! Won't he be astonished?" Tom certainly was amazed. He proceeded to sit down on the can and wait for the cars to overtake him. "What are you traveling on?" he shouted, when Helen stopped with the engine running just in front of him. "Fairy gasoline?" "Why, Tommy, you're not so smart!" laughed his sister. "It takes Ruth to find gas stations. We were stalled right in front of one, and you did not know it. Hop in here and take my place and I'll run back to the other car. Ruth will tell you all about it." "Perhaps we had better let Colonel Marchand and Jennie have this honeymoon car," Ruth said doubtfully. "Humph!" her chum observed, "I begin to believe it will be just as much a honeymoon car with you and Tom in it as with that other couple. 'Bless you, my children!'" She ran back to the big car with this saucy statement. Tom grinned, slipped behind the wheel, and started the roadster slowly. "It must be," he observed in his inimitable drawl, "that Sis has noticed that I'm fond of you, Ruthie." "Quite remarkable," she rejoined cheerfully. "But the war isn't over yet, Tommy-boy. And if our lives are spared we've got to finish our educations and all that. Why, Tommy, you are scarcely out of short pants, and I've only begun to put my hair up." "Jimminy!" he grumbled, "you do take all the starch out of a fellow. Now tell me how you got gas. What happened?" Everybody has been to Boston, or expects to go there some time, so it is quite immaterial what happened to the party while at the Hub. They only remained two days, anyway, then they started off alongshore through the pleasant old towns that dot the coast as far as Cape Ann. They saw the ancient fishing ports of Marblehead, Salem, Gloucester and Rockport, and then came back into the interior and did not see salt water again until they reached Newburyport at the mouth of the Merrimac. The weather remained delightfully cool and sunshiny after that heavy tempest they had suffered in the hills, and they reached Portsmouth and remained at a hotel for three days when it rained again. The young folks chafed at this delay, but Aunt Kate declared that a hotel room was restful after jouncing over all sorts of roads for so long. "They never will build a car easy enough for auntie," Jennie Stone declared. "I tell pa he must buy some sort of airship for us----" "Never!" cried Aunt Kate in quick denial. "Whenever I go up in the air it will be because wings have sprouted on my shoulder blades. And I should not call an aeroplane easy riding, in any case." "At least," grumbled Tom, "you can spin along without any trouble with country constables, and _that's_ a blessing." For on several occasions they had had arguments with members of the police force, in one case helping to support a justice and a constable by paying a fine. They did not travel on Sunday, however, when the constables reap most of their harvest, so they really had little to complain of in that direction. Nor did they travel fast in any case. After the rainy days at Portsmouth, the automobile party ran on with only minor incidents and no adventures until they reached Portland. There Ruth telegraphed to Mr. Hammond that they were coming, as in her letter, written before they left Cheslow, she had promised him she would. Herringport, the nearest town to the moving picture camp at Beach Plum Point, was at the head of a beautiful harbor, dotted with islands, and with water as blue as that of the Bay of Naples. When the two cars rolled into this old seaport the party was welcomed in person by Mr. Hammond, the president and producing manager of the Alectrion Film Corporation. "I have engaged rooms for you at the hotel here, if you want them," he told Ruth, after being introduced to Aunt Kate and Colonel Marchand, the only members of the party whom he had not previously met. "But I can give you all comfortable bunks with some degree of luxury at the camp. At least, we think it luxurious after our gold mining experience in the West. You will get better cooking at the Point, too." "But a camp!" sighed Aunt Kate. "We have roughed it so much coming down here, Mr. Hammond." "There won't be any black ants at this camp," said her niece cheerfully. "Only sand fleas," suggested the wicked Tom. "You can't scare me with fleas," said Jennie. "They only hop; they don't wriggle and creep." "My star in the 'Seaside Idyl,' Miss Loder, demanded hotel accommodations at first. But she soon changed her mind," Mr. Hammond said. "She is now glad to be on the lot with the rest of the company." "It sounds like a circus," Aunt Kate murmured doubtfully. "It is more than that, my dear Madam," replied the manager, laughing. "But these young people----" "If Aunt Kate won't mind," said Ruth, "let us try it, while she remains at the Herringport Inn." "I'll run her back and forth every day for the 'eats'," Tom promptly proposed. "My duty as a chaperon----" began the good woman, when her niece broke in with: "In numbers there is perfect safety, Auntie. There are a whole lot of girls down there at the Point." "And we have chaperons of our own, I assure you," interposed Mr. Hammond, treating Aunt Kate's objection seriously. "Miss Loder has a cousin who always travels with her. Our own Mother Paisley, who plays character parts, has daughters of her own and is a lovely lady. You need not fear, Madam, that the conventions will be broken." "We won't even crack 'em, Aunt Kate," declared Helen rouguishly. "I will watch Jen like a cat would a mouse." "Humph!" observed the plump girl, scornfully. "_This_ mouse, in that case, is likely to swallow the cat!" CHAPTER XIII THE HERMIT "Now, tell me, Miss Ruth," said Mr. Hammond, having taken the girl of the Red Mill into his own car for the short run to Beach Plum Point, "what is this trouble about your new scenario? You have excited my curiosity during all these months about the wonderful script, and now you say it is not ready for me." "Oh, Mr. Hammond!" exclaimed Ruth, "I fear it will never be ready for you." "Nonsense! Don't lose heart. You have merely come to one of those thank-you-ma'ams in story writing that all authors suffer. Wait. It will come to you." "No, no!" sighed Ruth. "It is nothing like that. I had finished the scenario. I had it all just about as I wanted it, and then----" "Then what?" he asked in wonder at her emotion. "It--it was stolen!" "Stolen?" "Yes. And all my notes--everything! I--I can't talk about it. And I never could write it again," sobbed Ruth. "It is the best thing I ever did, Mr. Hammond." "If it is better than 'The Heart of a Schoolgirl', or 'The Forty-Niners', or 'The Boys of the Draft', then it must be some scenario, Miss Ruth. The last two are still going strong, you know. And I have hopes of the 'Seaside Idyl' catching the public fancy just when we are all getting rather weary of war dramas. "If you can only rewrite this new story----" "But Mr. Hammond! I am sure it has been stolen by somebody who will make use of it. Some other producer may put it on the screen, and then my version would fall flat--if no worse." "Humph! And you have been so secret about it!" "I took your advice, Mr. Hammond. I have told nobody about it--not a thing!" "And somebody unknown stole it?" "We think it was a vagrant actor. A tramp. Just the sort of person, though, who would know how to make use of the script." "Humph! All actors were considered 'vagrants' under the old English law--in Shakespeare's younger days, for instance," remarked Mr. Hammond. "You see how unwise it would be for me to try to rewrite the story--even if I could--and try to screen it." "I presume you are right. Yes. But I hoped you would bring a story with you that we could be working on at odd times. I have a good all-around company here on the lot." "I had most of your principals in mind when I wrote my scenario," sighed Ruth. "But I could not put my mind to that same subject now. I am discouraged, Mr. Hammond." "I would not feel that way if I were you, Miss Ruth," he advised, trying, as everybody else did, to cheer her. "You will get another good idea, and like all other born writers, you will just _have_ to give expression to it. Meantime, of course, if I get hold of a promising scenario, I shall try to produce it." "I hope you will find a good one, Mr. Hammond." He smiled rather ruefully. "Of course, there is scarcely anybody on the lot who hasn't a picture play in his or her pocket. I was possibly unwise last week to offer five hundred dollars spot cash for a play I could make use of, for now I suppose there will be fifty to read. Everybody, from Jacks, the property man, to the old hermit, believes he can write a scenario." "Who is the hermit?" asked Ruth, with some curiosity. "I don't know. Nobody seems to know who he is about Herringport. He was living in an old fish-house down on the Point when we came here last week with the full strength of the company. And I have made use of the old fellow in your 'Seaside Idyl'. "He seems to be a queer duck. But he has some idea of the art of acting, it seems. Director Jim Hooley is delighted with him. But they tell me the old fellow is scribbling all night in his hut. The scenario bug has certainly bit that old codger. He's out for my five hundred dollars," and the producing manager laughed again. "I hope you get a good script," said Ruth earnestly. "But don't ask me to read any of them, Mr. Hammond. It does seem as though I never wanted to look at a scenario again!" "Then you are going to miss some amusement in this case," he chuckled. "Why so?" "I tell you frankly I do not expect much from even those professional actors. It was my experience even before I went into the motion picture business that plays submitted by actors were always full of all the old stuff--all the old theatrical tricks and the like. Actors are the most insular people in existence, I believe. They know how plays should be written to fulfill the tenets of the profession; but invention is 'something else again'." The young people who had motored so far were welcomed by many of Mr. Hammond's company who had acted in "The Forty-Niners" and had met Ruth and her friends in the West, as related in "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle." The shacks that had been built especially for the company's use were comfortable, even if they did smell of new pine boards. The men of the company lived in khaki tents. There were several old fish-houses that were likewise being utilized by the members of the company. Beach Plum Point was the easterly barrier of sand and rock that defended the beautiful harbor from the Atlantic breakers. It was a wind-blown place, and the moan of the surf on the outer reef was continually in the ears of the campers on the Point. The tang of salt in the air could always be tasted on the lips when one was out of doors. And the younger folks were out on the sands most of the time when they were not working, sleeping, or eating. "We are going to have some fun here," promised Tom Cameron to Ruth, after their party had got established with its baggage. "See that hard strip of beach? That's no clamflat. I am going to race my car on that sand. Palm Beach has nothing on this. Jackman, the property man (you remember Jacks, don't you, Ruth?), says the blackfish and bass are biting off the Point. You girls can act in movies if you like, but _I_ am going fishing." "Don't talk movies to me," sighed the girl. "I almost wish we had not come, Tom." "Nonsense! You shall go fishing with me. Put on your oldest duds and--well, maybe you will have to strip off your shoes and stockings. It is both wet and slippery on the rocks." "Pooh! I'll put on my bathing suit and a sweater. I never was afraid of water yet," Ruth declared. This was the morning after their arrival. Tom had been up to the port and brought down Aunt Kate for the day. Aunt Kate sat under an umbrella near where the company was working on location, and she scribbled all day in a notebook. Jennie whispered that she, too, was bitten by the scenario bug! "I feel it coming over me," announced Helen. "I've got what I think is a dandy idea." "Oh, there's too much to do," Jennie Stone said. "I couldn't find time to dabble in literature." "My, oh, my!" gasped Helen, with scorn. "How busy we are! You and Henri spend all your time making eyes at each other." "But just think, Nell!" cried the plump girl. "He's got to go back to France and fight----" "And so has my Tom." "But Tom is only your brother." "And Henri is nothing at all to you," rejoined Helen cruelly. "A fiancé is only an expectation. You may change your mind about Henri." "Never!" cried Jennie, with horror. "Well, he keeps you busy, I grant. And there go Tom and Ruth mooning off together with fish lines. Lots of fishing _they_ will do! They are almost as bad as you and Henri. Why!" ejaculated Helen in some heat, "I am just driven to writing scenarios to keep from dying of loneliness." "I notice that 'juvenile lead,' Mr. Simmons, is keeping you quite busy," remarked Jennie slyly, as she turned away. It was a fact that Ruth and Tom enjoyed each others' company. But Helen need not have been even a wee bit jealous. To tell the truth, she did not like to "get all mussed up," as she expressed it, by going fishing. To Ruth the adventure was a glad relief from worriment. Much as she tried, she could not throw off all thought of her lost scenario. She welcomed every incident that promised amusement and mental relaxation. Some of the troupe of actors--the men, mostly--were bathing off the Point. "And see that man in the old skiff!" cried Ruth. "'The Lone Fisherman'." The individual in question sat upon a common kitchen chair in the skiff with a big, patched umbrella to keep the sun off, and was fishing with a pole that he had evidently cut in the woods along the shore. "That is that hermit fellow," said Tom. "He's a queer duck. And the boys bother him a good deal." He was angrily driving some of the swimmers away from his fishing location at that moment. It was plain the members of the moving picture company used the hermit as a butt for their jokes. While one fellow was taking up the hermit's attention in front, another bather rose silently behind him and reached into the bottom of the skiff. What this second fellow did Tom and Ruth could not see. "The old chap can't swim a stroke," explained one of the laughing bathers to the visitors. "He's as afraid of water as a cat. Now you watch." But Tom and Ruth saw nothing to watch. They went on to the tip of the Point and Tom prepared the fishing tackle and baited the hooks. Just as Ruth made her first cast there sounded a scream from the direction of the lone fisherman. "What is it?" she gasped, dropping her pole. The bathers had deserted the old man in the skiff, and were now at some distance. He was anchored in probably twenty feet of water. To the amazement of Ruth and her companion, the skiff had sunk until its gunwales were scarcely visible. The hermit had wrenched away his umbrella and was now balanced upon the chair on his feet, in danger of sinking. His fear of this catastrophe was being expressed in unstinted terms. CHAPTER XIV A QUOTATION "Do help him, Tom!" cried Ruth Fielding, and she started for the spot where the man and the skiff were sinking. Tom cast aside his sweater, kicked his sneakers off, and plunged into the tide. Ruth was quite as lightly dressed as Tom; but she saw that he could do all that was necessary. That was, to bring the frightened man ashore. This "hermit" as they called him, was certainly very much afraid of the water. He splashed a good deal, and Tom had to speak sharply to keep him from getting a strangle-hold about his own neck. "Jimminy! but that was a mean trick," panted Tom, when he got ashore with the fisherman. "Somebody pulled the plug out of the bottom of the skiff and first he knew, he was going down." "It is a shame," agreed Ruth, looking at the victim of the joke curiously. He was a thin-featured, austere looking man, scrupulously shaven, but with rather long hair that had quite evidently been dyed. Now that it was plastered to his crown by the salt water (for he had been completely immersed more than once in his struggle with Tom Cameron) his hair was shown to be quite thin and of a greenish tinge at the roots. The shock of being dipped in the sea so unexpectedly was plainly no small one for the hermit. He stood quite unsteadily on the strand, panting and sputtering. "Young dogs! No respect for age and ability in this generation. I might have been drowned." "Well, it's all over now," said Tom comfortingly. "Where do you live?" "Over yonder, young man," replied the hermit, pointing to the ocean side of the point. "We will take you home. You lie down for a while and you will feel better," Ruth said soothingly. "We will come back here afterward and get your skiff ashore." "Thank you, Miss," said the man courteously. "I'll make those fellows who played the trick on you get the boat ashore," promised Tom, running for his shoes and sweater. The hermit proved to be a very uncommunicative person. Ruth tried to get him to talk about himself as they crossed the rocky spit, but all that he said of a personal nature was that his name was "John." His shack was certainly a lonely looking hovel. It faced the tumbling Atlantic and it seemed rather an odd thing to Ruth that a man who was so afraid of the sea should have selected such a spot for his home. The hermit did not invite them to enter his abode. He promised Ruth that he would make a hot drink for himself and remove his wet garments and lie down. But he only seemed moderately grateful for their assistance, and shut the door of the shack promptly in their faces when he got inside. "Just as friendly as a sore-headed dog," remarked Tom, as they went back to the bay side of the Point. "Perhaps the others have played so many tricks on him that he is suspicious of even our assistance," Ruth said. Thus speaking, she stooped to pick up a bit of paper in the path. It had been half covered by the sand and might have lain there a long time, or only a day. Just why this bit of brown wrapping paper had caught her attention, it would be hard to say. Ruth might have passed it a dozen times without noticing it. But now she must needs turn the paper over and over in her hands as she watched Tom, with the help of the rather abashed practical jokers, haul the water-logged skiff ashore. She had forgotten the fishing poles they had abandoned on the rocks, and sat down upon a boulder. Suddenly she discovered that there was writing on the bit of paper she had picked up. It was then that her attention really became fixed upon her find. The characters had been written with an indelible pencil. The dampness had only blurred the writing instead of erasing it. Her attention thus engaged, she idly scrutinized more than the blurred lines. Her attitude as she sat there on the boulder slowly stiffened; her gaze focused upon the paper. "Why! what is it?" she murmured at last. The blurred lines became clearer to her vision. It was the wording of the phrase rather than the handwriting that enthralled her. This that follows was all that was written on the paper: "Flash:-- "As in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be----" To the ordinary observer, with no knowledge of what went before or followed this quotation, the phrase must seem idle. But the word "flash" is used by scenario writers and motion picture makers, indicating an explanatory phrase thrown on the screen. And this quoted phrase struck poignantly to Ruth Fielding's mind. For it was one she had used in that last scenario--the one that had so strangely disappeared from the summer-house back at the Red Mill! Amazed--almost stunned--by this discovery, she sat on the boulder scarcely seeing what Tom and the others were doing toward salvaging the old hermit's skiff and other property. Thoughts regarding the quotation shuttled back and forth in the girl's mind in a most bewildering way. The practical side of her character pointed out that there really could be no significance in this discovery. It could not possibly have anything to do with her stolen script. Yet the odd phrase, used in just this way, had been one of the few "flashes" indicated in her scenario. Was it likely that anybody else, writing a picture, would use just that phrase? She balanced the improbability of this find meaning anything at all to her against the coincidence of another author using the quotation in writing a scenario. She did not know what to think. Which supposition was the more improbable? The thought was preposterous that the paper should mean anything to her. Ruth was about to throw it away; and then, failing to convince herself that the quotation was but idly written, she tucked the piece of paper into the belt of her bathing suit. When Tom was ready to go back to their fishing station, Ruth went with him and said nothing about the find she had made. They had fair luck, all told, and the chef at the camp produced their catch in a dish of boiled tautog with egg sauce at dinner that evening. The company ate together at a long table, like a logging camp crew, only with many more of the refinements of life than the usual logging crew enjoys. It was, however, on a picnic plane of existence, and there was much hilarity. These actor folk were very pleasant people. Even the star, Miss Loder, was quite unspoiled by her success. "You know," she confessed to Ruth (everybody confided in Ruth), "I never would have been anything more than a stock actress in some jerkwater town, as we say in the West, if the movies hadn't become so popular. I have what they call the 'appealing face' and I can squeeze out real tears at the proper juncture. Those are two very necessary attributes for a girl who wishes to gain film success." "But you can really act," Ruth said honestly. "I watched you to-day." "I should be able to act. I come of a family who have been actors for generations. Acting is like breathing to me. But, of course, it is another art to 'register' emotion in the face, and very different from displaying one's feelings by action and audible expression. You know, one of our most popular present-day stage actresses got her start by an ability to scream off-stage. Nothing like that in the movies." "You should hear Jennie Stone with a black ant down her back," put in Helen, with serious face. "I am sure Heavy could go the actress you speak of one better, and become even more popular." "I am not to be blamed if I squeal at crawly things," sniffed the plump girl, hearing this. "See how brave I am in most other respects." But that night Jennie exhibited what Tom called her "scarefulness" in most unmistakable fashion, and never again could she claim to be brave. She gave her chums in addition such a fright that they were not soon over talking about it. The three college girls had cots in a small shack that Mr. Hammond had given up to their use. It was one of the shacks nearest the shore of the harbor. Several boat-docks near by ran out into the deep water. It was past midnight when Jennie was for some reason aroused. Usually she slept straight through the night, and had to be awakened by violent means in time for breakfast. She was not startled, but awoke naturally, and found herself broad awake. She sat up in her cot, almost convinced that it must be daylight. But it was the moon shining through a haze of clouds that lighted the interior of the shack. The other two girls were breathing deeply. The noises she heard did not at first alarm Jennie. There was the whisper of the tide as it rolled the tiny pebbles and shells up the strand and, receding, swept them down again. It chuckled, too, among the small piers of the near-by docks. Then the listening girl heard footsteps--or what she took to be that sound. They approached the shack, then receded. She began to be curious, then felt a tremor of alarm. Who could be wandering about the camp at this grim hour of the night? She was unwise enough to allow her imagination to wake up, too. She stole from her bed and peered out of the screened window that faced the water. Almost at once a moving object met her frightened gaze. It was a figure all in white which seemed to float down the lane between the tents and out upon the nearest boat-dock. Afterward Jennie declared she could have suffered one of these spirit-looking manifestations in silence. She crammed the strings of her frilled nightcap between her teeth as a stopper! This spectral figure was going away from the shack, anyway. It appeared to be bearing something in its arms. But then came a second ghost, likewise burdened. Gasping, Jennie waited, clinging to the window-sill for support. A third spectre appeared, rising like Banquo's spirit at Macbeth's feast. This was too much for the plump girl's self-control. She opened her mouth, and her half-strangled shriek, the partially masticated cap-strings all but choking her, aroused Ruth and Helen to palpitating fright. "Oh! What is it?" demanded Helen, bounding out of bed. "Ghosts! Oh! Waw!" gurgled Jennie, and sank back into her friend's arms. Helen was literally as well as mentally overcome. Jennie's weight carried her to the straw matting with a bump that shook the shack and brought Ruth, too, out of bed. CHAPTER XV AN AMAZING SITUATION "'Ghost'?" cried Ruth Fielding. "Let me see it! Remember the campus ghost back at old Briarwood, Helen? I haven't seen a ghost since that time." "Ugh! Get this big elephant off of me!" grunted her chum, impolitely as well as angrily. "_She's_ no ghost, I do assure you. She's of the earth, earthy, and no mistake! Ouch! Get off, Heavy!" "Oh! Oh! Oh!" groaned the plump girl. "I--I saw them. Three of them!" "Sounds like a three-ring circus," snapped Helen. But Ruth was peering through the window. She saw nothing, and complained thereof: "Jen has had a nightmare. I don't see a thing." "Nightmare, your granny!" sputtered the plump girl, finally rolling off her half crushed friend. "I saw it--them--_those_!" "Your grammar is so mixed I wouldn't believe you on oath," declared Helen, getting to her own bare feet and paddling back to her cot for slippers and a negligee. "O-o-oh, it is chilly," agreed Ruth, grabbing a wrap, too. "Do tell us about it, Jennie," she begged. "Did you see your ghost through the window here?" "It isn't my ghost!" denied the plump girl. "I'm alive, ain't I?" "But you're not conscious," grumbled Helen. "I can see!" wailed Jennie. "I haven't lost my eyesight." "Stop!" Ruth urged. "Let us get at the foundation of this trouble. You say you saw----" "I saw what I saw!" "Oh, see-saw!" cried Helen. "We're all loony, now." Ruth was about to ask another question, but she was again looking through the window. She suddenly bit off a cry of her own. She had to confess that the sight she saw was startling. "Is--is that the ghost, Jennie?" she breathed, seizing the plump girl by her arm and dragging her forward. Jennie gave one frightened look through the window and immediately clapped her palms over her eyes. "Ow!" she wailed in muffled tones. "They're coming back." They were, indeed! Three white figures in Indian file came stalking up the long dock. They approached the camp in a spectral procession and had she been awakened to see them first of all, Ruth might have been startled herself. Helen peered over her chum's shoulder and in teeth-chattering monotone breathed in Ruth's ear the query: "What is it?" "It--it's Heavy's ghost." "Not mine! Not mine!" denied the plump girl. "Oh!" gasped Helen, spying the stalking white figures. It was the moonlight made them appear so ghostly. Ruth knew that, of course, at once. And then---- "Who ever saw ghosts carrying garbage cans before?" ejaculated the girl of the Red Mill. "Mercy me, Heavy! do stop your wailing. It is the chef and his two assistants who have got up to dump the garbage on the out-going tide. What a perfect scare-cat you are!" "You don't mean it, Ruth?" whimpered the plump girl. "Is that _all_ they were?" Helen began to giggle. And it covered her own fright. Ruth was rather annoyed. "If you had remained in bed and minded your own business," she said to Jennie, "you would not have seen ghosts, or got us up to see them. Now go back to sleep and behave yourself." "Yes, ma'am," murmured the abashed Jennie Stone. "How silly of me! I was never afraid of a cook before--no, indeed." Helen continued to giggle spasmodically; but she fell asleep soon. As for Jennie, she began to breathe heavily almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. But Ruth must needs lie awake for hours, and naturally the teeth of her mind began to knaw at the problem of that bit of paper she had found in the sand. The more she thought of it the less easy it was to discard the idea that the writing on the paper was a quotation from her own scenario script. It seemed utterly improbable that two people should use that same expression as a "flash" in a scenario. Yet, if this paper was a connecting link between her stolen manuscript and the thief, _who was the thief_? It would seem, of course, if this supposition were granted, that some member of the company of film actors Mr. Hammond had there at Beach Plum Point had stolen the scenario. At least, the stolen scenario must be in the possession of some member of the company. Who could it be? Naturally Ruth considered this unknown must be one of the company who wished Mr. Hammond to accept and produce a scenario. Ruth finally fell into a troubled sleep with the determination in her mind to take more interest in the proposed scenario-writing contest than she had at first intended. She could not imagine how anybody could take her work and change it so that she would not recognize it! The plot of the story was too well wrought and the working out of it too direct. She did not think that she had it perfect. Only that she had perfected the idea as well as she was able. But changing it would not hide from her the recognition of her own brain-child. So after breakfast she went to Mr. Hammond to make inquiry about the scenario contest. "Ha, ha! So you are coming to yourself, Miss Ruth!" he chuckled. "I told you you would feel different. I only wish _you_ would get a real smart idea for a picture." "Nothing like that!" she told him, shaking her head. "I could not think of writing a new scenario. You don't know what it means to me--the loss of that picture I had struggled so long with and thought so much about. I---- "But let us not talk of it," she hastened to add. "I am curious regarding the stories that have been offered to you." "You need not fear competition," he replied. "Just as I told you, all these perfectly good acting people base their scenarios on dramas they have played or seen played. They haven't got the idea of writing for the screen at all, although they work before the camera." "And that is no wonder!" exclaimed Ruth. "The way the directors take scenes, the actors never get much of an idea of the continuity of the story they are making. But these stories?" "So far, I haven't found a possible scenario. And I have looked at more than a score." "You don't mean it!" "I most certainly do," he assured her. "Want to look at them?" "Why--yes," confessed Ruth. "I am curious, as I tell you." "Go to it!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond, opening a drawer of his desk and pointing to the pile of manuscripts within. "Consider yourself at home here. I am going over to the port with Director Hooley and most of the members of the company. We have found just the location for the shooting of that scene in your 'Seaside Idyl' where the ladies' aid society holds its 'gossip session' in the grove--remember?" "Oh, yes," Ruth replied, not much interested, as she took the first scenario out of the drawer. "And Hooley's found some splendid types, too, around the village. They really have a sewing circle connected with the Herringport Union Church, and I have agreed to help the ladies pay for having the church edifice painted if they will let us film a session of the society with our principal character actors mixed in with the local group. The sun is good to-day." He went away, and a little later Ruth heard the automobiles start for Herringport. She had the forenoon to herself, for the rest of her party had gone out in a motor boat fishing--a party from which she had excused herself. Eagerly she began to examine the scenarios submitted to Mr. Hammond. The possibility that she might find one of them near enough like her own lost story to suggest that it had been plagiarized, made Ruth's heart beat faster. She could not forget the quotation on the scrap of brown paper. Somebody on this Point--and it seemed that the "somebody" must be one of the moving picture company--had written that quotation from her scenario. She felt that this could not be denied. CHAPTER XVI RUTH SOLVES ONE PROBLEM Had Ruth Fielding been confronted with the question: "Did she expect to find a clue to the identity of the person who had stolen her scenario before she left the Red Mill?" she could have made no confident answer. She did not know what she would find when she sat down at Mr. Hammond's desk for the purpose of looking over the submitted stories. Doubt and suspicion, however, enthralled her mind. She was both curious and anxious. Ruth had no particular desire to read the manuscripts. In any case she did not presume Mr. Hammond desired her advice about selecting a script for filming. She skimmed through the first story. It had not a thing in it that would suggest in the faintest way any familiarity of the author with her own lost scenario. For two hours she fastened her attention upon one after another of the scenarios, often by main will-power, because of the utter lack of interest in the stories the writers had tried to put over. Without being at all egotistical, Ruth Fielding felt confident that had any one of these scenario writers come into possession of her lost script, and been dishonest enough to use it, he would have turned out a much better story. But not a trace of her original idea and its development was to be found in these manuscripts. Her suspicion had been needlessly roused. Ruth could not deny that the scrap of paper found in the sand was quite as mysterious as ever. The quotation on it seemed to be taken directly from her own scenario. But there was absolutely nothing in this pile of manuscripts to justify her suspicions. She was just as dissatisfied after scanning all the submitted scenarios as Mr. Hammond seemed to be with the day's work when the company came back from Herringport in the late afternoon. "I suppose it is a sanguine disposition that keeps me at this game, Miss Ruth," he sighed. "I always expect much more than I can possibly get out of a situation; and when I fail I go on hoping just the same." "I am sure that is a commendable disposition to possess," she laughed. "What has gone so wrong?" "It is the old story of leading the horse to water, and the inability of making him drink. This is a balky horse, and no mistake!" "Do tell me what you mean, Mr. Hammond?" "Why, I told you we had got what the ladies call 'perfectly lovely' types for that scene to-day. You ought to see them, Miss Ruth! You would be charmed. Just what the dear public expects a back-country sewing circle should look like." "Oh!" "And they all promised to be on hand at the location--and they were. I have had my experiences with amateurs before. I had begged the ladies to dress just as they would were they going to an actual meeting of their sewing society----" "And they all dressed up?" laughed Ruth, clasping her hands. "Well, that I expected to contend with. And most of them even in their best bib and tucker were not out of the picture. Not at all! That was not the main difficulty and the one that has spoiled our day's work." "Indeed?" "I am afraid Jim Hooley will have to fake the whole scene after all," continued the manager. "Those women came all dressed up 'to have their pictures took,' it is true. But the worst of it is, they could not be natural. It was impossible. They showed in every move and every glance that they were sitting with a bunch of actors and were not at all sure that what they were doing was altogether the right thing. "We worked over them as though it were a 'mob scene' and there were five hundred in it instead of twenty. But twenty wooden dummies would have filmed no more unnaturally. You know, in your story, they are supposed to be discussing the bit of gossip about your heroine's elopement with the schoolteacher. I could not work up a mite of enthusiasm in their minds about such a topic." Ruth laughed. But she saw that the matter was really serious for Mr. Hammond and the director. She became sympathetic. "I fancy that if they had had a real scandal to discuss," she observed, "their faces would have registered more poignant interest." "'Poignant interest'!" scoffed the manager in disgust. "If these Herringport tabbies had the toothache they would register only polite anguish--in public. They are the most insular and self-contained and self-suppressed women I ever saw. These Down-Easters! They could walk over fiery ploughshares and only wanly smile----" Ruth went off into a gale of laughter at this. Mr. Hammond was a Westerner by birth, and he found the Yankee character as hard to understand as did Henri Marchand. "Have you quite given up hope, Mr. Hammond?" Ruth asked. "Well, we'll try again to-morrow. Oh, they promised to come again! They are cutting out rompers, or flannel undervests, I suppose, for the South Sea Island children; or something like that. They are interested in that job, no doubt. "I wanted them to 'let go all holts,' as these fishermen say, and be eager and excited. They are about as eager as they would be doing their washing, or cleaning house--if as much!" and Mr. Hammond's disappointment became too deep for further audible expression. Ruth suddenly awoke to the fact that one of her best scenes in the "Seaside Idyl" was likely to be spoiled. She talked with Mr. Hooley about it, and when the day's run was developed and run off in one of the shacks which was used for a try-out room, Ruth saw that the manager had not put the matter too strongly. The sewing circle scene lacked all that snap and go needed to make it a realistic piece of action. Of course, there were enough character actors in the company to use in the scene; but naturally an actor caricatures such parts as were called for in this scene. The professional would be likely to make the characters seem grotesque. That was not the aim of the story. "I thought you were not going to take any interest in this 'Seaside Idyl,' at all," suggested Helen, when Ruth was talking about the failure of the scene after supper that night. "I can't help it. My reputation as a scenario writer is at stake, just as much as is Mr. Hooley's reputation as director," Ruth said, smiling. "I really didn't mean to have a thing to do with the old picture. But I can see that somebody has got to put a breath of naturalness into those ladies' aid society women, or this part of the picture will be a fizzle." "And our Ruth," drawled Jennie, "is going to prescribe one of her famous cure-alls, is she?" "I believe I can make them look less like a lot of dummies while they are cutting out rompers for cannibal island pickaninnies," laughed Ruth. "Tom, I am going to the port with you the first thing in the morning." "By all means," said Captain Cameron. "I am yours to command." Her newly aroused interest in the scenario at present being filmed, was a good thing for Ruth Fielding. Having found nothing at all in the submitted stories that suggested her own lost story, the girl of the Red Mill tried to put aside again the thing that so troubled her mind. And this new interest helped. In the morning before breakfast she and Tom ran over to the port in the maroon roadster. While they were having breakfast at the inn, Ruth asked the waitress, who was a native of this part of the country, about the Union Church and some of the more intimate life-details of the members of its congregation. It is not hard to uncover neighborhood gossip of a kind not altogether unkindly in any similar community. The Union Church had a new minister, and he was young. He was now away on his vacation, and more than one local beauty and her match-making mamma would have palpitation of the heart before he returned for fear that the young clergyman would have his heart interests entangled by some designing "foreigner." Tom had no idea as to what Ruth Fielding was getting at through this questioning of the beaming Hebe who waited on them at breakfast. And he was quite as much in the dark as to his friend's motive when Ruth announced their first visit to be to the office of the Herringport _Harpoon_, the local news sheet. CHAPTER XVII JOHN, THE HERMIT'S, CONTRIBUTION A man with bushy hair, a pencil stuck over his ear, and wearing an ink-stained apron, met them in the office of the _Harpoon_. This was Ezra Payne, editor and publisher of the weekly news-sheet, and this was his busiest day. The _Harpoon_, Ruth had learned, usually went into the mails on this day. "Tut, tut! I see. Is this a joke?" Mr. Payne pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow in uncertainty. "A whole edition, Miss? Wall, I dunno. I do have hard work selling all the edition some weeks. But I have reg'lar subscribers----" "This will not interfere with your usual edition of the _Harpoon_," she hastened to assure him. "How's that, Miss?" "I want to buy an edition of one copy." "One copy!" "Yes, sir. I want something special printed in one paper. Then you can take it out and print your regular edition." "Tut, tut! I see. Is this a joke?" Mr. Payne asked, his eyes beginning to twinkle. "It is the biggest joke you ever heard of," declared Ruth. "And who's the joke on?" "Wait and see what I write," Ruth said, sitting down at the battered old desk where he labored over his editorials and proofsheets. Opening a copy of the last week's _Harpoon_ that lay there, she was able to see the whole face of the paper. "I've got the inside run off," said Mr. Payne, still doubtfully. "So you can't run anything on the second and third pages." "Oh, I want the most prominent place for my item," laughed Ruth. "Front page, top column---- Here it is!" He bent over her. Tom stared in wonder, too, as Ruth pointed to an item under a certain heading at the top of the middle column of the front page of the sheet. "That is just where I want my item to appear," she said briskly to the editor. "You run that--that department there every week?" "Oh, yes, Miss. The people expect it. You know how folks are. They look for those items first of all in a country paper." "Yes. It is so. One of the New York dailies is still printed with that human foible in mind. It caters to this very curiosity that your _Harpoon_ caters to." "Yes, Miss. You're right. Most folks have the same curiosity, city or country. Shakespeare spoke of the 'seven ages of man'; but there are only three of particular interest--to womankind, anyway; and they are all _here_." "There you go! Slurring the women," she laughed. "Or do you speak compliments?" "I guess the women have it right," chuckled Mr. Payne. "Now, what is it you want me to print in one paper for you?" Ruth drew a scratch pad to her and scribbled rapidly for a couple of minutes. Then she passed the page to the newspaper proprietor. Mr. Payne read it, stared at her, pursed his lips, and then read it again. Suddenly he burst into a cackle of laughter, slapping his thigh in high delight. "By gravy!" he chortled, "that's a good one on the dominie. By gravy! wait till I tell----" "Don't you tell anybody, Mr. Payne," interrupted Ruth, smiling, but firmly. "I am buying your secrecy as well as your edition of _one copy_." "I get you! I get you!" declared the old fellow. "This is to be on the q.t.?" "Positively." "You sit right here. The front page is all made up on the stone, Marriages, Births, Death Notices, and all. I'll set the paragraph and slip it in at the top o' the column. My boy is out, but this young man can help me lift the page into the press. She's all warmed up, and I was going to start printing when Edgar comes back from breakfast." He grabbed the piece of copy and went off into the printing room, chuckling. Half an hour later the first paper came from the press, and Ruth and Tom bent over it. The item the girl had written was plainly printed in the position she had chosen on the front page of the _Harpoon_. "Now, you are to keep still about this," Ruth said, threatening Mr. Payne with a raised finger. "I don't know a thing about it," he promised, pocketing the bill she took from her purse, and in high good humor over the joke. Tom helped him take the front page from the press again. The printer unlocked the chase, and removed and distributed the three lines he had set up at Ruth's direction. The crowd from Beach Plum Point came over in the cars about noontime. Aunt Kate had remained at the inn on this morning, and she and Ruth walked to the "location," which was a beautiful old shaded front yard at the far end of the village. Helen and Jennie had come with the real actors, and were to appear in the picture. The story related incidents at a Sunday-school picnic, and most of the comedy had already been filmed on the lot. The scene around the long sewing table under the trees, when the ladies' aid was at work with needle and tongue, should be the principal incident of this reel devoted to the picnic. The heroine, to the amazement of the village gossips, has run away with the schoolmaster and married him in the next county. A certain character in the picture runs in with this bombshell of news and explodes it in the midst of the group about the sewing table. The day before this point had failed to make much impression upon the amateur members of the company engaged in this typical scene. The Herringport ladies were not at all interested in such a thing happening to the town's schoolmaster, for to tell the truth the local schoolmaster was an old married man with a house full of children and nothing at all romantic about him. Ruth took Mr. Hooley aside and showed him the copy of the _Harpoon_ she had had printed, and whispered to him her idea of the change in the action of the scenario. He seized upon the scheme--and the paper--with gusto. "You are a jewel, Miss Fielding!" he declared. "If this doesn't make those old tabbies come to life and act naturally, nothing ever will!" Ruth left the matter in the director's hands and retired from the location. She had no intention herself of appearing in the picture. She found Mr. Hammond sitting in his automobile in a state of good-humor. "You seem quite sure that the work will go better to-day, Mr. Hammond," Ruth observed, with curiosity as to the reason for his apparent enjoyment. "Whether it does or not, Miss Ruth," he responded. "There is something that I fancy is going to be more than a little amusing." He tapped a package wrapped in a soiled newspaper which lay on the seat beside him. "Thank goodness, I can still enjoy a joke." "What is the joke? Let me enjoy it, too," she said. "With the greatest of pleasure. I'll let you read it, if you like--as you did those other scenarios." "What! Is it a movie story?" she asked. "So I am assured. It is the contribution of John, the hermit. He brought it to me just before we started over here this morning. Poor old codger! Just look here, Miss Ruth." Mr. Hammond turned back the loose covering of the package on the automobile seat. Ruth saw a packet of papers, seemingly of roughly trimmed sheets of wrapping paper and of several sizes. At the top of the upper sheet was the title of the hermit's scenario. It was called "Plain Mary." She glanced down the page, noting that it was written in a large, upright, hand and with an indelible pencil. Ruth Fielding had not the least idea that she was to take any particular interest in this picture-story. She smiled more because Mr. Hammond seemed so amused than for any other reason. Secretly she thought that most of these moving picture people were rather unkind to the strange old man who lived alone on the seaward side of the Beach Plum Point. "Want to read it over?" Mr. Hammond asked her. "I would consider it a favor, for I've got to go back and try to catch up with my correspondence. I expect this is worse than those you skimmed through yesterday." Ruth did not hear him. Suddenly she had seen something that had not at first interested her. She read the first few lines of the opening, and saw nothing in them of importance. It was the writing itself that struck her. "Why!" she suddenly gasped. She was reminded of something that she had seen before. This writing---- "Let me go back to the camp with you, Mr. Hammond," she said, slipping into the seat and taking the packet of written sheets into her lap. "I--I will look through this scenario, if you like. There is something down there on the Point that I want." "Sure. Be glad to have your company," he said, letting in his clutch after pushing the starter. "We're off." Ruth did not speak again just then. With widening eyes she began to devour the first pages of the hermit's manuscript. CHAPTER XVIII UNCERTAINTIES The automobile purred along the shell road, past the white-sided, green-blinded houses of the retired ship captains and the other well-to-do people of Herringport. The car ran so smoothly that Ruth might have read all the way. But after the first page or two--those containing the opening scenes of "Plain Mary"--she dared not read farther. Not yet. It was not that there was a familiar phrase in the upright chirography of the old hermit. The story merely suggested a familiar situation to Ruth's mind. Thus far it was only a suggestion. There was something else she felt she must prove or disprove first of all. She sat beside Mr. Hammond quite speechless until they came to the camp on the harbor shore of Beach Plum Point. He went off cheerfully to his letter writing, and Ruth entered the shack she occupied with Helen and Jennie. She opened her locked writing-case. Under the first flap she inserted her fingers and drew forth the wrinkled scrap of paper she had picked up on the sands. A glance at the blurred writing assured her that it was the same as that of the hermit's scenario. "Flash: "As in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be----" Shakingly Ruth sat down before the cheap little maple table. She spread open the newspaper wrapper and stared again at the title page of "Plain Mary." That title was nothing at all like the one she had given her lost scenario. But a title, after all, meant very little. The several scenes suggested in the beginning of the hermit's story did not conflict with the plot she had evolved, although they were not her own. She had read nothing so far that would make this story different from her own. The names of the characters were changed and the locations for the first scene were different from those in her script. Nevertheless the action and development of the story might prove to be exactly like hers. She shrank from going deeper into the hermit's script. She feared to find her suspicions true; yet she _must_ know. Finally she began to read. Page after page of the large and sprawling writing she turned over, face down upon the table. Ruth grew so absorbed in the story that she did not note the passing of time. She was truly aware of but one thing. And that seized upon her mind to wring from it both bitterness and anger. "Want to go back to the port, Miss Ruth?" asked Mr. Hammond. "I want to mail my letters." His question startled her. She sprang up, a spot of crimson in either cheek. Had he looked at her, the manager would certainly have noted her strange look. "I'll come in a minute," she called to him in a half-stifled voice. She laved her eyes and cheeks in cool water, removing such marks of her emotion as she could. Then she bundled up the hermit's scenario and joined Mr. Hammond in the car. "Did you look at this?" she asked the producer as he started the motor. "Bless you, no! What is it? As crazy as the old codger himself?" "Do you really think that man is crazy?" she asked sharply. "Why, I don't really know. Just queer perhaps. It doesn't seem as though a sane man would live all stark alone over on that sea-beaten point." "He is an actor," declared Ruth. "Your director says so." "At least, he does not claim to be, and they usually do, you know," chuckled Mr. Hammond. "But about this thing----" "You read it! Then I will tell you something," said the girl soberly, and she refused to explain further. "You amaze me," said the puzzled manager. "If that old codger has succeeded in turning out anything worth while, I certainly shall believe that 'wonders never cease.'" "He has got you all fooled. He _is_ a good actor," declared Ruth bitterly. Then, as Mr. Hammond turned a puzzled frown upon her, she added, "Tell me what you think of the script, Mr. Hammond, before you speak to--er--John, or whatever his name may be." "I certainly am curious now," he declared. They got back to the place where the director had arranged to "shoot" the sewing circle scene just as everything was all set for it. Mother Paisley dominated the half circle of women about the long table under the trees. Ruth marveled at the types Mr. Hooley had found in the village. And she marveled further that any group of human beings could appear so wooden. "Oh, Ruth!" murmured Helen, who was not in this scene, but was an interested spectator, "they will surely spoil the picture again. Poor Mr. Hooley! He takes _such_ pains." It was like playing a child's game for most of the members of the Herringport Union congregation. They were selfconscious, and felt that they were in a silly situation. Those who were not too serious of demeanor were giggling like schoolgirls. Yet everything was ready for the cameras. Mr. Hooley's keen eye ran over all the group. He waved a hand to the camera men. "Ready camera--action--go!" The women remained speechless. They merely looked at each other in a helpless way. It was evident they had forgotten all the instructions the director had given them. But suddenly into the focus of the cameras ran a barefooted urchin waving a newspaper. This was the Alectrion Company's smartest "kid" actor and a favorite wherever his tousled head, freckled face, and wide grin appeared on the screen. He plunged right at Mother Paisley and thrust the paper into her hand, while he pointed at a certain place on the front page. "Read _that_, Ma Bassett!" cried the news vender. Mrs. Paisley gave expression first to wonder, then utter amazement, as she read the item Ruth had had inserted in this particular "edition" of the _Harpoon_. She was a fine old actress and her facial registering of emotion was a marvel. Mr. Hooley had seldom to advise her. Now his voice was heard above the clack of the cameras: "Pass it to the lady at your left. That's it! Cling to the paper. Get your heads together--three of you now!" The amateur players looked at each other and began to grin. The scene promised to be as big a "fizzle" as the one shot the previous day. But the woman next to Mrs. Paisley, after looking carelessly at the paper, of a sudden came to life. She seized the _Harpoon_ with both hands, fairly snatching it out of the actress' hands. She was too startled to be polite. "What under the canopy is this here?" she sputtered. She was a small, wiry, vigorous woman, and she had an expressive, if a vinegary, face. She rose from her seat and forgot all about her "play-acting." "What d'you think it says here?" she demanded of her sister-members of the ladies' aid. "Sh!" "Ella Painter, you're a-bustin' up the show!" admonished a motherly old person at the end of the table. But Mrs. Painter did not notice these hushed remarks. She read the item in the paper aloud--and so extravagantly did she mouth the astonishing words that Ruth feared they might be read on her lips when shown on the screen. "Listen!" Mrs. Painter cried. "Right at the top of the marriage notices! 'Garside--Smythe. At Perleyvale, Maine, on August twenty-second, the Reverend Elton Garside, of Herringport, and Miss Amy Smythe, of Perleyvale.' What do you know about that?" The gasp of amazement that went up from the women of the Herringport Union Church was almost a chorus of anguish. The paper was snatched from hand to hand. Nobody could accuse the amateurs now of being "wooden." Not until Mrs. Paisley in the character of _Ma Bassett_, at the signal from Mr. Hooley, fell back in her chair, exclaiming: "My mercy me! Luella Sprague and the teacher! Who'd have thought it?" did the company in general suspect that something had been "put over on them." "All right! All right!" shouted Jim Hooley in high delight, stopping his camera men. "That's fine! It's great! Miss Fielding, your scheme worked like a charm." The members of the sewing circle began to ask questions. "Do you mean to say this is in the play?" demanded Mrs. Ella Painter, waving the newspaper and inclined to be indignant. "Yes, Mrs. Painter. That marriage notice is just a joke," the director told her. "It certainly gave you ladies a start and---- Well, wait till you see this scene on the screen!" "But ain't it _so_?" cried another. "Why, Mr. Garside---- Why! it's in the _Harpoon_." "But you won't find it in another _Harpoon_," laughed the director, recovering possession of the newspaper. "It's only a joke. But I positively had to give you ladies a real shock or we'd never have got this scene right." "Well, of all the impudence!" began Mrs. Painter. However, she joined in the laughter a minute later. At best, the women had won from Mr. Hammond enough money to pay for the painting of their church edifice, and they were willing to sacrifice their dignity for that. CHAPTER XIX COUNTERCLAIMS "I declare, Ruth! that was a ridiculous thing to do," exclaimed Helen, when they were on their way back to the Point. "But it certainly brought the sewing circle women all up standing." "I've been wondering all day what Ruth was up to," said Tom, who was steering the big car. "I was in on it without understanding her game." "Well, it was just what the directer needed," chuckled Jennie. "Oh, it takes our Ruth to do things." "I wonder?" sighed the girl of the Red Mill, in no responsive mood. She had something very unpleasant before her that she felt she must do, and nothing could raise her spirits. She did not speak to anybody about the hermit's scenario. She waited for Mr. Hammond to express his opinion of it. At the camp she found a letter for her from the doctor's wife who had promised to keep her informed regarding Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike. That young person was doing well and getting fat at the Perkins' farm. But Mrs. Holmes was quite sure that she had not heard from her father. "You've got another half-orphan on your hands, Ruth," said Helen. She made it a point always to object to Ruth's charities. "I don't believe that man will ever show up again. If he went away with a medicine show----" "No, no," said Ruth firmly. "No child would ever respect and love her father as Bella does if he was not good to her. He will turn up." Just then Tom called from outside the door of the girls' shack. "What say to a moonlight dip off the Point?" he asked. "The tide is not very low. And I missed my splash this morning." "We're with you, Tommy," responded his sister. "Wait till we get into bathing suits." Even Ruth was enthusiastic--to a degree--over this. In twenty minutes they were running up the beach with Tom and Henri toward the end of the Point. "Let's go over and get the surf," suggested Jennie. "I do love surf bathing. All you have to do is to bob up and down in one place." "Heavy is lazy even in her sport," scoffed Helen. "But I'm game for the rough stuff." They crossed the neck of land near the hermit's hut. There was a hard beach almost in front of the hut, and up this the breakers rolled and foamed delightfully. The so-called hermit, hearing their voices, came out and sat on a rock to watch them. But he did not offer to speak until Ruth went over to him. "Mr. Hammond let me read your script, John," she said coldly. "Indeed?" he rejoined without emotion. "Where did you get the idea for that scenario?" He tapped his head with a long forefinger. "Right inside of that skull. I do my own thinking," he said. "You did not have any help about it? You originated the idea of 'Plain Mary?'" He nodded. "You ain't the only person who can write a picture," he observed. "And I think that this one they are filming for you is silly." Ruth stared down at him, but said nothing more. She was ready to go back to camp as soon as the others would, and she remained very silent. Mr. Hammond had been asking for her, Miss Loder said. When Ruth had got into something more presentable than a wet bathing suit, she went to his office. "What do you know about this?" he demanded in plain amazement. "This story the old man gave me to read is a wonder! It is one of the best ideas I ever saw for the screen. Of course, it needs fixing up a bit, but it's great! What did you think of it, Miss Ruth?" "I am glad you like it, Mr. Hammond," she said, steadying her voice with difficulty. "I do like it, I assure you." "It is _my_ story, Mr. Hammond!" she exclaimed. "It is the very scenario that was stolen from me at home. He's just changed the names of the characters and given it a different title, and spoiled some of the scenes. But a large part of it is copied word for word from my manuscript!" "Miss Fielding!" gasped the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation. "I am telling you the truth," Ruth cried, rather wildly, it must be confessed, and then she broke down and wept. "My goodness! It can't be possible! You--you've let your mind dwell upon your loss so much----" "Do you think I am crazy?" she demanded, flaring up at him, her anger drying her tears. "Certainly not," he returned gently; yet he looked at her oddly. "But mistakes have been made----" "Mistakes, indeed! It is no mistake when I recognize my own work." "But--but how could this old man have stolen your work--and away back there at the Red Mill? I believe he has lived here on the Point for years. At least, every summer." "Then somebody else stole it and he got the script from them. I tell you it is mine!" cried Ruth. "Miss Fielding! Let us be calm----" "You would not be calm if you discovered somebody trying to make use of something you had originated, and calling it theirs--no you wouldn't, Mr. Hammond!" "But it seems impossible," he said weakly. "That old man is an actor--an old-school actor. You can see that easily enough," she declared. "There was such a person about the Red Mill the day my script was lost. Oh, it's plain enough." "Not so plain, Miss Ruth," said Mr. Hammond firmly. "And you must not make wild accusations. That will do no good--and may do harm in the end. It does not seem probable to me that this old hermit could have actually stolen your story. A longshore character like him----" "He's not!" cried Ruth. "Don't you see that he is playing a part? He is no fisherman. No longshore character, as you call him, would be as afraid of the sea as he is. He is playing a part--and he plays it just as well as the parts Mr. Hooley gives him to play." "Jove! There may be something in that," murmured the manager. "He got my script some way, I tell you!" declared Ruth. "I am not going to let anybody maul my story and put it over as his own. No, sir!" "But--but, Miss Ruth!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond. "How are you going to prove what you say is true?" "Prove it?" "Yes. You see, the burden of proof must be on you." "But--but don't you believe me?" she murmured. "Does it matter what I believe?" he asked her gently. "Remember, this man has entrusted me with a manuscript that he says is original. At least it is written in his own hand. I cannot go back of that unless you have some means of proof that his story is your story. Who did you tell about your plot, and how you worked it out? Did you read the finished manuscript--or any part of it--to any person who can corroborate your statements?" "Oh, Mr. Hammond!" she cried, with sudden anguish in her voice. "Not a soul! Never to a single, solitary person. The girls, nor Aunt Alvirah, nor Tom----" She broke down again and he could not soothe her. She wept with abandon, and Mr. Hammond was really anxious for her. He went to the door, whistled for one of the boys, and sent for Mrs. Paisley. But Ruth recovered her composure--to a degree, at least--before the motherly old actress came. "Don't tell anybody! Don't tell anybody!" she sobbed to Mr. Hammond. "They will think I am crazy! I haven't a word of proof. Only my word----" "Against his," said the manager gravely. "I would accept your word, Miss Ruth, against the world! But we must have some proof before we deliberately accuse this old man of robbing you." "Yes, yes. I see. I will be patient--if I can." "The thing to do is to find out who this hermit really is," said Mr. Hammond. "Through discovering his private history we may put our finger on the thing that will aid you with proof. Good-night, my dear. Try to get calm again." CHAPTER XX THE GRILL Ruth did not go back to her chums until, under Mother Paisley's comforting influence, she had recovered a measure of her self-possession. The old actress asked no questions as to the cause of Ruth's state of mind. She had seen too many hysterical girls to feel that the cause of her patient's breakdown was at all important. "You just cry all you want to, deary. Right here on Mother Paisley's shoulder. Crying will do you good. It is the Good Lord's way of giving us women an outlet for all our troubles. When the last tear is squeezed out much of the pain goes with it." Ruth was not ordinarily a crying girl. She had wept more of late, beginning with that day at the Red Mill when her scenario manuscript had been stolen, than in all her life before. Her tears were now in part an expression of anger and indignation. She was as mad as she could be at this man who called himself "John, the hermit." For, whether he was the person who had actually stolen her manuscript, he very well knew that his scenario offered to Mr. Hammond was not original with him. The worst of it was, he had mangled her scenario. Ruth could look upon it in no other way. His changes had merely muddied the plot and cheapened her main idea. She could not forgive that! The other girls were drowsy when Ruth kissed Mother Paisley good-night and entered the small shack. She was glad to escape any interrogation. By morning she had gained control of herself, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she had not slept. "You certainly do not look as though you were enjoying yourself down here," Tom Cameron said to her at breakfast time, and with suspicion. "Maybe we did come to the wrong place for our vacation after all. How about it, Ruth? Shall we start off in the cars again and seek pastures new?" "Not now, Tom," she told him, hastily. "I must stay right here." "Why?" "Because----" "That is no sensible reason." "Let me finish," she said rather crossly. "Because I must see what sort of scenario Mr. Hammond finds--if he finds any--in this contest." "Humph! And you said you and scenarios were done forever! I fancy Mr. Hammond is taking advantage of your good nature." "He is not." "You are positively snappish, Ruth," complained Tom. "You've changed your mind----" "Isn't that a girl's privilege?" "Very well, Miladi!" he said, with a deep bow as they rose from the table. "However, you need not give all your attention to these prize stories, need you? Let's do something besides follow these sun-worshippers around to-day." "All right, Tommy-boy," acclaimed his sister. "What do you suggest?" "A run along the coast to Reef Harbor where there are a lot of folks we know," Tom promptly replied. "Not in that old _Tocsin_," cried Jennie. "She's so small I can't take off my sweater without tipping her over." "Oh, what a whopper!" gasped Helen. "Never mind," grinned her twin. "Let Jennie run to the superlatives if she likes. Anyway, I would not dream of going so far as the Harbor in that dinky little _Tocsin_. I've got my eye on just the craft, and I can get her over here in an hour by telephoning to the port. It's the _Stazy_." "Goody!" exclaimed Jennie Stone. "That big blue yacht! And she's got a regular crew--and everything. Aunty won't be afraid to go with us in her." "That's fine, Tom," said his sister with appreciation. Even Ruth seemed to take some interest. But she suggested: "Be sure there is gasoline enough, Tom. That _Stazy_ doesn't spread a foot of canvas, and we are not likely to find a gas station out there in the ocean, the way we did in the hills of Massachusetts." "Don't fear, Miss Fidget," he rejoined. "Are you all game?" They were. The girls went to "doll up," to quote the slangy Tom, for Reef Harbor was one of the most fashionable of Maine coast resorts and the knockabout clothing they had been wearing at Beach Plum Point would never do at the Harbor hotels. The _Stazy_ was a comfortable and fast motor-yacht. As to her sea-worthiness even Tom could not say, but she looked all right. And to the eyes of the members of Ruth Fielding's party there was no threat of bad weather. So why worry about the pleasure-craft's balance and her ability to sail the high seas? "It is only a short run, anyway," Tom said. As for Colonel Marchand, he had not the first idea about ships or sailing. He admitted that only continued fair weather and a smooth sea had kept him on deck coming over from France with Jennie and Helen. At the present time he and Jennie Stone were much too deeply engrossed in each other to think of anything but their own two selves. In a fortnight now, both the Frenchman and Tom would have to return to the battle lines. And they were, deep in their hearts, eager to go back; for they did not dream at this time that the German navy would revolt, that the High Command and the army had lost their morale, and that the end of the Great War was near. Within Tom's specified hour the party got under way, boarding the _Stazy_ from a small boat that came to the camp dock for them. It was not until the yacht was gone with Ruth Fielding and her party that Mr. Hammond set on foot the investigation he had determined upon the night before. The president of the Alectrion Film Corporation thought a great deal of the girl of the Red Mill. Their friendship was based on something more than a business association. But he knew, too, that after her recent experiences in France and elsewhere, her health was in rather a precarious state. At least, he was quite sure that Ruth's nerves were "all out of tune," as he expressed it, and he believed she was not entirely responsible for what she had said. The girl had allowed her mind to dwell so much upon that scenario she had lost that it might be she was not altogether clear upon the subject. Mr. Hammond had talked with Tom about the robbery at the Red Mill, and it looked to the moving picture producer as though there might be some considerable doubt of Ruth's having been robbed at all. In that terrific wind and rain storm almost anything might have blown away. Tom admitted he had seen a barrel sailing through the air at the height of the storm. "Why couldn't the papers and note books have been caught up by a gust of wind and carried into the river?" Mr. Hammond asked himself. "The river was right there, and it possesses a strong current." The president of the Alectrion Film Corporation knew the Lumano, and the vicinity of the Red Mill as well. It seemed to him very probable that the scenario had been lost. And the gold-mounted fountain pen? Why, that might have easily rolled down a crack in the summer-house floor. The whole thing was a matter so fortuitous that Mr. Hammond could not accept Ruth's version of the loss without some doubt, in any case. And then, her suddenly finding in the only good scenario submitted to him by any of his company, one that she believed was plagiarized from her lost story, seemed to put a cap on the whole matter. Ruth might be just a little "off soundings," as the fishermen about Herringport would say. Mr. Hammond was afraid that she had been carried into a situation of mind where suspicion took the place of certainty. She had absolutely nothing with which to corroborate her statement. Nobody had seen Ruth's scenario nor had she discussed the plot with any person. Secrecy necessary to the successful production of anything new in the line of picture plays was all right. Mr. Hammond advised it. But in this case it seemed that the scenario writer had been altogether too secret. Had Ruth not chanced to read the hermit's script before making her accusation, Mr. Hammond would have felt differently. Better, had she been willing to relate to him in the first place the story of the plot of her scenario and how she had treated it, her present accusation might have seemed more reasonable. But, having read the really good story scrawled on the scraps of brown paper that John, the hermit, had put in the manager's hands, the girl had suddenly claimed the authorship of the story. There was nothing to prove her claim. It looked dubious at the best. John, the hermit, was a grim old man. No matter whether he was some old actor hiding away here on Beach Plum Point or not, he was not a man to give up easily anything that he had once said was his. The manager was far too wise to accuse the hermit openly, as Ruth had accused him. They would not get far with the old fellow that way, he was sure. First of all he called the company together and asked if there were any more scenarios to be submitted. "No," being the answer, he told them briefly that out of the twenty-odd stories he had accepted one that might be whipped into shape for filming--and one only. Each story submitted had been numbered and the number given to its author. The scripts could now be obtained by the presentation of the numbers. He did not tell them which number had proved successful. Nor did he let it be known that he proposed to try to film the hermit's production. Mr. Hooley was using old John on this day in a character part. For these "types" the director usually paid ten or fifteen dollars a day; but John was so successful in every part he was given that Mr. Hooley always paid him an extra five dollars for his work. Money seemed to make no difference in the hermit's appearance, however. He wore just as shabby clothing and lived just as plainly as he had when the picture company had come on to the lot. When work was over for the day, Hooley sent the old man to Mr. Hammond's office. The president of the company invited the hermit into his shack and gave him a seat. He scrutinized the man sharply as he thus greeted him. It was quite true that the hermit did not wholly fit the character he assumed as a longshore waif. In the first place, his skin was not tanned to the proper leathery look. His eyes were not those of a man used to looking off over the sea. His hands were too soft and unscarred for a sailor's. He had never pulled on ropes and handled an oar! Now that Ruth Fielding had suggested that his character was a disguise, Mr. Hammond saw plainly that she must be right. As he was a good actor of other parts before the camera, so he was a good actor in his part of "hermit." "How long have you lived over there on the point, John?" asked Mr. Hammond carelessly. "A good many years, sir, in summer." "How did you come to live there first?" "I wandered down this way, found the hut empty, turned to and fixed it up, and stayed on." He said it quite simply and without the first show of confusion. But this tale of his occupancy of the seaside hut he had repeated frequently, as Mr. Hammond very well knew. "Where do you go in the winter, John?" the latter asked. "To where it's a sight warmer. I don't have to ask anybody where I shall go," and now the man's tone was a trifle defiant. "I would like to know something more about you," Mr. Hammond said, quite frankly. "I may be able to do something with your story. We like to know about the person who submits a scenario----" "That don't go!" snapped the hermit grimly. "You offered five hundred for a story you could use. If you can use mine, I want the five hundred. And I don't aim to give you the history of my past along with the story. It's nobody's business what or who I am, or where I came from, or where I am going." "Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond. "You are quite sudden, aren't you? Now, just calm yourself. I haven't got to take your scenario and pay you five hundred dollars for it----" "Then somebody else will," said the hermit, getting up. "Ah! You are quite sure you have a good story here, are you?" "I know I have." "And how do you know so much?" sharply demanded the moving picture magnate. "I've seen enough of this thing you are doing, now--this 'Seaside Idyl' stuff--to know that mine is a hundred per cent. better," sneered the hermit. "Whew! You've a good opinion of your story, haven't you?" asked Mr. Hammond. "Did you ever write a scenario before?" "What is that to you?" returned the other. "I don't get you at all, Mr. Hammond. All this cross-examination----" "That will do now!" snapped the manager. "I am not obliged to take your story. You can try it elsewhere if you like," and he shoved the newspaper-wrapped package toward the end of his desk and nearer the hermit's hand. "I tell you frankly that I won't take any story without knowing all about the author. There are too many comebacks in this game." "What do you mean?" demanded the other stiffly. "I don't _know_ that your story is original. Frankly, I have some doubt about that very point." The old man did not change color at all. His gray eyes blazed and he was not at all pleasant looking. But the accusation did not seem to surprise him. "Are you trying to get it away from me for less than you offered?" he demanded. "You are an old man," said Mr. Hammond hotly, "and that lets you get away with such a suggestion as that without punishment. I begin to believe that there is something dead wrong with you, John--or whatever your name is." He drew back the packet of manuscript, opened a drawer, put it within, and locked the drawer. "I'll think this over a little longer," he said grimly. "At least, until you are willing to be a little more communicative about yourself. I would be glad to use your story with some fixing up, if I was convinced you really wrote it all. But you have got to show me--or give me proper references." "Give me back the scenario, then!" exclaimed the old man, his eyes blazing hotly. "No. Not yet. I can take my time in deciding upon the manuscripts submitted in this contest. You will have to wait until I decide," said Mr. Hammond, waving the man out of his office. CHAPTER XXI A HERMIT FOR REVENUE ONLY The bays and inlets of the coast of Maine have the bluest water dotted by the greenest islands that one can imagine. And such wild and romantic looking spots as some of these islands are! Just at this time, too, a particular tang of romance was in the air. The Germans had threatened to devastate our Atlantic coast from Eastport to Key West with a flock of submersibles. There actually were a few submarines lurking about the pathways of our coastwise shipping; but, as usual, the Hun's boast came to naught. The young people on the _Stazy_ scarcely expected to see a German periscope during the run to Reef Harbor. Yet they did not neglect watching out for something of the kind. Skipper Phil Gordon, a young man with one arm but a full and complete knowledge of this coast and how to coax speed out of a gasoline engine, ordered his "crew" of one boy to remain sharply on the lookout, as well. The _Stazy_ did not, however, run far outside. The high and rocky headland that marked the entrance to Reef Harbor came into view before they had more than dropped the hazy outline of Beach Plum Point astern. But until they rounded the promontory and entered the narrow inlet to Reef Harbor the town and the summer colony was entirely invisible. "If a German sub should stick its nose in here," sighed Helen, "it would make everybody ashore get up and dust. Don't you think so?" "Is it the custom to do so when the enemy, he arrive?" asked Colonel Marchand, to whom the idiomatic speech of the Yankee was still a puzzle. "Sure!" replied Tom, grinning. "Sure, Henri! These New England women would clean house, no matter what catastrophe arrived." "Oh, don't suggest such horrid possibilities," cried Jennie. "And they are only fooling you, Henri." "Look yonder!" exclaimed Captain Tom, waving an instructive hand. "Behold! Let the Kaiser's underseas boat come. That little tin lizzie of the sea is ready for it. Depth bombs and all!" The grim looking drab submarine chaser lay at the nearest dock, the faint spiral of smoke rising from her stack proclaiming that she was ready for immediate work. There was a tower, too, on the highest point on the headland from which a continual watch was kept above the town. "O-o-oh!" gurgled Jennie, snuggling up to Henri. "Suppose one of those German subs shelled the movie camp back there on Beach Plum Point!" "They would likely spoil a perfectly good picture, then," said Helen practically. "Think of Ruthie's 'Seaside Idyl!'. "Oh, say!" Helen went on. "They tell me that old hermit has submitted a story in the contest. What do you suppose it is like, Ruth?" The girl of the Red Mill was sitting beside Aunt Kate. She flushed when she said: "Why shouldn't he submit one?" "But that hermit isn't quite right in his head, is he?" demanded Ruth's chum. "I don't know that it is his head that is wrong," murmured Ruth, shaking her own head doubtfully. Here Jennie broke in. "Is auntie letting you read her story, Ruth?" she asked slyly. "Now, Jennie Stone!" exclaimed their chaperon, blushing. "Well, you are writing one. You know you are," laughed her niece. "I--I am just trying to see if I can write such a story," stammered Aunt Kate. "Well, I am sure you could make up a better scenario than that old grouch of a hermit," Helen declared, warmly. Ruth did not add anything to this discussion. What she had discovered regarding the hermit's scenario was of too serious a nature to be publicly discussed. Her interview the evening before with Mr. Hammond regarding the matter had left Ruth in a most uncertain frame of mind. She did not know what to do about the stolen scenario. She shrank from telling even Helen or Tom of her discovery. To tell the truth, Mr. Hammond's seeming doubt--not of her truthfulness but of her wisdom--had shaken the girl's belief in herself. It was a strange situation, indeed. She thought of the woman she had found wandering about the mountain in the storm who had lost control of both her nerves and her mind, and Ruth wondered if it could be possible that she, too, was on the verge of becoming a nervous wreck. Had she deceived herself about this hermit's story? Had she allowed her mind to dwell on her loss until she was quite unaccountable for her mental decisions? To tell the truth, this thought frightened the girl of the Red Mill a little. Practical as Ruth Fielding ordinarily was, she must confess that the shock she had received when the hospital in France was partly wrecked, an account of which is given in "Ruth Fielding Homeward Bound," had shaken the very foundations of her being. She shuddered even now when she thought of what she had been through in France and on the voyage coming back to America. She realized that even Tom and Helen looked at her sometimes when she spoke of her lost scenario in a most peculiar way. Was it a fact that she had allowed her loss to unbalance--well, her judgment? Suppose she was quite wrong about that scenario the hermit had submitted to Mr. Hammond? The thought frightened her! At least, she had nothing to say upon the puzzling subject, not even to her best and closest friends. She was sorry indeed two hours later when they were at lunch on the porch of the Reef Harbor House with some of the Camerons' friends that Helen brought the conversation around again to the Beach Plum Point "hermit." "A _real_ hermit?" cried Cora Grimsby, a gay, blonde, irresponsible little thing, but with a heart of gold. "And is he a hermit for revenue only, too?" "What do you mean by that?" Helen demanded. "Why, we have a hermit here, you see. Over on Reef Island itself. If you give us a sail in your motor yacht after lunch I'll introduce our hermit to you. But you must buy something of him, or otherwise 'cross his palm with silver.' He told me one day that he was not playing a nut for summer folks to laugh at just for the good of his health." "Frank, I must say," laughed Tom Cameron. "I guess he's been in the hermit business before," said Cora, sparkling at Tom in his uniform. "But this is his first season at the Harbor." "I wonder if he belongs to the hermit's union and carries a union card," suggested Jennie Stone soberly. "I don't think we should patronize non-union hermits." "Goody!" cried Cora, clapping her hands. "Let's ask him." Ruth said nothing. She rather wished she might get out of the trip to Reef Island without offending anybody. But that seemed impossible. She really had seen all the hermits she cared to see! She could not, however, be morose and absent-minded in a party of which Cora Grimsby and Jennie Stone were the moving spirits. It was a gay crowd that crossed the harbor in the _Stazy_ to land at a roughly built dock under the high bluff of the wooded island. "There's the hermit!" Cora cried, as they landed. "See him sitting on the rock before the door of his cabin?" "Right on the job," suggested Tom. "No unlucky city fly shall escape that spider's web," cried Jennie. He was a patriarchal looking man. His beard swept his breast. He wore shabby garments, was barefooted, and carried a staff as though he were lame or rheumatic. "Dresses the part much better than our hermit does," Helen said, in comment. The man met the party from the _Stazy_ with a broad smile that displayed a toothless cavity of a mouth. His red-rimmed eyes were moist looking, not to say bleary. Ruth smelled a distinct alcoholic odor on his breath. A complete drouth had evidently not struck this part of the State of Maine. "Good day to ye!" said the hermit. "Some o' you young folks I ain't never seed before." "They are my friends," Cora hastened to explain, "and they come from Beach Plum Point." "Do tell! If you air goin' back to-night, better make a good v'y'ge of it. We're due for a blow, I allow. You folks ain't stoppin' right on the p'int, be ye?" Ruth, to whom he addressed this last question, answered that they were, and explained that there was a large camp there this season, and why. "Wal, wal! I want to know! Somebody did say something to me about a gang of movin' picture folks comin' there; but I reckoned they was a-foolin' me." "There is a good sized party of us," acknowledged Ruth. "Wal, wal! Mebbe that fella I let my shack to will make out well, then, after all. Warn't no sign of ye on the beach when I left three weeks ago". "Did you live there on the point?" asked Ruth. "Allus do winters. But the pickin's is better over here at the Harbor at this time of year." "And the man you left in your place? Where is your house on the point?" The hermit "for revenue only" described the hut on the eastern shore in which the other "hermit" lived. Ruth became much interested. "Tell me," she said, while the others examined the curios the hermit had for sale, "what kind of man is this you left in your house? And who is he?" "Law bless ye!" said the old man. "I don't know him from Adam's off ox. Never seed him afore. But he was trampin' of it; and he didn't have much money. An' to tell you the truth, Miss, that hutch of mine ain't wuth much money." She described the man who had been playing the hermit since the Alectrion Film Corporation crowd had come to Beach Plum Point. "That's the fella," said the old man, nodding. Ruth stood aside while he waited on his customers and digested these statements regarding the man who claimed the authorship of the scenario of "Plain Mary." Not that Ruth would have desired to acknowledge the scenario in its present form. She felt angry every time she thought of how her plot had been mangled. But she was glad to learn all that was known about the Beach Plum Point hermit. And she had learned one most important fact. He was not a regular hermit. As Jennie Stone suggested, he was not a "union hermit" at all. And he was a stranger to the neighborhood of Herringport. If he had been at the Point only three weeks, as this old man said, "John, the hermit," might easily have come since Ruth's scenario was stolen back there at the Red Mill! Her thoughts began to mill again about this possibility. She wished she was back at the camp so as to put the strange old man through a cross-examination regarding himself and where he had come from. She had no suspicion as to how Mr. Hammond had so signally failed in this very matter. CHAPTER XXII AN ARRIVAL Mr. Hammond was in no placid state of mind himself after the peculiarly acting individual who called himself "John, the hermit," left his office. The very fact that the man refused to tell anything about his personal affairs--who he really was, or where he came from--induced the moving picture producer to believe there must be something wrong about him. Mr. Hammond went to the door of the shack and watched the man tramping up the beach toward the end of the point. What a dignified stride he had! Rather, it was the stride of a poseur--like nothing so much as that of the old-time tragedian, made famous by the Henry Irving school of actors. "An ancient 'ham' sure enough, just as the boys say," muttered the manager. The so-called hermit disappeared. The moving picture people were gathering for dinner. The sun, although still above the horizon, was dimmed by cloud-banks which were rising steadily to meet clouds over the sea. A wan light played upon the heaving "graybacks" outside the mouth of the harbor. The wind whined among the pines which grew along the ridge of Beach Plum Point. A storm was imminent. Just as Mr. Hammond took note of this and wished that Ruth Fielding and her party had returned, a snorting automobile rattled along the shell road and halted near the camp. "Is this the Alectrion Film Company?" asked a shrill voice. "This is the place, Miss," said the driver of the small car. The chauffeur ran his jitney from the railroad station and was known to Mr. Hammond. The latter went nearer. Out of the car stepped a girl--a very young girl to be traveling alone. She was dressed in extreme fashion, but very cheaply. Her hair was bobbed and she wore a Russian blouse of cheap silk. Her skirt was very narrow, her cloth boots very high, and the heels of them were like those of Jananese clogs. What with the skimpy skirt and the high heels she could scarcely walk. She was laden with two bags--one an ancient carpet-bag that must have been seventy-five years old, and the other a bright tan one of imitation leather with brass clasps. She wore a coal-scuttle hat pulled down over her eyes so that her face was quite extinguished. Altogether her get-up was rather startling. Mr. Hammond saw Jim Hooley come out of his tent to stare at the new arrival. She certainly was a "type." There was a certain kind of prettiness about the girl, and aside from her incongruous garments she was not unattractive--when her face was revealed. Mr. Hammond's interest increased. He approached the spot where the girl had been left by the jitney driver. "You came to see somebody?" he asked kindly. "Who is it you wish to see?" "Is this the moving picture camp, Mister?" she returned. "Yes," said the manager, smiling. "Are you acquainted with somebody who works here?" "Yes. I am Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice," said the girl, with an air that seemed to show that she expected to be recognized when she had recited her name. Mr. Hammond refrained from open laughter. He only said: "Why--that is nice. I am glad to meet you, my dear. Who are you looking for?" "I want to see my pa, of course. I guess you know who _he_ is?" "I am not sure that I do, my dear." "You don't--Say! who are you?" demanded Bella, with some sharpness. "I am only the manager of the company. Who is your father, child?" "Well, of all the---- Wouldn't that give you your nevergitovers!" exclaimed Bella, in broad amazement. "Say! I guess my pa is your leading man." "Mr. Hasbrouck? Impossible!" "Never heard of him," said Bella, promptly. "Montague Fitzmaurice, I mean." "And I never heard of him," declared Mr. Hammond, both puzzled and amused. "What?" gasped the girl, almost stunned by this statement. "Maybe you know him as Mr. Pike. That is our honest-to-goodness name--Pike." "I am sorry that you are disappointed, my dear," said the manager kindly. "But don't be worried. If you expected to meet your father here, perhaps he will come later. But really, I have no such person as that on my staff at the present time." "I don't know---- Why!" cried Bella, "he sent me money and said he was working here. I--I didn't tell him I was coming. I just got sick of those Perkinses, and I took the money and went to Boston and got dressed up, and then came on here. I--I just about spent all the money he sent me to get here." "Well, that was perhaps unwise," said Mr. Hammond. "But don't worry. Come along now to Mother Paisley. She will look out for you--and you can stay with us until your father appears. There is some mistake somewhere." By this speech he warded off tears. Bella hastily winked them back and squared her thin shoulders. "All right, sir," she said, picking up the bags again. "Pa will make it all right with you. He wrote in his letter as if he had a good engagement." Mr. Hammond might have learned something further about this surprising girl at the time, but just as he introduced her to Mother Paisley one of the men came running from the point and hailed him: "Mr. Hammond! There's a boat in trouble off the point. I think she was making for this harbor. Have you got a pair of glasses?" Mr. Hammond had a fine pair of opera glasses, and he produced them from his desk while he asked: "What kind of boat is it, Maxwell?" "Looks like that blue motor that Miss Fielding and her friends went off in this morning. We saw it coming along at top speed. And suddenly it stopped. They can't seem to manage it----" The manager hurried with Maxwell along the sands. The sky was completely overcast now, and the wind whipped the spray from the wave tops into their faces. The weather looked dubious indeed, and the manager of the film corporation was worried before even he focused his glasses upon the distant motor-boat. CHAPTER XXIII TROUBLE--PLENTY Even Ruth Fielding had paid no attention to the warning of the Reef Island hermit regarding a change in the weather, in spite of the fact that she was anxious to return to the camp near Herringport. It was not until the _Stazy_ was outside the inlet late in the afternoon that Skipper Phil Gordon noted the threatening signs in sea and sky. "That's how it goes," the one-armed mariner said. "When we aren't dependent on the wind to fill our canvas, we neglect watching every little weather change. She's going to blow by and by." "Do you think it will be a real storm?" asked Ruth, who sat beside him at the steering wheel and engine, watching how he managed the mechanism. "Maybe. But with good luck we will make Beach Plum Point long before it amounts to anything." The long graybacks were rather pleasant to ride over at first. Even Aunt Kate was not troubled by the prospect. It was so short a run to the anchorage behind the Point that nobody expressed fear. When the spray began to fly over the bows the girls merely squealed a bit, although they hastily found extra wraps. If the _Stazy_ plunged and shipped half a sea now and then, nobody was made anxious. And soon the Point was in plain view. To make the run easier, however, Skipper Gordon had sailed the motor-yacht well out to sea. When he shifted the helm to run for the entrance to the bay, the waves began to slap against the _Stazy's_ side. She rolled terrifically and the aspect of affairs was instantly changed. "Oh, dear me!" moaned Jennie Stone. "How do you feel, Henri? I did not bargain for this rough stuff, did you? Oh!" "'Mister Captain, stop the ship, I want to get off and walk!'" sang Helen gaily. "Don't lose all hope, Heavy. You'll never sink if you do go overboard." "Isn't she mean?" sniffed the plump girl. "And I am only afraid for Henri's sake." "I don't like this for my own sake," murmured Aunt Kate. "Are you cold, dear?" her niece asked, with quick sympathy. "Here! I don't really need this cape with my heavy sweater." She removed the heavy cloth garment from her own shoulders and with a flirt sought to place it around Aunt Kate. The wind swooped down just then with sudden force. The _Stazy_ rolled to leeward. "Oh! Stop it!" Bulging under pressure of the wind, the cape flew over the rail. Jennie tried to clutch it again; Henri plunged after it, too. Colliding, the two managed between them to miss the garment altogether. It dropped into the water just under the rail. "Of all the clumsy fingers!" ejaculated Helen. But she could not seize the wrap, although she darted for it. Nor could Ruth help, she being still farther forward. "Now, you've done it!" complained Aunt Kate. The boat began to rise on another roller. The cape was sucked out of sight under the rail. The next moment the whirling propeller was stopped--so abruptly that the _Stazy_ shook all over. "Oh! what has happened?" shrieked Helen. Ruth started up, and Tom seized her arm to steady her. But the girl of the Red Mill did not express any fear. The shock did not seem to affect her so much as it did the other girls. Here was a real danger, and Ruth did not lose her self-possession. Phil Gordon had shut off the power, and the motor-boat began to swing broadside to the rising seas. "The propeller is broken!" cried Tom. "She's jammed. That cape!" gasped the one-armed skipper. "Here! Tend to this till I see what can be done. Jack!" he shouted to his crew. "This way--lively, now!" But Ruth slipped into his place before Tom could do so. "I know how to steer, Tommy," she declared. "And I understand the engine. Give him a hand if he needs you." "Oh, we'll turn turtle!" shrieked Jennie, as the boat rolled again. "You'll never become a turtle, Jen," declared Tom, plunging aft. "Turtles are dumb!" The _Stazy_ was slapped by a big wave, "just abaft the starboard bow," to be real nautical, and half a ton of sea-water washed over the forward deck and spilled into the standing-room of the craft. Henri had wisely closed the door of the cabin. The water foamed about their feet. Ruth found herself knee deep for a moment in this flood. She whirled the wheel over, trying to bring up the head of the craft to meet the next wave. "Oh, my dear!" groaned Jennie Stone. "We are going to be drowned." "Drowned, your granny!" snapped Helen angrily. "Don't be such a silly, Jennie." Ruth stood at the wheel with more apparent calmness than any of them. Her hair had whipped out of its fastenings and streamed over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks aglow. Helen, staring at her, suddenly realized that this was the old Ruth Fielding. Her chum had not looked so much alive, so thoroughly competent and ready for anything, before for weeks. "Why--why, Ruthie!" Helen murmured, "I believe you like this." Her chum did not hear the words, but she suddenly flashed Helen a brilliant smile. "Keep up your pluck, child!" she shouted. "We'll come out all right." Again the _Stazy_ staggered under the side swipe of a big wave. "Ye-ow!" yelped Tom in the stern, almost diving overboard. "Steady!" shouted Skipper Gordon, excitedly. "Steady she is, Captain!" rejoined Ruth Fielding, and actually laughed. "How can you, Ruth?" complained Jennie, clinging to Henri Marchand. "And when we are about to drown." "Weeping will not save us," flung back Ruth. Her strong hands held the wheel-spokes with a grip unbreakable. She could force the _Stazy's_ head to the seas. "Can you start the engine on the reverse, Miss?" bawled Gordon. "I can try!" flashed Ruth. "Say when." In a moment the cry came: "Ready!" "Aye, aye!" responded Ruth, spinning the flywheel. The spark caught almost instantly. The exhaust sputtered. "Now!" yelled the skipper. Ruth threw the lever. The boat trembled like an automobile under the propulsion of the engine. The propeller shaft groaned. "Ye-ow!" shouted the excited Tom again. This time he sprawled back into the bottom of the boat, tearing away a good half of Jennie's cape in his grip. The rest of the garment floated to the surface. It was loose from the propeller. "Full speed ahead!" shouted the one-armed captain of the motor-boat. Ruth obeyed the command. The _Stazy_ staggered into the next wave. The water that came in over her bow almost drowned them, but Ruth, hanging to the steering wheel, brought the craft through the roller without swamping her. "Good for our Ruth!" shouted Helen, as soon as she could get her breath. "Oh, Ruth! you always come to our rescue," declared Jennie gratefully. "Hi! I thought you were a nervous wreck, young lady," Tom sputtered, scrambling forward to relieve her. "Get you into a tight corner, and you show what you are made of, all right." The girl of the Red Mill smiled at them. She had done something! Nor did she feel at all overcome by the effort. The danger through which they had passed had inspired rather than frightened her. "Why, I'm all right," she told Tom when he reached her. "This is great! We'll be behind the shelter of the Point in a few minutes. There's nothing to worry about." "You're all right, Ruth," Tom repeated, admiringly. "I thought you'd lost your grip, but I see you haven't. You are the same old Ruthie Fielding, after all." CHAPTER XXIV ABOUT "PLAIN MARY" Mr. Hammond and the actors with him had no idea of the nature of the accident that had happened to the _Stazy_. From the extreme end of Beach Plum Point they could merely watch proceedings aboard the craft, and wonder what it was all about. The manager could, however, see through his glasses that Ruth Fielding was at the wheel. Her face came out clear as a cameo when he focused the opera glasses upon her. And at the change in the girl's expression he marveled. Those ashore could do nothing to aid the party on the motor-yacht; and until it got under way again Mr. Hammond was acutely anxious. It rolled so that he expected it to turn keel up at almost any moment. Before the blasts of rain began to sweep across the sea, however, the _Stazy_ was once more under control. At that most of the spectators made for the camp and shelter. But the manager of the film corporation waited to see the motor-yacht inside the shelter of Beach Plum Point. The rain was falling heavily, and not merely in gusts, when Ruth and her friends came ashore in the small boat. The lamps were lit and dinner was over at the main camp. Therefore the automobile touring party failed to see Bella Pike or hear about her arrival. By this time the girl had gone off to the main dormitory with Mother Paisley, and even Mr. Hammond did not think of her. Nor did the manager speak that evening to Ruth about the hermit's scenario or his interview with the old man regarding it. The three girls and Aunt Kate changed their clothing in the little shack and then joined the young men in the dining room for a late supper. Aunt Kate was to stay this night at the camp. There was a feeling of much thankfulness in all their hearts over their escape from what might have been a serious accident. "Providence was good to us," said Aunt Kate. "I hope we are all properly grateful." "And properly proud of Ruthie!" exclaimed Helen, squeezing her chum's hand. "Don't throw too many bouquets," laughed Ruth. "It was not I that tore Jennie's cape out of the propeller. I merely obeyed the skipper's orders." "She is a regular Cheerful Grig again, isn't she?" demanded Jennie, beaming on Ruth. "I have been a wet blanket on this party long enough. I just begin to realize how very unpleasant I have been----" "Not that, Mademoiselle!" objected Henri. "But yes! Hereafter I will be cheerful. Life is worth living after all!" Tom, who sat next to her at table (he usually managed to do that) smiled at Ruth approvingly. "Bravo!" he whispered. "There are other scenarios to write." "Tom!" she whispered sharply, "I want to tell you something about that." "About what?" "My scenario." "You don't mean----" "I mean I know what has become of it." "Never!" gasped Tom. "Are you--are--you----" "I am not '_non compos_,' and-so-forth," laughed Ruth. "Oh, there is nothing foolish about this, Tom. Let me tell you." She spoke in so low a tone that the others could not have heard had they desired to. She and Tom put their heads together and within the next few minutes Ruth had told him all about the hermit's scenario and her conviction that he had stolen his idea and a large part of his story from Ruth's lost manuscript. "It seems almost impossible, Ruth," gasped her friend. "No. Not impossible or improbable. Listen to what that man on Reef Island told me about this hermit, so-called." And she repeated it all to the excited Tom. "I am convinced," pursued Ruth, "that this hermit could easily have been in the vicinity of the Red Mill on the day my manuscript disappeared." "But to prove it!" cried Tom. "We'll see about that," said Ruth confidently. "You know, Ben told us he had seen and spoken to a tramp-actor that day. Uncle Jabez saw him, too. And you, Tom, followed his trail to the Cheslow railroad yards." "So I did," admitted her friend. "I believe," went on Ruth earnestly, "that this man who came here to live on Beach Plum Point only three weeks ago, is that very vagrant. It is plain that this fellow is playing the part of a hermit, just as he plays the parts Mr. Hooley casts him for." "Whew!" whistled Tom. "Almost do you convince me, Ruth Fielding. But to prove it is another thing." "We _will_ prove it. If this man was at the Red Mill on that particular day, we can make sure of the fact." "How will you do it, Ruth?" "By getting one of the camera men to take a 'still' of the hermit, develop it for us, and send the negative to Ben. He and Uncle Jabez must remember how that traveling actor looked----" "Hurrah!" exclaimed Tom, jumping up to the amazement of the rest of the party. "That's a bully idea." "What is it?" demanded Helen. "Let us in on it, too." But Ruth shook her head and Tom calmed down. "Can't tell the secret yet," Helen's twin declared. "That would spoil it." "Oh! A surprise! I love surprises," said Jennie Stone. "I don't. Not when my chum and my brother have a secret from me and won't let me in on it," and Helen turned her back upon them in apparent indignation. After that Ruth and Tom discussed the matter with more secrecy. Ruth said in conclusion: "If he was there at the mill the day my story was stolen, and now submits this scenario to Mr. Hammond--and it is merely a re-hash of mine, Tom, I assure you----" "Of course I believe you, Ruth," rejoined the young fellow. "Mr. Hammond should be convinced, too," said the girl. But there was a point that Tom saw very clearly and which Ruth Fielding did not seem to appreciate. She still had no evidence to corroborate her claim that the hermit's story of "Plain Mary" was plagiarized from her manuscript. For, after all, nobody but Ruth herself knew what her scenario had been like! CHAPTER XXV LIFTING THE CURTAIN Ruth slept peacefully and awoke the next morning in a perfectly serene frame of mind. She was quite as convinced as ever that she had been robbed of her scenario; and she was, as well, sure that "John, the hermit," had produced his picture play from her manuscript. But Ruth no longer felt anxious and excited about it. She clearly saw her way to a conclusion of the matter. If the old actor was identified by Ben and Uncle Jabez as the tramp they had seen and conversed with, the girl of the Red Mill was pretty sure she would get the best of the thief. In the first place she considered her idea and her scenario worth much more than five hundred dollars. If by no other means, she would buy the hermit's story at the price Mr. Hammond was willing to pay for it--and a little more if necessary. And if possible she would force the old actor to hand over to her the script that she had lost. Thus was her mind made up, and she approached the matter in all cheerfulness. She had said nothing to anybody but Tom, and she did not see him early in the morning. One of the stewards brought the girls' breakfast to the shack; so they knew little of what went on about the camp at that time. The rain had ceased. The storm had passed on completely. Soon after breakfast Ruth saw the man who called himself "John, the hermit," making straight for Mr. Hammond's office. That was where Ruth wished to be. She wanted to confront the man before the president of the film corporation. She started over that way and ran into the most surprising incident! Coming out of the cook tent with a huge apron enveloping her queer, tight dress and tilting forward upon her high heels, appeared Bella Pike! Ruth Fielding might have met somebody whose presence here would have surprised her more, but at the moment she could not imagine who it could be. "Ara-bella!" gasped Ruth. The child turned to stare her own amazement. She changed color, too, for she knew she had done wrong to run away; but she smiled with both eyes and lips, for she was glad to see Ruth. "My mercy!" she ejaculated. "If it ain't Miss Fielding! How-do, Miss Fielding? Ain't it enough to give one their nevergitovers to see you here?" "And how do you suppose I feel to find you here at Beach Plum Point," demanded Ruth, "when we all thought you were so nicely fixed with Mr. and Mrs. Perkins? And Mrs. Holmes wrote to me only the other day that you seemed contented." "That's right, Miss Fielding," sighed the actor's child. "I was. And Miz Perkins was always nice to me. Nothing at all like Aunt Suse Timmins. But, you see, they ain't like pa." "Did your father bring you here?" "No'm." "Nor send for you?" "Not exactly," confessed Bella. "Well!" "You see, he sent me money. Only on Tuesday. Forty dollars." "Forty dollars! And to a child like you?" "Well, Miss Fielding, if he had sent it to Aunt Suse I'd never have seen a penny of it. And pa didn't know what you'd done for me and how you'd put me with Miz Perkins." "I suppose that is so," admitted the surprised Ruth. "But why did you come here?" "'Cause pa wrote he had an engagement here. I came through Boston, an' got me a dress, and some shoes, and a hat--all up to date--and I thought I'd surprise pa----" "But, Bella! I haven't seen your father here, have I?" "No. There's a mistake somehow. But this nice Miz Paisley says for me not to worry. That like enough pa will come here yet." "I never!" ejaculated Ruth. "Come right along with me, Bella, and see Mr. Hammond. Something must be done. Of course, Mrs. Perkins and the doctor's wife have no idea where you have gone?" "Oh, yes'm. I left a note telling 'em I'd gone to meet pa." "But we must send them a message that you are all right. Come on, Bella!" and with her arm about the child's thin shoulders, Ruth urged her to Mr. Hammond's office--and directly into her father's arms! This was how Arabella Montague Fitzmaurice Pike came to meet her father--in a most amazing fashion! "Pa! I never did!" half shrieked the queer child. "Arabella! Here? How strange!" observed the man who had been acting the part of the Beach Plum Point hermit. "My child!" Mr. Pike could do nothing save in a dramatic way. He seized Bella and hugged her to his bosom in a most stagy manner. But Ruth saw that the man's gray eyes were moist, that his hands when he seized the girl really trembled, and he kissed Bella with warmth. "I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Hammond. "So your name is something-or-other-Fitzmaurice Pike?" "John Pike, if it please you. The other is for professional purposes only," said Bella's father. "If you do not mind, sir," he added, "we will postpone our discussion until a later time. I--I would take my daughter to my poor abode and learn of her experience in getting here to Beach Plum Point." "Go as far as you like, Mr. Pike. But remember there has got to be a settlement later of this matter we were discussing," said the manager sternly. The actor and his daughter departed, the former giving Ruth a very curious look indeed. Mr. Hammond turned a broad smile upon the girl of the Red Mill. "What do you know about _that_?" Mr. Hammond demanded. "Why, Miss Ruth, yours seems to have been a very good guess. That fellow is an old-timer and no mistake." "My guess was good in more ways than one," said Ruth. "I believe I can prove that this Pike was at the Red Mill on the day my scenario was stolen." She told the manager briefly of the discovery she had made through the patriarchal old fellow on Reef Island the day before, and of her intention of sending a photograph of Pike back home for identification. "Good idea!" declared Mr. Hammond. "I will speak to Mr. Hooley. There are 'stills' on file of all the people he is using here on the lot at the present time. If you are really sure this man's story is a plagiarism on your own----" She smiled at him. "I can prove that, too, I think, to your satisfaction. I feel now that I can sit down and roughly sketch my whole scenario again. I must confess that in two places in this 'Plain Mary' this man Pike has really improved on my idea. But as a whole his manuscript does not flatter my story. You'll see!" "Truly, you are a different young woman this morning, Miss Ruth!" exclaimed her friend. "I hope this matter will be settled in a way satisfactory to you. I really think there is the germ of a splendid picture in this 'Plain Mary.'" "And believe me!" laughed Ruth, "the germ is mine. You'll see," she repeated. She proved her point, and Mr. Hammond did see; but the outcome was through quite unexpected channels. Ruth did not have to threaten the man who had made her all the trouble. John M. F. Pike made his confession of his own volition when they discussed the matter that very day. "I feel, Miss Fielding, after all that you did for my child, that I cannot go on with this subterfuge that, for Bella's sake, I was tempted to engage in. I did seize upon your manuscript in that summer-house near the mill where they say you live, and I was prepared to make the best use of it possible for Bella's sake. "We have had such bad luck! Poverty for one's self is bad enough. I have withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for years. But my child is growing up----" "Would you want her to grow up to know that her father is a thief?" Ruth demanded hotly. "Hunger under the belt gnaws more potently than conscience," said Pike, with a grandiloquent gesture. "I had sought alms and been refused at that mill. Lurking about I saw you leave the summer-house and spied the gold pen. I can give you a pawn ticket for that," said Mr. Pike sadly. "But I saw, too, the value of your scenario and notes. Desperately I had determined to try to enter this field of moving pictures. It is a terrible come down, Miss Fielding, for an artist--this mugging before the camera." He went on in his roundabout way to tell her that he had no idea of the ownership of the scenario. Her name was not on it, and he had not observed her face that day at the Red Mill. And in his mind all the time had been his own and his child's misery. "It was a bold attempt to forge success through dishonesty," he concluded with humility. Whether Ruth was altogether sure that Pike was quite honest in his confession or not, for Bella's sake she could not be harsh with the old actor. Nor could he, Ruth believed, be wholly bad when he loved his child so much. As he turned over to Ruth every scrap of manuscript, as well as the notebooks she had lost, she need not worry about establishing her ownership of the script. When Mr. Hammond had examined her material he agreed with Ruth that in two quite important places Bella's father had considerably improved the original idea of the story. This gave Ruth the lead she had been looking for. Mr. Hammond admitted that the story was much too fine and too important to be filmed here at this summer camp. He decided to make a great spectacular production of it at the company's main studio later in the fall. So Ruth proceeded to force Bella's father to accept two hundred dollars in payment for what he had done on the story. As her contract with Mr. Hammond called for a generous royalty, she would make much more out of the scenario than the sum John Pike had hoped to get by selling the stolen idea to Mr. Hammond. The prospects of Bella and her father were vastly improved, too. His work as a "type" for picture makers would gain him a much better livelihood than he had been able to earn in the legitimate field. And when Ruth and her party left Beach Plum Point camp for home in their automobiles, Bella herself was working in a two-reel comedy that Mr. Hooley was directing. "Well, thank goodness!" sighed Helen, "Ruth has settled affairs for two more of her 'waifs and strays.' Now don't, I beg, find anybody else to become interested in during our trip back to the Red Mill, Ruthie." Ruth was sitting beside Tom on the front seat of the big touring car. He looked at her sideways with a whimsical little smile. "I wish you would turn over a new leaf, Ruthie," he whispered. "And what is to be on that new leaf?" she asked brightly. "Just me. Pay a little attention to yours truly. Remember that in a week I shall go aboard the transport again, and then----" "Oh, Tom!" she murmured, clasping her hands, "I don't want to think of it. If this awful war would only end!" "It's the only war so far that hasn't ended," he said. "And I have a feeling, anyway, that it may not last long. Henri and I have got to hurry back to finish it up. Leave it to us, Ruth," and he smiled. But Ruth sighed. "I suppose I shall have to, Tommy-boy," she said. "And do finish it quickly! I do not feel as though I could return to college, or write another scenario, or do a single, solitary thing until peace is declared." "And _then_?" asked Tom, significantly. Ruth gave him an understanding smile. THE END * * * * * THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ _Ruth Fielding will live in juvenile Fiction_. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL _or Jasper Parloe's Secret_ RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL _or Solving the Campus Mystery_ RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP _or Lost in the Backwoods_ RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT _or Nita, the Girl Castaway_ RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH _or Schoolgirls Among the Cowboys_ RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND _or The Old Hunter's Treasure Box_ RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM _or What Became of the Raby Orphans_ RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES _or The Missing Pearl Necklace_ RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES _or Helping the Dormitory Fund_ RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE _or Great Days in the Land of Cotton_ RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE _or The Missing Examination Papers_ RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE _or College Girls in the Land of Gold_ RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS _or Doing Her Bit for Uncle Sam_ RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT _or The Hunt for a Lost Soldier_ RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND _or A Red Cross Worker's Ocean Perils_ RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST _or The Hermit of Beach Plum Point_ RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST _or The Indian Girl Star of the Movies_ RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE _or The Queer Old Man of the Thousand Islands_ RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING _or A Moving Picture that Became Real_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BETTY GORDON SERIES BY ALICE B. EMERSON _Author of the Famous "Ruth Fielding" Series_ _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ _A series of stories by Alice B. Emerson which are bound to make this writer more popular than ever with her host of girl readers._ 1. BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM _or The Mystery of a Nobody_ At the age of twelve Betty is left an orphan. Her uncle sends her to live on a farm. 2. BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON _or Strange Adventures in a Great City_ In this volume Betty goes to the National Capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. 3. BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL _or The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune_ From Washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. A splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. 4. BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL _or The Treasure of Indian Chasm_ Seeking the treasure of Indian Chasm makes an exceedingly interesting incident. 5. BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP _or The Mystery of Ida Bellethorne_ At Mountain Camp Betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in Washington. 6. BETTY GORDON AT OCEAN PARK _or Gay Days on the Boardwalk_ Adventure in high society let loose on the seashore. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GIRL SCOUT SERIES BY LILIAN GARIS _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ _The highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organizations of America form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume._ 1. THE GIRL SCOUT PIONEERS _or Winning the First B. C._ A story of the True Tred Troop in a Pennsylvania town. Two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. The story is correct in scout detail. 2. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT BELLAIRE _or Maid Mary's Awakening_ The story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. How she was discovered by the Bellaire Troop and came into her own as "Maid Mary" makes a fascinating story. 3. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT SEA CREST _or The Wig Wag Rescue_ Luna Land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and Kitty Scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the Girl Scouts come. 4. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP COMALONG _or Peg of Tamarack Hills_ The girls of Bobolink Troop spend their summer on the shores of Lake Hocomo. Their discovery of Peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. 5. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT ROCKY LEDGE _or Nora's Real Vacation_ Nora Blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. Her dislike for the rugged life of Girl Scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little Lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE RADIO GIRLS SERIES BY MARGARET PENROSE _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ _A new and up-to-date series, taking in the activities of several bright girls who become interested in radio. The stories tell of thrilling exploits, out-door life and the great part the Radio plays in the adventures of the girls and in solving their mysteries. Fascinating books that girls of all ages will want to read._ 1. THE RADIO GIRLS OF ROSELAWN _or A Strange Message from the Air_ Showing how Jessie Norwood and her chums became interested in radiophoning, how they gave a concert for a worthy local charity, and how they received a sudden and unexpected call for help out of the air. A girl who was wanted as a witness in a celebrated law case had disappeared, and how the radio girls went to the rescue is told in an absorbing manner. 2. THE RADIO GIRLS ON THE PROGRAM _or Singing and Reciting at the Sending Station_ When listening in on a thrilling recitation or a superb concert number who of us has not longed to "look behind the scenes" to see how it was done? The girls had made the acquaintance of a sending station manager and in this volume are permitted to get on the program, much to their delight. A tale full of action and not a little fun. 3. THE RADIO GIRLS ON STATION ISLAND _or The Wireless from the Steam Yacht_ In this volume the girls travel to the seashore and put in a vacation on an island where is located a big radio sending station. The big brother of one of the girls owns a steam yacht and while out with a pleasure party those on the island receive word by radio that the yacht is on fire. A tale thrilling to the last page. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York 
56570	----	BREAKING INTO THE MOVIES [Illustration: CASTING THE PICTURE This is a typical scene in a casting director's office. Mr. Emerson and Miss Loos, with their stenographer, are studying the faces of the applicants. When a type exactly suited to the story is found, she is sent direct to the studio to begin work.] BREAKING INTO THE MOVIES _by_ JOHN EMERSON _and_ ANITA LOOS _Authors of "How To Write Photoplays"_ _ILLUSTRATED_ [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1921, by THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY All Rights Reserved PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 II WHAT THE JOBS ARE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 III ACTING FOR THE SCREEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 IV WOULD YOU FILM WELL? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 V MAKE-UP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 VI HOW TO DRESS FOR A PICTURE . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 VII MOVIE MANNERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 VIII READING YOUR PART . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 IX INSIDE THE BRAIN OF A MOVIE STAR . . . . . . . . . 33 X SALARIES IN THE MOVIES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 XI SCENARIOS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 XII HOW OTHERS HAVE DONE IT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 XIII AMATEUR MOVIE MAKING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO PART II . . . . . . . . . . . 53 RED HOT ROMANCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 ILLUSTRATIONS CASTING THE PICTURE FRONTISPIECE FACING PAGE ROUGING THE LIPS FOR THE CAMERA . . . . . . . . . . . 17 MAKING UP THE EYES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 GLUEING ON A CRÊPE MUSTACHE . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 REHEARSING THE COMPANY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 TESTING MAKE-UP AND EXPRESSION . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 MAKING A "CLOSE-UP" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 BREAKING INTO THE MOVIES Breaking Into the Movies CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION Were the average man suddenly called upon to assemble all the women in his town who looked like Mary Pickford, he might find himself at a loss as to how to commence. In fact, he might even doubt that there were sufficient persons answering this description to warrant such a campaign. We know a way to get them all together on twenty-four hours' notice. Just insert a small advertisement in the local newspaper, reading: "Wanted for the movies--a girl who looks like Mary Pickford--apply at such-and-such a studio to-morrow morning." We guarantee that not only will every woman who looks like Mary Pickford be on the spot at sunrise, but that a large preponderance of the entire female population will drop in during the morning. For it is a puzzling but indisputable fact that everybody wants to break into the movies. The curious part of it all is that the movies really need these people. On the one hand are countless men and women besieging the studio doors in the hope of starting a career in any one of a thousand capacities, from actress to scenario writer, from director to cameraman. There are people with plots, people with inventions, people with new ideas of every conceivable variety, all clamoring for admission. And, on the other hand, there are the men who manage the movies sending out all manner of exhortations, appeals and supplications to just such people to come and work in their studios. They drown each other's voices, the one calling for new talent and new types, the many for a chance to demonstrate that they are just the talent and types that are so in demand. This economic paradox, this passing in the night of Demand and Supply, has come about through a general misconception of everything concerned with the movies. The first to be in the wrong were the producers. They built up an industry which, in its early days, was vitally dependent upon individual personalities. A picture, according to their views, was made or unmade by a single star or director or writer, and very naturally they were loath to entrust the fate of a hundred thousand dollar investment to untried hands. While on the one hand they realized the pressing need for new blood in their industry, they were, nevertheless, very wary of being the first to welcome the newcomer. Producers preferred to pay twenty times the price to experienced professionals, no matter how mediocre their work might have been in the past, than to take a chance on a promising beginner. The business side of the movies, has, in the past, been nothing more nor less than a tremendous gamble wherein the men who had staked their fortunes on a single photoplay walked about in fear of their very shadows--desiring new ideas, yet afraid to risk testing them, calling for new artists yet fearing to give them the opportunity to break in. The very nature of the industry was responsible for this situation and, to a large extent, it is a condition which still prevails in a majority of the smaller studios. The greatest obstacle which every beginner must surmount is the one which first confronts him--the privilege of doing his first picture--the first chance. The larger companies, however, in the last year or so have awakened to the fact that by excluding beginners they have themselves raised the cost of motion picture production many times. They have found themselves with a very limited number of stars and directors and writers and technical men to choose from, all of whom, for this very reason, could demand enormous salaries. One by one these companies are instituting various systems for the encouragement of embryo talent. Now, if ever, is the time to break into the movies. But much more to blame for the general mix-up in the movies are the beginners themselves. In the majority of cases they state in loud, penetrating accents that they desire to break into the movies, here and now; but when questioned as to the exact capacity in which they desire to accomplish this ambition, they appear to be a bit hazy. Anything with a large salary and short hours will do, they say. The organization of the business and the sordid details connected with the various highly specialized jobs in the studios concern them not at all. They let it go with an unqualified statement that they want to break in the worst way--and generally they do. Now making movies is not child's play. It is a profession--or rather a combination of professions--which takes time and thought and study. True, there are fortunes to be made for those who will seriously enter this field and study their work as they would study for any other profession. But unfortunately, most of those who head towards the cinema studios do not take time to learn the facts about the industry. They do not look over the multitude of different highly specialized positions which the movies offer and ask themselves for which one they are best suited. They just plunge in, so intent upon making money at the moment that they give no thought at all to the future. Therefore, in writing this series, we shall start with an old saw--a warning to amateurs to look before they leap. No industry in the world presents so many angles, varying from technical work in the studio, to the complexities of high finance. If you really wish to break into the movies, go to the studios and see for yourself what you are fitted for. Perhaps you think you are an actor, and are really a first rate scenarioist. Perhaps you have an ambition to plan scenery, and instead find that your forte lies in the business office. Men who started as cameramen are now directors. Men who started as directors have ended as highly successful advertising managers. So there you are. You pay your money--and--if you are wise--you take your choice. CHAPTER II WHAT THE JOBS ARE Most people seem to think there are concerned in the making of motion pictures just four classes of people--actors, scenario writers, directors and cameramen. It all seems very simple. The scenario writer sits down in the morning and works out a scene; he wakes up the director, who packs some actors and a cameraman in an automobile, together with a picnic lunch, and goes out to make the picture on some lovely hillside. Then, having finished the photoplay, they take it around to your local theater and exhibit it at twenty-five cents a seat. As a matter of fact, the movies, now the fifth national industry in the United States, has as many phases, and as many complexities as any other industry in the world. Broadly speaking, the movies are made up of alliances between producing companies and distributing companies. For example, the Constance Talmadge Corporation produces the photoplays in which Miss Talmadge is starred, and this Company is allied with the First National Exhibitors Circuit which takes the completed film and sells it to theater managers in every part of the world. The Constance Talmadge Corporation's duty is to make a photoplay and deliver it to the First National Exhibitors Circuit; the latter company duplicates the film in hundreds of "prints," advertises it, rents it to exhibitors, and sees to the delivery of the film. In the same way, Nazimova makes comedies and releases them through the Metro Corporation, her distributor. The great distributing companies employ the salesmen, advertising experts, business men, and so forth. All the technical work concerned with the making of the picture, however, is in the hands of the producing company, and, since we are engaged in such work ourselves, it is about these posts that we must talk. If we are to take the studio jobs in their natural order, the first to begin work on a picture is, of course, the author. Each studio employs a scenario editor who is on the lookout for good magazine stories or plays or original scripts. He himself is not so much a writer as an analyst, who knows what kind of stories his public wants; generally he is an old newspaperman or an ex-magazine editor. Having bought the story, he turns it over to a scenarioist--the "continuity writer." This type of specialist is much in demand, since no story can survive a badly constructed scenario. The scenario writer puts the story into picture form exactly as a dramatist may put a novel into play form for the stage. It is the scenarioist or continuity writer who really gives to the story its screen value--hence the very large prices paid for this work when it is well done. Next in line is the director, who takes the scenario and sets out to make the picture. There is a shortage of directors at present, and for that reason, salaries are particularly high in this line, but of course, direction is a profession which takes many years of study. In beginning work on his picture, the director first consults the studio manager, who is really the head of the employment office. The studio manager consults with him as to the expenses of the scenery and the length of time to be spent in making the picture and then summons the technical staff. The technical staff of a studio is a rather large assembly. There is the art director, who plans the scenery, the technical man who directs the building, the casting director, who selects the actors, the electrician, who assists in working out the lighting effects, the laboratory superintendent, who must supervise the developing of the film, the cutters, who assemble the completed film, and last, but not least, the cameraman. Of course there are hundreds of minor posts--assistant director, assistant cameraman, property man, research experts, location seekers, and so forth. The casting director immediately sends out a call for the "types" demanded in the scenario. If possible, he notifies the actors and actresses personally, but more often he is forced to get in touch with them through the numerous agencies which act as brokers in "types." The Actors' Equity Association is now doing excellent work in supplying actors for pictures at the lowest possible cost to the actor in the way of commissions. Presently a large number of actors and actresses appear at the studio and the casting director selects from them the individuals best suited to the coming production. Beginners are warned against grafting agents who on any pretense whatever charge more than the legal 5% commission. They are also warned against signing "exclusion" contracts with any agent, as this frequently compels the actor to pay double commissions. Meanwhile the art director has built his scenery, and the picture goes "into production." At the end of some six weeks or two months, the directors turn the completed film over to the assembling and cutting department. As a rule both the director and the scenario writer work with the assembler and cutter, and if they are wise, they insist on doing the cutting themselves, for the success of the picture depends largely upon this important operation of assembly. At the same time, another specialist designs and works out the illustrations on the borders of the written inserts. Finally the assembled picture is shown to the studio staff, and if they are satisfied, the negative is forwarded to the distributing company. The studio's work on that picture is ended. From this brief survey, you can see that the avenues for breaking into the movies are almost unlimited. You can be an actor, director, cameraman, scene builder, cutter, titler, scenario writer, or anything else if you will begin at the bottom and learn the game. All of these positions are highly paid and all require a high knowledge of motion picture technique. The important thing is to _start_--to get into the studio, in any capacity. Then choose the type of work in which you desire to rise, and learn it. Everybody will help you and encourage you if you start this way, instead of trying the more common but less successful method of starting at the top and working down. CHAPTER III ACTING FOR THE SCREEN In New York resides a dramatic critic, now on the staff of a great newspaper, who has his own ideas about movie acting. The idea in question is that there is no such thing as movie acting--and the gentleman carries it out by refusing to allow the word "acting" to be printed in any of the notices and reviews in his newspaper. When he wishes to convey the thought that such and such a star acted in such and such a picture he says, "Miss So-and-So posed before the camera in the motion picture." Now this critic is a good critic, as critics go, but he would be improved physically and mentally by a set of those monkey glands which the medicos are so successfully grafting upon various ossified personalities. Anyone who thinks that there is no such thing as motion picture acting is probably still wondering whether the Germans will win the war. Motion picture acting is a highly developed art, with a technique quite as involved as that of the legitimate stage. The fundamental principle to remember in undertaking screen acting is that the camera demands far greater realism on the part of the actor than the eyes of an audience. An actor in the spoken drama nearly always overplays or underplays his part. If he recited the same lines in the same tone with the same gestures in real life, he would appear to be just a little bit spiffy, as they say in English drinking circles. On the stage it is necessary to overdraw the character in order to convey a realistic impression to the audience; exact naturalism on the stage would appear as unreal as an unrouged face under a spotlight. The camera, however, demands absolute realism. Actors must act as naturally and as leisurely as they would in their own homes. Their expressions must be no more pronounced than they would be in real life. Above all, they must be absolutely unconscious of the existence of the camera. Any deviation from this course leads to the most mortifying results on the screen. The face, enlarged many times life size, becomes clearly that of an actor, rather than a real character. The assumed expression of hate or fear which would seem so natural on the stage is merely grotesque in the film. Unless the actor is really _thinking_ the things he is trying to portray on the screen, the audience becomes instantly aware that something is wrong. In the same way the camera picks up and accentuates every motion on the part of the actor. An unnecessary gesture is not noticed on the stage. On the screen, enlarged many times, it is instantly noted. The two most important rules to follow, then, in motion picture acting are: act as you would under the same circumstances in real life, and eliminate all movement and gesture which does not bear on the scene. It is better not to move at all than to make a false move. Beginners must adjust their walk to the camera. There is no rule for this, however, as every individual's way of standing and walking is different. Only through repeated tests can the beginner discover and correct the defects which are sure to appear in his physical pose the first time he acts before a camera. Often in making a picture, the director will instruct his cast to "speed up" or "slow down" their scene. Sometimes, also, he will alter the tempo of the scene by slowing down or speeding up the rate at which the camera is being cranked. Beginners must follow such instructions to the letter, for the timing of a scene is a vitally important part of picture production and a duty which is entirely in the hands of the director. The best way to learn the principles of motion picture acting is to watch the making of as many scenes as possible before attempting to act one. Most of the stars of to-day learned their art by watching the efforts of others before the camera. Only by constant observation in the studio and, more important, in real life, where the actions and reactions of real people can be noted, can an actor hope to become proficient. CHAPTER IV WOULD YOU FILM WELL? Probably the number of people who have not at one time or another wondered in a sneaking sort of way if they wouldn't look pretty well on the screen is limited to the aborigines of Africa. And, believe it or not, two of the aborigines themselves applied at our studio for jobs not long ago. They had acted in several travelogue pictures, taken in darkest Africa, had traveled as porters with the company to the coast, and had finally become so enamored of the work that they "beat" their way all the way to America, with an English vocabulary limited to about fifty words, twenty-five of which were highly profane. It just goes to show that we are all human. Needless to say, both beauty and character are the characteristics in demand in the films, as everywhere else. The curious fact is that faces which in real life possess great beauty or deep character, frequently fail to carry this across to the camera. The chief reason for this lies in the fact that the camera does not accept color values, and at the same time accentuates many defects which are ordinarily imperceptible to the eye. For example, a wonderful type of Italian beauty appeared at our studio while we were casting "Mama's Affair" for Constance Talmadge. She had never before appeared in motion pictures, and our casting director was quick to seize the opportunity to make a test of her face. When the picture was shown, her extraordinarily fine coloring of course went for nothing, and her beauty was entirely marred by the inexplicable appearance of a fine down over her upper lip and a large mole on her left temple. Both the mole and the down had been entirely unnoticed in daylight, but under the fierce mercury lights of the studio and the enlarging lenses they made her face grotesque. At another time we attempted to make a leading man of a famous war hero. This boy had been a college athlete and had subsequently distinguished himself as a bayonet fighter on four battlefields. When his test films were projected, to the astonishment of everyone he appeared as an anæmic, effeminate stripling, whose every gesture aroused the ridicule of the audience. The skin of the face must be entirely smooth and unbroken. The slightest eruption or blemish is visible on the screen, especially in this day when "close-ups" are the vogue. The teeth must be perfect. Considerations which do not matter in the slightest degree in facial beauty on the screen are those of coloring and of fineness of the features. The pinker a woman's cheeks may be, the hollower they appear to the camera, for red photographs as black, and a face which is beautiful, but coarse in its outline, frequently photographs quite as well as the beautiful face which is exquisite in every detail. A screen star should be equally beautiful in every expression and from every angle. This is not so true of the stage star, for when she is moving about, speaking and gesticulating, the question of her beauty becomes comparatively unimportant. On the screen, however, important scenes are always taken in "close-ups" wherein the star, whether portraying rage or pain, love or hate, must be equally charming, at the risk of making a permanently bad impression upon her audience. Many people who are beautiful when seen in "full face" are most unattractive in profile. In fact, the matter narrows down still further, for quite often those who have a lovely profile are, for some inexplicable reason, gross and unattractive when the face is turned to show three-quarters. A number of the present movie stars have risen to the top despite such impediments by stipulating in all their contracts that they be never shown in close-up in the pose in which they are unattractive. One star in particular never shows the left side of her face for this reason. This, however, is obviously a great handicap. The male types which are most in demand are not those whose appeal is through physical beauty. Audiences are sick of large-eyed, romantic heroes, and are demanding a little manly force and character in their heroes. To film well, a man's head should be large, rugged, with the features cut in masses, like a Rodin bust. Whether he is attempting to play "juveniles," "leads" or "heavies" his face must possess the cardinal requisites of character. Deep-set eyes, a strong chin, a jutting forehead, a prominent nose, are all desirable. Again, the high cheekbones and long face appear desirable characteristics. William S. Hart's success depends largely on these two simple characteristics of facial structure. Neither in men nor in women is the hair an essential for screen beauty. Wigs and trick arrangements of the hair are a function of the make-up department, and a man or woman with no hair at all could still be made to appear most attractive to the unsophisticated camera. In analyzing your own face, then, ask yourself the following questions: Are my eyes large? Is my skin fine and well kept? Is my mouth small and are my teeth good? Is my nose straight? Has my face character, something which makes it not only beautiful, but which portrays the underlying personality? If you can answer these questions in the affirmative you may have a career before you in the motion pictures. If you cannot answer any of them but the last in the affirmative, you may still be successful as a movie actor, for "types"--whether of gunmen or millionaires, villains or saints--are much in demand. One man has made himself a small fortune by playing parts in which a particularly villainous expression were required--such as dope fiends. Another chap, in the Western studios, has made a good living for years by acting "stained glass saints," having been equipped by nature with an unusually æsthetic expression. In any case, if you are to essay a career in the movies, remember that your natural characteristics are all that count. Tricks of rolling the eyes or puckering the lips or setting the jaw are buncombe and are instantly discovered by the camera. Be natural. Keep healthy and happy. That, in the movies, as in real life, is the way to charm and beauty. CHAPTER V MAKE-UP [Illustration: ROUGING THE LIPS FOR THE CAMERA Red photographs black, so particular care must be taken in rouging the lips for movie work. John Emerson is helping May Collins with her make-up, while Anita Loos and the director, Victor Fleming, give suggestions.] Although most women use cosmetics in their every-day life, they are lamentably ignorant of the principles of make-up. For example, not one woman in a hundred knows that she should never rouge her face until she has put on her hat, since the shadow and line of the hat changes the whole color and composition of her face. The average man's knowledge of the subject is limited to the use of powder after shaving. And yet thousands of men and women secure work in the mob and ensemble scenes in the movies and find themselves expected to make up for the camera, the most difficult task of all, with no previous instruction whatsoever. No wonder they are discouraged when they see themselves peering out from the crowd scene with a face they hardly recognize themselves. Nevertheless, almost all the stars of to-day--Norma Talmadge, Constance Talmadge, Mary Pickford, and dozens of others--have risen from these mob scenes. Their faces, even when seen among hundreds of others, attracted instant attention. Perhaps it was natural beauty. Perhaps, too, they had, by accident or design, solved at the start the great problem which confronts all movie actors, that of finding the correct make-up. Movie make-up strives only for a photographic effect and has no relation to street or stage make-up. Almost every face contains numerous imperfections which are invisible to the eye, yet which, when enlarged many times on the screen, are very obvious. There are fundamental rules of make-up, but the only way to perfect your technique is by constantly viewing your own "stills" and movies, and changing your make-up to the best advantage. Red photographs black, and for this reason rouge is little used in the studios, except for special effects. Rouge on the cheeks gives the illusion of dark shadows and makes the face look hollow; it deepens the eyes, and is sometimes used on the eyelids for this reason. Light carmen may be used on the lips. To start your make-up you will need cold cream, special yellow film powder, film grease paint, and a soft towel. Massage your face with cold cream and then remove it with the towel, so that the surface is absolutely clean. Then apply your grease paint with the fingers, and cover every bit of the face from the collar-line to the hair. When you have a smooth, even surface of grease paint, spread special film powder upon it and pat it in lightly with a powder puff. There are a number of shades of grease paint and by changing the grease tint before applying the powder you can darken or lighten your complexion in accordance with your part. Before going further, make sure there are no blotches on your make-up's surface and that the grease has left no sheen. [Illustration: MAKING UP THE EYES The eyes are the most expressive of the features and their make-up is correspondingly important. Here John Emerson and Anita Loos are helping Basil Sydney, the noted English actor, to darken his eyes in accordance with movie technique.] The eyes are the most important and expressive features. The make-up which relates to them is all important. First you must ascertain by actual test the correct color with which to line your eyes. Almost every color is used, for the effect seems to vary with different faces. Black, blue, green, brown and red are all used in varying proportions and mixtures by different actors. Naturally, you should try to find the color which makes your eyes look deepest and most luminous. The edge of the upper eyelid is clearly lined. Then the shade is worked back toward the eyebrow, getting constantly lighter, until it finally blends with the grease paint of the face. The process is reversed for the lower lid, which is darkest at the edge and grows lighter as you work down. Your eyelids should be lined with black cosmetic. Do not bead them. This shows clearly in close-ups and looks rather ridiculous. The slapstick comedy people sometimes use beaded eyelids to burlesque the "baby-doll" expression. The corners of the eyes are shadowed with brown or red. It is this shadowing that gives most of the character to the eyes; but at the same time it is apt to age the whole face. For this reason it must be done in conjunction with actual tests. Finally, apply light carmen to your lips and make sure you do not overdo it. There are numerous special recipes for producing pallor, scars, bruises, and the like. Blackface make-up is done most successfully with charred cork dust mixed with water to produce a heavy paste. Tom Wilson, the best known player of negro parts in the movies, who played in "The Birth of a Nation," and more recently in our own special production, "Red Hot Romance," advises amateurs to use this recipe and, further, to high-light the natural lines of their faces by scraping off the cork with a sharp stick, wherever a line is to show, and letting the natural white of the skin appear. High-lighting for most character parts is a special art. Such characters as Indian faces or the weather-beaten and wrinkled countenance of an old sea captain may be done in brown with white high-lights. You should ask your cameraman to help you with high-lighting, as it is very difficult. There are tricks of make-up which alter the entire character of the face. For example, by shading the outline of the face with red you can make it appear much thinner. In this case the grease paint is slightly reddened--or, if you desire, darkened--near the ear-line. If you desire to make your face rounder and fuller reverse the process and lighten the grease paint at its outer edge. If your eyebrows and hair are dark, you can tinge them gray by rubbing the hair with mascaro and then combing. If they are light, white and black grease paint, applied alternately and then combed, will do the trick. Beards and bushy eyebrows are made of crêpe hair and glued on with spirit gum. As a matter of fact, if you are really serious about making a career of movie acting, it is best to grow, so far as possible, the hirsute appendages required in your parts. For an unshaven tramp or a Robinson Crusoe effect, for example, it is much better to go unshaven for a week or so than to produce a false effect by attempting to imitate the real thing with crêpe hair. [Illustration: GLUEING ON A CRÊPE HAIR MUSTACHE. John Emerson is affixing a villainous mustache to Frank Stockdale. Spirit gum and crêpe hair are used.] Finally, lest you be left in the position of the man who starts his first ride on a motorcycle without knowing how to shut the power off, we may add that all this nasty mess of grease paint and powder and gum and hair will come off in an instant when cold cream is applied. It is hard to feel natural in make-up at first; but presently you will forget that you have it on at all. All of the necessary cosmetics may be secured through any drug store or theatrical costumer. If you want to find out how you will look in the movies, it is not necessary to have a film test made. Just buy some make-up and have someone take a few "close-ups" of your head with an ordinary camera. But do not retouch the negatives--for movies are not retouched, you know. Look for imperfections of every sort in pose and expression. Then try to find a make-up which will eradicate them. If you solve your make-up problem before you go to the studio you will be well repaid. Among the dozens of flat, uninteresting countenances a well made-up face stands out and attracts the attention of the director at once. CHAPTER VI HOW TO DRESS FOR A PICTURE There is only one drawback to the pleasurable life of the movie actor or actress. They draw big salaries; they get their names in the papers and are deluged with "fan" letters to such an extent that special postal departments are installed in their offices; the work is interesting and the hours comparatively short. But, alas, they have to have a lot of clothes. To be sure, the buying of clothes is a most pleasurable experience to all women and to many men. And, forsooth, if they draw big salaries, why cavil about the cost of replenishing a wardrobe every now and again? The fact is, the wardrobes are not replenished every now and again; they are constantly in a state of replenishment, and for that reason the average actor's bank account, no matter how big the salary, is also in constant need of being similarly replenished. For every new scene is apt to require completely new gowns and suits, and, in the case of the actors who play the more important parts, no two suits or gowns can be worn in any two pictures or the fans will be sure to discover it and write uncomplimentary letters to the studio. In the case of the beginner, however, no such expenses need be met if he or she has one complete wardrobe to start with. People playing minor characters must dress for the part at their own expense, but no one notices or cares whether they wear the same clothes with which they recently graced the studio next door. If they play a part requiring a special dress or uniform the management will supply it without charge. It is rather difficult for a newcomer to the movies to know exactly what clothes are required for their wardrobe. Therefore we are including the following comments on clothes and styles, as applied to motion picture work: Men should have at least three business suits, one of which should be light and one dark. For summer scenes, white flannels, with a blue coat and a soft shirt--_not_ a sport shirt--are required. White duck shoes complete this outfit. Tweed suits are the proper thing for wear in the country club scenes and in most pictures calling for scenes on English estates. For dress wear three outfits are necessary. There is the cutaway for afternoon weddings, society teas, and so forth, a Tuxedo for club scenes and semi-dress occasions, and finally, full dress for balls and dinners where ladies are in the scene. A dark four-in-hand or bow tie, with a stand-up or wing collar, should be worn with the cutaway, and regulation dress bow ties, black with the dinner coat and white with the dress suit. These clothes are an essential part of a motion picture actor's outfit. The great difficulty with young actors is a tendency to overdress and to attempt to hide bad tailoring with a flashy design and a freak cut of the coat. Since clothes are an actor's stock in trade, he should patronize only the best, if the most expensive tailors, and stick to conservative lines unless the part requires eccentric dressing. Jewelry should be avoided, unless called for in the character; cuff links and a watch chain are all that should be worn, with the exception of dress studs with the dinner or dress coat. Girls will need a simple afternoon suit and an outer coat to match. They must have two summer frocks, a sailor blouse with a dark skirt, negligée, and an evening gown and wraps. Hats to match are necessary, of course, as are dancing slippers and white duck shoes. The evening gown is perhaps the most important part of the young actress's wardrobe, since she is more apt to be called in for ball and dinner scenes than any other. Simplicity should be the keynote of such gowns. Simple French models are very attractive, but few women can wear them well, since most American girls are too broad in the shoulders for the Parisian styles. Clothes for character parts must be assembled on the moment according to the demands of the director and the imagination of the actor or actress. Realism is the great essential of character dressing. To wear the rags of a vaudeville tramp in the movies would turn the picture into a slapstick comedy. A real tramp's clothes are a mighty different matter. The greatest difficulty which a casting director experiences is that of finding people to play the part of society folk. These parts require an understanding of drawing-room manners and ballroom etiquette, and the ability to wear smart clothes. If the clothes are not up to the moment they will be obsolete when the picture reaches the country at large, and the audiences will think that because the styles are out of date the picture is out of date also. Also if any extreme styles are worn they are sure to be out of date when the picture is shown. In the same way, the slightest error in etiquette is sure to be noted and commented upon. It is more of a trick than one might think to know, at a moment's notice, how to act as best man at a fashionable wedding, or how to serve a ten-course dinner according to the latest vogue. The best way is to dress conservatively and to act as any well bred person might be expected to. A man who fails to take off his hat upon entering a fashionable house would be laughed at. A man who took it off with a grand flourish would be hooted out. Recently a director read in a certain short story that the Newport set had instituted the custom of supplying a single green glove for each dinner guest to wear while the olives were served. This was merely a bit of satire on the part of the story writer--but the director took it seriously, and instituted the fad in a dinner scene with dire results when the picture was shown to the newspaper critics. CHAPTER VII MOVIE MANNERS This chapter does not deal so much with how to act in a picture as how to act in a studio. Motion picture people live, more or less, in a world of their own. It is a world which may seem a bit topsy turvy to the outsider, with its own peculiar customs, and a greater freedom from restraint than is customary in the conventional world outside. Examined a bit closer, these outlandish ideas appear to be the very same ones which are always associated with artists--a bohemian spirit which is the same whether in Hollywood or the Latin Quarter of Paris. If the newcomer to the studio wishes to establish himself as a bona fide member of the movie world he must always remember that no matter how cynical they may seem, no matter how pessimistically they may talk, these people, in the bottom of their hearts, consider a photoplay a form of art and themselves as artists. The actor or director or author who does really good work, who has something new to offer, or who at least is sincere in his desire to do something big and fine in the motion pictures, will always be tolerated no matter how bizarre his character in other respects. In short, people are ranked according to their artistic understanding rather than according to their ancestry, their bank account or their morals. Most of the leaders of the motion picture world have risen from poverty and obscurity, a fact which accounts for the democracy which prevails in the studio. There are a few rules which beginners would do well to follow. Here they are: Be modest. Because you don't understand why something is done, don't believe it is all nonsense. And remember that you have ever so much to learn about the business. Don't criticize. Try your best to please everyone, particularly the director, whose shoulders are carrying the responsibility for the whole production and whose manner may be a bit gruff--as it usually is when a man is laboring under a heavy load. Don't be ashamed of being in the movies. If you think movies are a low-brow form of making a living your associates will surely become aware of your state of mind and you will be quietly frozen out. In the old days of the movies social status in the studio was determined by a curious system, based upon the pay envelope. Actors--for the movie world is composed for the greater part of actors--are classed as stars, the "leads," the "parts," the "bits," the "extras" and "mobs." The star is, of course, the highly paid actor or actress who is the feature of the production; the "lead" is the leading man or woman who plays opposite the star; the "parts" include all those characters which appear on the program--the minor characters of the play; the "bits" are those who are called on to perform a bit of individual action, such as the butler who opens the door, or the chauffeur who drives the car, but who have no real part in the play; the extras are simply members of the crowd, as the ballroom throng, while a mob is just a mass of people, like an army or the audience at a football game. The large producing companies frequently give elaborate dinners, seating three or four hundred people, and under this ridiculous old system the star sat at the head of the table, with the "leads" near at hand. Then came the "parts," then the "bits," and finally, away down at the foot of the table, were the "extras." In the same way directors, assistant directors, studio managers, and so forth, were graded down according to how much money they drew from the cashier every week. To-day all this snobbery has passed away. The movie world has its smart set and its slums, as in any other world, but the criterion is artistic worth, not money. We know of one rather unpleasant personality who has risen to stardom, but is completely ignored by the lesser lights of the profession despite this star's attempts to break into "film society." CHAPTER VIII READING YOUR PART On the legitimate stage actors and actresses are called on to read their parts before beginning rehearsals. In the movies the part is read to them. Before the company begins to make even the first scene in a photoplay the scenario writer and director call a meeting and rehearse the company, reading the scenario and explaining the meaning of each scene. If the author and director are wise the story is then carefully rehearsed clear through, scene by scene, before anything is photographed. In this way the actors learn the sequence of their scenes and the relation of their parts to other parts and to the whole. [Illustration: REHEARSING THE COMPANY Movie authors should rehearse their own stories, at least, according to John Emerson and Anita Loos. Here these authors, on the left, are rehearsing their scenarios for "Wife Insurance" while the director, Victor Fleming (with the cap) takes notes. Rehearsals are arranged before the scenery is built, and the above tableau is supposed to take place in a restaurant.] It is up to you to make the best of your part. Secure a copy of the scenario, or at least of your scenes, as soon as possible. Then go over the story as many times as possible, trying to grasp the relationship of your own character to that of the other characters in the story. Work out your own conception of the part. Perhaps at first the director will never give you a chance to do a piece of original acting. He will work out every bit of action for you. Eventually, however, your opportunity will come to "create a part," and you must be ready for it. All the action of a motion picture story is contained in the numbered scenes of the scenario. Your bit of acting will be in one or more of these scenes. Here is a sample bit of one of our own scenarios, based on the stage play "Mama's Affair," which we recently wrote for Constance Talmadge. These are the last few scenes of the photoplay: Eve watches her mother go out, then turns to the doctor, goes to him, gives him her hand, and says very quietly: SP: "GOOD-BY, DOCTOR." The doctor looks at her, astonished, and says, "What!" Eve looks up at him sternly and says: SP: "GOOD-BY; I CAN HARDLY HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN. She then starts out the door. The doctor hurries after her, stops her, and says, "What do you mean?" Eve turns to look at him, and then says very calmly: SP: "I SHALL BE LEAVING TO-MORROW." The doctor, taken aback, steps back a couple of steps, looks at her in astonishment, and says: SP: "I JUST TOLD YOU THAT I'D MARRY YOU!" Eve looks at him commiseratingly, smiles a cynical smile, and says: SP: "YOU JUST TOLD ME YOU WOULD TAKE ME IN BECAUSE YOU SEE NO WAY TO PREVENT MY BECOMING A CHRONIC NEURASTHENIC." The doctor looks at her, flabbergasted at the plain way in which she is putting things. She then goes on and says: SP: "YOU DON'T WANT ME, BUT YOU'LL TAKE ME IN AS YOU'D TAKE A PATIENT INTO A HOSPITAL." The doctor looks at her, tries to speak, stammers, stops, not knowing what to say. Eve then takes a step toward him, smiles commiseratingly, and says: SP: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT. I HAVE LEARNED HOW TO HANDLE MAMA. YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT MY HEALTH." The doctor looks at her, surprised at this new Eve, who is in no need of him at all in his professional capacity. Eve looks at him, throws out her arms with gestures of complete victory over all her worries, and says: SP: "I AM GOING BACK TO NEW YORK, AND I AM GOING TO LIVE." Eve then turns, starts, goes toward the door and starts to go out. The doctor looks at her, struggles with himself, worries over the fact that he is losing her, goes toward her, and says: "Eve!" She turns, looks at him, and says: "Yes?" He looks at her helplessly, trying to find words to express himself, and then says: SP: "I CAN'T LET YOU GO LIKE THIS." Eve looks at him calmly, and asks why. The doctor looks around helplessly, stalls a moment, and then says: SP: "BECAUSE I LOVE YOU." Eve looks at him a moment, and then, dropping all her pose, simply overcome with intense relief, she says: SP: "WELL, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TRYING TO GET AT." The doctor rushes over to her, grabs her, takes her in his arms, looks into her face, and says: SP: "YOU BOLD-FACED, SHAMELESS LITTLE DARLING." Then gives her a good kiss, and we FADE OUT. You will observe that in the scenario there are many lines written in for the actors to speak which never appear on the screen (only those in capitals are shown on the screen). This is to give the cast a chance to say the things they would say in real life under the same circumstances, and so to make the scene entirely natural. The actor speaks all the lines in small type and also those in the capital letters, following the abbreviation "SP," which stands for "Spoken Title." Contrary to common belief, the actors really speak the words of their lines. There was a day when the hero, kissing the heroine in the final close-up, might say something like "Let's go out and get a cheese sandwich, now that this is over." But just about this time large numbers of lip-readers began to write in to the producers, kicking against this sort of thing. It seems that constant attendance at the movies develops a curious power of following a speech by watching the character's lips. And from that day the slapstick comedians who used to swear so beautifully before the camera and the heroines of the serial thrillers who used to talk about the weather in their big scenes began to speak their proper lines. CHAPTER IX INSIDE THE BRAIN OF A MOVIE STAR "But they have no brains!" someone is sure to say. That sort of thing is rather cheap cynicism. As a matter of fact, they have plenty of brains, but of their own peculiar sort. A movie actor, like any other type of artist, is an emotional, temperamental creature; but the problem which worries him the most is one of intellect rather than emotion; in short, just how to control the reactions inside that discredited gray matter of his. Every movie actor--and you, too, if you enter this field--is at one time or another confronted with the perplexing problem of just how much thought he should allow to go into his work; that is, whether his acting should be emotional or intellectual. The question resolves itself into this: Does an actor feel? Should he feel? There are two schools of thought on this seemingly academic but in reality most important subject. First are those who say that an actor must feel the part he is playing. The greatest actors, they say, have always been those who wore themselves out in an hour's time, because they felt the emotions they portrayed. They tell stories such as that of Mrs. Kendall, who, having lost her own child, electrified an English audience by her portrayal of the bereaved mother in "East Lynne" to such an extent that women leaped to their feet in the pit, shouting, "No more, no more." They point to the fact that the great stars of the screen and the stage alike are able to simulate the three reactions which are quite beyond the control of the will--pallor, blushing, and the sudden perspiration which comes with great terror or pain. This, they say, is proof positive that these actors are feeling every emotion as they enact it. The second group declares that all this is nonsense and that if an actor really felt his part he would lose control of himself, and perhaps actually murder some other actor in a fight scene. Acting, they say, is an art wherein the artist, by the use of his intellect, is able to simulate that which he does not feel--using his face merely as the painter uses his canvas. The moment an actor begins to enter into his part, his acting is either overdone or underdone and the scene is ruined. The whole trick of it, they add, is to keep perfectly cool and know exactly what you are doing, no matter how spectacular the scene. Still a third school declares that both these views are wrong, and that acting is neither a matter of thought nor of emotion, but is purely imitative. An actor observes his own emotions as he experiences them in each crisis of his real life, they say, and remembers them so well that he is afterward able to reproduce them before the camera. The truth of it seems to be that all of them are partly right and partly wrong. The great stars of the movies to-day, when one is able to draw them out on the subject, say that when they are acting they are thinking not about one thing but about several things. The brain is divided into different strata, and while one section is thinking about the part, another section is entering into it, while still a third stratum is busying itself with idle speculation about the cameraman and the director. There are two important secrets, connected with the psychology of screen acting, which every beginner should know, even if he never makes use of them. The first is that of Preparation; the second, that of Auto-Suggestion. A movie actor or actress is in a more difficult position, so far as the artistry of his work is concerned, than the players of the spoken drama. In the movies the scenes are nearly always taken out of sequence, the first last, the last first, and so forth. For that reason the motion picture stars have great difficulty in working themselves up to the proper "pitch" to play a scene, inasmuch as they have not been through the action which leads up to it. The movie directors know this, and in most studios try to help them up to this "pitch" by employing small orchestras to play during the important scenes. In nearly every large studio where more than one company is working there are to be heard the faint strains of Sonata Pathetique, where some melancholy scene is being taken, or livelier music for a bit of comedy in another set. Also the directors are always behind the camera to guide their actors with spoken directions as the scene is made. This orchestra business has always seemed to us pure buncombe, but if the director or actor gets any fun out of it, it doesn't do any particular harm. The wise movie actors of to-day are borrowing these two tricks of Preparation and Auto-Suggestion from their brethren of the stage. Preparation consists merely of spending a little time before the scene is begun in going over the part, in thinking about it, and in trying really to feel all the emotions of the character in question. This seems a simple matter; but it makes the difference between real acting and routine work. Once an actor has carefully worked out the part for himself he can easily conform to the director's ideas; and once he has let himself feel his part he need waste no emotion upon it when on the "set," for his mimetic powers will reproduce his feelings of an hour before. Auto-suggestion consists in working oneself up to the part before going before the camera by various expedients. For example, one actor, before playing a part calling for extreme anger, spends some ten minutes in clenching his fists, swearing at the handiest fence post, setting his jaw--and so making himself really angry. It is not hard to reproduce emotion by these tricks of auto-suggestion. Try thinking of something sad--draw your face down--and before long you will be in a very glum mood. That is the way such stars as Norma Talmadge and Mary Pickford produce tears on short notice. Most people think they are tricks of make-up, such as drops of glycerine; as a matter of fact, it is a matter of puckering the face and a few gloomy thoughts. All this sort of thing sounds very intricate and unnecessary. And yet it is the really practical side of screen acting. The psychology of each actor is different and his manner of preparing for a scene and of enacting it will be different. The important thing is that he be aware that there is such a thing as psychology, and that if he will only understand it as applied to himself he can improve his work as a film player. CHAPTER X SALARIES IN THE MOVIES So much propaganda and press-agentry has been at work during the last few years that no one knows what to believe of the movies. There appears to be a sort of attenuated smoke cloud thrown up about all connected with the artistic, and, more particularly, the financial side of the movies. And naturally the first question to be asked by one who is considering entering this field as a vocation is "What do they pay? Is it all true? Is there money in the movies?" The leading stars of the screen get anywhere from one thousand to ten thousand dollars a week. There are only two or three stars, however, who get as high as ten thousand. The majority range between one and three thousand. A few stars are paid a percentage of the profits of the picture. One or two others are paid a lump sum for a picture, rather than a weekly salary, and in one case this lump sum comes to eighty thousand dollars. A good leading man or leading woman gets four or five hundred dollars a week--some much more. First rate character people, or "heavies," get from three to five hundred a week, or, if called on to play by the day, get anywhere from fifty to a hundred dollars. The smaller parts bring salaries ranging from fifty to two hundred dollars. "Bits," such as the butler who opens the door, which involve a small bit of individual acting, although really merely atmospheric work, bring ten dollars a day or thereabouts. Extras for the crowd scenes get about five dollars a day. The salaries of directors range all the way from ten thousand dollars a week, which is the emolument of one great artist, down to the hundred and fifty a week of the fly-by-night concerns. The average director in a large company gets anywhere from five hundred to a thousand dollars a week, especially as at present there is a great shortage of good directors. Scenario writers are paid according to the type of work they do. If they write original stories they may get from one thousand to twenty thousand dollars for them. Of course, the published works of notable authors or the stage hits of famous playwrights bring more. Writers doing the adaptations or "continuities" of the stories of others are more often paid by the week. The big scenario writers get salaries ranging up to hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, for this is fast becoming the most important work of the entire industry. The lesser lights seldom receive less than twenty thousand dollars a year. Cameramen get from one hundred to three hundred dollars a week. Art directors receive several hundred dollars a week, but few companies have as yet realized the necessity of employing specialists in scenic art. A good five-reel feature picture to-day costs about sixty thousand dollars to produce. If a famous star is employed, the cost of the picture goes to a hundred thousand dollars, or even a hundred and fifty. "'Way Down East," Griffith's latest production, cost just under a million dollars to produce. The profits of the picture come out of its run, which may last seven or eight years, and even longer in Europe. A one hundred thousand dollar picture may eventually make half a million dollars for it's backers, but, of course, they have a long wait for their money. On the other hand, the risk is stupendous, for the picture may be a flat failure. One cheering fact, attested by all motion picture magnates, is that, whatever may be the case in other industries, salaries are not going to drop in the movies. On the contrary, the movies are growing bigger and bigger and the demand is greater than ever before. There is money in the movies now, and there will be even more in the next few years. CHAPTER XI SCENARIOS On the legitimate stage nearly every actor at one time or another writes a play. In the same way, in the movies nearly every actor tries his hand at scenario writing. In fact, many of the most successful playwrights and photodramatists have had stage or screen experience as actors. For this reason, although this series is designed more for those who wish to act than for those who wish to write--and although we have already one book on "How to Write Photoplays"--nevertheless, a chapter on scenario writing is not out of place. There is a fine career for any writer in scenario writing if the writer will only take the trouble to study it seriously. There is technique in writing plots and still more technique in adapting those plots to the screen, by writing them into scenario form. Studio experience is of vast benefit to anyone who wishes to write movie stories; and that is where the actor has the advantage over the outsider who tries to write scenarios with no practical knowledge of how movies are really made. First write your plot into a five hundred or thousand word synopsis, just as you would write it for a magazine. Make it brief and clear. Be sure it is based upon action, mental or physical, and try to give real character to your plot people. In choosing your story be sure it has the dramatic quality. It must not be rambling; and it must have an element of conflict between opposing factors--a man and a woman, a woman and her Destiny, or simply Good and Evil--which leads up to a crisis in which the matter is fought out and finally settled. Stories which have not these qualities are suitable for novels, perhaps, but not for plays. It is, as a general rule, inadvisable to try historical stories or stories which require elaborate scenes. Battle stories and stories of the Jules Verne or H. G. Wells type are also difficult to place. The great demand to-day is for sane, wholesome stories of modern American life, wherein character is the paramount interest rather than eccentricities of the plot or camera. Send your story in synopsis form to the scenario editor of the studio which employs the star for whom you think the story is best suited. Send with it a stamped and self-addressed envelope for the return of your script, if it is not suitable for their use. Keep on sending it; don't be discouraged by rejection slips. You may write dozens of stories and then sell the very first one you wrote. If the studio buys your story it is well to ask for an opportunity to help write the "continuity," or scenario form. This is a highly technical but very well paid task, and one which every screen author should learn. The chance to enter the studio and help work out the scenario of your own story is worth trying for. [Illustration: Testing Make-Up and Expression. Every make-up must conform to the part. Here the authors, John Emerson and Anita Loos, are helping their director, Victor Fleming, to make a test of Basil Sydney and May Collins, who played the leading roles in "Wife Insurance." The tests are usually taken in some corner of the studio under the best possible lighting conditions.] Scenarios to-day are more in demand than ever before; but producers are still chary of taking chances on untried amateurs. The amateur author's greatest success is when he sells his first story. The road is comparatively easy after that. Original plots for five-reel pictures sell from $1,000 to $20,000, depending upon the reputation of the author and the standing of the company which buys them. Of course, some of the smaller companies pay less than this, and two and three reel features sell for less. Published stories and novels, and plays which have had a run, bring enormous prices. Griffith recently paid $150,000 for the film rights on a play. Fifty and seventy thousand dollars are frequently paid for similar plot material, but that is because of the advertising value in the names of the plays or books, or the reputation of the writers, which assures the producers that the story is almost sure to make a good photoplay. The highest paid workers in the movies to-day are the continuity writers, who put the stories into scenario form and write the "titles" or written inserts. The income of some of these writers runs into hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. It is extraordinarily interesting work and well worth while learning; but unfortunately the technical training for this sort of thing takes as much time as the training necessary to enter any other profession. Scenario writing does not require great genius. It does require a dramatic insight and certain amount of training. It is the latter factor that most amateurs overlook. If you are to write scenarios, you must take your work as seriously as you would if you were trying to write music or paint pictures. CHAPTER XII HOW OTHERS HAVE DONE IT The histories of the movie celebrities are as picturesque as the story of their industry. Nearly all of them have risen from the ranks. Few of them, in the days when the motion picture was classed as a freak novelty, expected the present amazing expansion of the industry; still fewer had any conception of their own latent talents in photodramatic art. But characteristics which they all had in common were determination to succeed in their profession, a modest faith in its future, and a desire to learn the business from the ground up. It is a curious fact that many of the directors of to-day were once automobile mechanics. This is not because automobile mechanics are as a class better fitted for such work, but because, in the old days of 1907 and 1908 and 1909, when everything started, they had a singular opportunity to apprentice themselves to the profession. In those days companies worked almost entirely out of doors, and the cameraman transported his paraphernalia in an automobile. The driver of the automobile would usually assist the cameraman in "setting up"; a friendship would spring up between them; presently the driver would be assistant cameraman, then chief cameraman, and finally director. Of course, directors have been recruited from every profession and every class--actors, authors, professors, newspaper men, scene carpenters, artists--for the dramatic gift is not confined to any class. What a man's profession was before he entered the movies has nothing to do with his career thereafter; he has to learn everything all over again, and a very good actor, with years of studio experience, may make a very poor director, whereas an unsuccessful tinsmith might suddenly rise to the top by virtue of an innate gift for this type of work. The scenario writers of to-day have also grown up with the business. Some were newspaper men who broke into the game as press-agents; some were actors; others were directors. Recently a large number of professional playwrights, novelists and authors with magazine experience have entered the movies to learn scenario writing, but this is a new development. The writers of this series have been asked to tell how they themselves broke into the scenario offices. Unlike the others, our own story has nothing picturesque about it. Miss Loos was born and bred in a California town; she was the daughter of a newspaper proprietor and inherited that fatal desire to write. At the age of fourteen she sent her first scenario to Griffith; for a miracle, it was accepted--but, of course, it was easy to sell stories in those days, when scenario writing was almost unheard of outside of California. Soon after this she paid a personal visit to the Griffith studios and became the youngest scenario editor in the world, turning out a new story about every six weeks. Some six years ago Mr. Emerson left his post as producer for Frohman on the legitimate stage and went to Hollywood to keep an eye on the filming of one of his own plays which was being adapted from the "speakies." He decided to make the movies a permanent profession, and with this in mind worked as an actor about the Griffith studios to learn the rudiments of the game. Some months after this he was allowed to direct his first picture; and at this time he met Miss Loos, who was to write the scenario. After that they collaborated in the Doug' Fairbanks' pictures--and that's that. Most of the present-day movie actors and actresses gained their experience as extras, although a few have first made their success on the legitimate stage and then stepped directly into film stardom. Doug' Fairbanks was one of the latter, and so was Mary Pickford. Charley Chaplin and Wallace Reid, on the other hand, have done little of note outside of the movies. Both Norma Talmadge and Constance Talmadge rose from the ranks. They took small parts in the old Vitagraph pictures; but their extraordinary beauty and talent was immediately recognized by the directors, and they were permitted to try bits, then parts, and finally leads. Norma Talmadge went in for the more emotional rôles, while Constance developed her ability as a comedienne. Within six years they have attained to position of leadership in their respective fields. D. W. Griffith himself was once an extra. He was a good extra, too, according to some of his former employers who now work under him in his great studios at Mamaroneck, Conn. But he had all manner of queer ideas as to how pictures should be acted, and directed and photographed. For example, he thought that more effective scenes might be made, at times, by photographing actors "close up," cutting off their legs and arms with the frame of the picture and showing only their faces many times enlarged; also he had a theory that one might heighten the dramatic suspense by "cutting back" from one scene to another, instead of following one line of action in a monotonous sequence through an entire photoplay. The directors and actors and cameramen of those days, who would no sooner have thought of taking a character's picture from the bust up than of taking the picture upside down, were nevertheless interested in this eccentric chap, and even asked his advice from time to time. Finally, the eccentric extra got his chance as a director to try out a few of these radical theories. His "The Birth of a Nation" changed the entire technique of the movies. Many noted directors received their training in directing plays for the legitimate stage, as, for example, Hugh Ford. Others, like Marshall Neilan, or Allan Dwan, came in from outside professions. Victor Fleming, formerly director for Douglas Fairbanks and Constance Talmadge, was one of the latter. His first success, many years ago, was as an automobile designer, but his interest always lay with the theater; he resigned his post with the automobile company at about the age when most young men are seeking their first jobs, and decided to learn the business of making movies. The same creative faculty which made his automobile designs distinctive in the old days manifested itself in his pictures last year, "The Mollycoddle" and "When the Clouds Roll By." There are a million ways to break into the movies. No one can imitate the career of another. Don't read other people's biographies; go out and make one for yourself. CHAPTER XIII AMATEUR MOVIE MAKING Amateur theatrical clubs, theater guilds, and the like, have done much to make the modern drama the great art that it is. But because of the overwhelming expense heretofore attached to the making of movies there have been no attempts at any similar activities in the films. The movies have never had the advantage of the experiments of amateur societies. To-day, however, the making of movies by amateurs is a distinct possibility. The possibilities of making a motion picture at comparatively little expense were first drawn to public attention five years ago when two young men, both of whom have become well-known directors, made a saleable photoplay in their own back yard. These boys had many theories about what a movie should and should not be, but they could never find a company willing to give their theories a trial. Finally they hit upon the original expedient of buying their own camera and making a picture in which nearly all the actors were children and which therefore cost very little money. Nearly all the scenes were exteriors, so that practically no scenery was required. The picture was most original and in spite of their technical shortcomings, they found a fairly profitable sale. If you desire to write, direct or act in the pictures, you can have no better experience than trying to make a picture of your own, even if at first you are not very successful. The great initial expense for this sort of thing is, of course, the outlay required to buy a camera. In most towns of any size there are now professional movie cameramen who work for the news reel companies and who may be hired for a comparatively small sum. If, however, you desire to make your photoplay an entirely amateur affair, you can buy a usable second-hand camera for outdoor work for as low as a hundred dollars. Some one of your associates must make it his business to learn to run this camera with sufficient skill to insure that your film will not be wasted. The next important outlay is that of the film itself. Film costs about eleven or twelve cents a foot when developed and printed. Therefore, the cost of production depends largely upon the length of your picture. For a first attempt we should advise you to keep your photoplay within 2,000 feet, or two reels. Start by writing a simple story into a scenario with as many exterior scenes as possible. The necessary interiors, such as rooms or hallways, may be built by your own amateurs, outdoors, as they are often built in California, so that no lights will be necessary. You can paint your own subtitle cards--the written inserts--and film them yourself. [Illustration: MAKING A "CLOSE-UP" Sun reflectors, consisting of silvered canvas screens, are used to lighten the shadows, which are apt to make the cheeks seem hollow. The actors are Basil Sydney and May Collins.] It is not necessary to make the scenes in their natural sequence. After the picture is finished and developed, however, someone must assemble and cut it. This means that you must rent the use of the projection machine at your local theater for a few mornings, and get the local operator to help you splice and cement the film together in its correct order of long shots and close-ups. There is no rule for this work except that of practical values on the screen. Just run your bits of film through the projection machine and stick them together the way they look best. It is a matter of artistic perception rather than any set rule. If your scenario calls for an outdoor picture--for example, a cowboy story--which does not require costumes, you should be able to make it for a thousand dollars, provided your amateur actors, and amateur cameramen, and amateur authors are working for nothing. There are mighty few amateur theatricals of any pretention whatsoever which do not cost as much as this, and you should be able to take in a good profit if your picture is exploited in your local theaters. As a matter of fact, pictures have not always been produced on the scale that they are to-day. Ten years ago feature pictures cost from $5,000 to $7,000 to make, and in those days film and cameras were much more expensive. The producers simply made outdoor pictures which required no lights or scenery, and saved on the salaries of actors and directors, which have multiplied twenty times since then. To-day the average feature picture costs from $50,000 to $150,000 to produce. Griffith's "'Way Down East" cost nearly a million to produce. That is because the salaries of actors, directors and authors have risen so enormously. But there is no reason why an amateur company in which the cost of salaries is completely eliminated cannot make their own picture at a minimum expense. If you want to break into the movies, here is a way to do it, right in your own home town. INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO PART II Whether you desire to break into the movies as writer, actor or director, your most important consideration will be the scenario. In the scenario you will find all the elements of the photoplay; everything is built upon that as a foundation. The actor or director who sincerely desires to do good work studies his script assiduously. The ambitious writer analyzes not only his own photoplays, but those of other people. It is exceedingly difficult to talk technique to anyone who has never read a scenario. For this reason we have incorporated a "continuity" in this book. It is the dramatic form of a screen story which we have made as a special production. The titles, which are the written inserts to be flashed on the screen, are in capital letters. The inserts refer to such articles as letters, telegrams, pictures, and the like, which may be shown in close-up. The "iris" is the broadening or narrowing of the frame of the picture to open or close a scene, or to emphasize some particular object which is "irised" upon. The "fade" effects are used very much as the curtain of the legitimate stage is used to open and close scenes. The abbreviation "Sp" means "Speech," indicating that the title which follows is to be spoken by the actor. Some of the quoted lines--the ones not set off in capitals--are not shown on the screen, but are merely given as a guide for the players. Most of the directions concerning the scenes are also given in capital letters. "EXTERIOR," or the abbreviated "EXT.," for example, refers to a scene outdoors, while "INTERIOR" or "INT.," is an indoor scene. The terms "LONG SHOT" and "CLOSE-UP" refer to the distance at which the camera is placed from the scene. "Red Hot Romance" is played as a romantic melodrama, but is intended as a satire upon this very type of story, with its incredibly heroic hero, its American girl, its marines-to-the-rescue and all the rest of it. Basil Sydney and May Collins played the parts of Roland and Rosalie, and Victor Fleming was the director. RED HOT ROMANCE T: IT'S BAD ENOUGH FOR SOME TO BOSS THE REST OF US WHILE THEY ARE ALIVE, BUT THE LIMIT IS REACHED WHEN THEY WANT TO KEEP RIGHT ON AFTER THEY HAVE CASHED IN. T: FOR INSTANCE, THERE WAS OLD HARDER N. STONE, THE VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE BRITISH-AMERICAN INSURANCE CO. 1. LIBRARY, STONE HOME IN WASHINGTON. (Fade in.) Harder N. Stone, an old skinflint, is seated at his desk writing. INSERT--Stone's hand writing the following: "I, Harder N. Stone, of Washington, D. C., hereby direct that, should I die before my son, Roland Stone, he is to receive from my estate the sum of $50.00 per week and the use of my residence in Washington, D. C, until his twenty-fifth birthday." Stone sits back and regards what he has been writing, smiles smugly, and then continues writing. INSERT--Stone's hand writing the following: "On his twenty-fifth birthday, provided he has lived according to instructions herein set down, my son, Roland Stone, is to receive his inheritance at the hands of my chosen executor, Lord Howe-Greene, of London, President of the British-American Insurance Co." Stone sits back and reads over what he has written and is highly pleased. He then rings for a servant and presently Briggs enters. He is a little English butler, who has been in the family for years. Stone turns to him and tells him that he has just been making out his will. Briggs is properly impressed and Stone says to him: SP: "BRIGGS, I HAVE PROVIDED IN MY WILL THAT IF I DIE BEFORE MY SON YOU ARE TO STAY ON WITH HIM AS LONG AS YOU LIVE." Briggs is highly pleased, thanks him, Stone dismisses him, goes on writing. (Fade out.) THE OLD BOY DID DIE, AS HE DESERVED TO, AND LEFT HIS SON AND HEIR, ROLAND STONE, WITH NOTHING TO DO BUT LIVE ON $50.00 PER WEEK. 2. ROLAND'S BEDROOM. (Fade in.) He is lolling in bed in pajamas and dressing gown, smoking a cigarette and opening a stack of bills and reading them. INSERT--top bill--tailor's bill with a balance from the month before and about $275.00 for this month with a note in heavy letters "PLEASE REMIT." This one is turned over, and the second one is from a club with a statement "You have this day been posted for $179.00 and your credit is hereby suspended until same is paid." This bill is turned over and the third bill is from a florist's for $950.00 worth of flowers sent to Miss Rosalie Bird and has a note reading: "Impossible for us to fill any more orders until these bills are paid." Roland puts down the bills in disgust, not looking further, as he knows they're all alike. Briggs, the butler, now enters and takes up the breakfast tray which is lying on the bed opposite beside Roland. Roland looks up to him, then looks at the bills, and says: SP: "HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO PAY THESE BILLS ON $50.00 A WEEK?" Briggs shrugs his shoulders as though he had nothing to do with it, and suggests that Roland's bills are too big. He then leaves. Roland looks after him, disgusted, runs through a few more bills, throws them on the floor and at this juncture, Tom, Roland's valet, a big husky negro with a child-like, innocent smile, enters the room with letters, goes to Roland and hands him the letters. Roland looks at them and sees they are more bills, puts them down. Tom picks up others from floor and gives them to Roland, much to his disgust. He looks up to Tom and says: SP: "YOU'RE A FINE 'SECRETARY'! WHAT DO I PAY YOU FOR?" Tom looks up at him, round-eyed and smiles and says: SP: "YOU DON'T." This is a poser for Roland for a moment, he finally regains his composure and says: SP: "WELL, I AM GOING TO WHEN I GET MY INHERITANCE NEXT APRIL." Tom nods his head quizzically as he has heard this many times before. Roland then picks up the bills, runs through them again and says: SP: "THE QUESTION NOW IS--HOW ARE WE GOING TO LIVE UNTILAPRIL?" He sighs, reaches over to a table which has a little calendar on it, picks up the calendar, sees that it is the 13th of January, and runs through the pages very dubiously. He finally looks up at Tom, shows him how many days they have to live through on the calendar, and says: SP: "I HAVEN'T A NICKEL AND I CAN'T BORROW ANYTHING NOW. HOW ARE WE GOING TO LIVE UNTIL APRIL?" Tom looks about very dubiously. Finally he gets an idea, he looks from one object of furniture to another, and his idea grows until he is fairly beaming and he says: SP: "THEY'S A MIGHTY LOT OF HOCKABLE STUFF AROUND HEAH, BOSS!" He indicates the things around the room, and Roland is delighted with the idea. He picks up the bunch of bills, looks at the top one. INSERT--TAILOR'S BILL. Roland then looks around for something to pay that with and his eye falls upon an antique vase. He jumps out of bed, takes the vase and hands it to Tom together with the tailor's bill, saying that that will pay for that. Roland looks at the next bill. INSERT--BILL FROM CLUB. Roland then takes a couple of ornaments from the mantel, gives them to Tom together with the club bill saying that they will pay for that. Roland then looks at the next bill. INSERT--FLORIST'S BILL. Roland then takes a picture from the wall, leaving a discolored place behind it, saying that will pay for that. He then thinks a moment and picks up a little antique clock and hands it to Tom, saying: SP: "AND BUY HER SOME ORCHIDS WITH THIS." Tom grins, goes out loaded down with all the junk. Roland looks after him, very pleased with himself, and, probably thinking of his girl and the orchids, smiles, and fade out. T: INDICATING THAT IT'S TEA TIME. 3. EXTERIOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. (Fade in.) Roland comes down the street with a bunch of orchids in his hand and goes up and rings the bell. T: COLONEL BIRD, OF VIRGINIA, WHO HAS BEEN HANGING AROUND WASHINGTON FOR THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, WAITING FOR A JOB WHICH WAS FIRST PROMISED HIM BY PRESIDENT CLEVELAND. 4. PARLOR, COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Colonel Bird, seated at a desk, very busily reading several large law books and making notes, trying to "kid" himself into believing that he is busy. A colored mammy presently shows in Roland, who greets the Colonel very effusively. The Colonel asks Roland to sit down, which he does. The servant exits. The Colonel, not being very greatly impressed with Roland, excuses himself and goes on with his work, explaining that he has some very important matters on hand. Roland looks at him, smiles to himself, then looks out expectantly toward the hall. T: THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER, ROSALIE, THE LADY OF THE ORCHIDS. 5. HALLWAY, COLONEL'S HOUSE. Rosalie comes down the stairs and enters the parlor. 6. PARLOR, COLONEL'S HOUSE. Rosalie rushes over, greets Roland. The Colonel rises until Roland and the girl are seated when he sits and goes on with his on a sofa, work. Roland gives Rosalie the orchids. Rosalie thanks him, but says: SP: "ROLAND, YOU SHOULDN'T BUY ORCHIDS EVERY DAY." She then points around to different vases in the room, all of which are full of orchids. She holds on to the orchids and gives Roland a little lecture on economy, telling him he has no business to spend his money so foolishly. And Roland says he thought she liked orchids. She says she does and he's a dear sweet boy to bring them, but he sees she is not pleased and is correspondingly depressed. 7. EXTERIOR COLONEL'S BIRD'S HOUSE. A low rakish roadster drives up and out of it gets Jim Conwell. He has a small sized package in his hand. CLOSE UP--And he runs up and rings the bell. T: JIM CONWELL IS ONE OF THAT BROTHERHOOD OF DIPLOMATIC HANGERS-ON WHO MAKE A SHADY LIVELIHOOD BY DOING THE DIRTY WORK OF THE VARIOUS WASHINGTON EMBASSIES. 8. EXT. COLONEL BIRD'S PORCH. The colored mammy opens the door, lets in Conwell, takes his hat and coat and shows him into the parlor. 9. PARLOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. The colored mammy shows Conwell SP: "HERE'S A LITTLE THING I PICKED UP IN AN ANTIQUE SHOP. I THOUGHT YOU'D LIKE IT." Rosalie puts down her orchids in Roland's chair. She then takes the package, opens it up and takes out Roland's clock. She lets out a cry of surprise and delight, then turns to Conwell and says: SP: "IT'S LOVELY! I'VE ALWAYS WANTED A CLOCK LIKE THAT." Roland looks at this, open-mouthed and in absolute astonishment, sits down in his chair, smashing the orchids. Rosalie then shows the clock to the old Colonel and the two of them rave over it, forgetting the existence of Roland, who finally comes to sufficiently to see that he's sitting on something, gets up and picks up the mashed orchids, looks at them disgustedly. The clock is finally put in place on the mantel and Rosalie comes back and joins Roland, who stands looking ruefully at the flowers in his hand. He dolefully shows them to her, and she, seeing he is hurt, comforts him, telling him he's a dear boy and she loves the orchids. She takes them from him and tenderly straightens them out, but Roland is still in the dumps. Conwell is now throwing a lot of "bull" at the old Colonel, saying: SP: "I JUST SAID TO THE SECRETARY OF STATE: 'YOU'RE NOT LOOKING VERY WELL, ELIHU, I WISH YOU'D LET MY OLD FRIEND, COLONEL BIRD, TAKE SOME OF THE WORK OFF YOUR HANDS.'" He goes on spouting and the old Colonel fairly eats it up. Finally, Roland, unhappy and jealous and disgusted at Conwell, gets up and tells Rosalie he has to go. Rosalie begs him to stay in her sweetest manner, but Roland takes another look at Conwell, says no, he's got to go, says good-by to Rosalie and says good-by to the Colonel and Conwell, and leaves. STREET EXT. COL. BIRD'S HOUSE.--Roland comes out and goes dolefully down the street. (Fade out.) HALLWAY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland enters, disheartened. Hangs up hat and coat and stick and goes slowly into library. 10. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. (Fade in.) Tom is fussing about the room. Roland enters the room, terribly depressed and upset and starts to tell Tom about the scene that just took place. He goes on talking about Conwell and finally says: SP: "THE OLD MAN STANDS FOR ALL OF CONWELL'S BUNK AND THINKS HE'S GREAT." Tom is very sympathetic and tells Roland he ought to settle the matter. Roland agrees with him, pounds on the table, and says: SP: "I THINK THE TIME HAS COME WHEN I OUGHT TO TELL ROSALIE I LOVE HER!" Tom agrees with him, says that's absolutely right. Roland says he knows it's right--the only thing to do is to come to an understanding right away. He then goes over to the telephone and calls a number, and while he is waiting for the number, he goes on talking to Tom, telling him just how he is going to settle things and Tom encourages him. 11. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie comes down the hall to the telephone and answers it. 12. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland is still talking to Tom, telling him how he's going to lay down the law when he suddenly hears Rosalie's voice over the 'phone. All his belligerency oozes out. He smiles and stammers foolishly and gulps and tries to get his courage up as if he were going to lay matters right before her and finally weakens and comes out with SP: "HOW ARE YOU?" 13. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie, wondering what the devil he's asking her that for when he just left her, frowns quizzically and says that she's feeling all right. 14. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland goes on talking through the 'phone in a stammering embarrassed sort of way, and Tom keeps telling him to go on and tell her what he said he was going to. Roland tries to motion to Tom and he goes on stammering and stuttering. 15. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie still very quizzically listening to Roland. She finally asks him what is the matter with him. 16. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland stammering into the 'phone. Finally Tom, utterly disgusted, comes over to the 'phone and yells in it: SP: "HE'S TRYING TO ASK YOU TO MARRY HIM, MISS ROSALIE! WILL YOU?" Roland turns angrily to Tom, still holding the receiver to his ear, and starts to berate Tom soundly, when he suddenly hears something in the telephone which stops him. He listens, overcome with wonderment and finally says: SP: "SAY THAT AGAIN!" 17. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie at the 'phone, laughing, says: SP: "YES. OF COURSE I WILL!" 18. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland can hardly believe his ears, makes her reiterate it, then turns to Tom in great glee and says: SP: "IT'S ALL RIGHT. SHE SAYS YES." He then turns back to the 'phone and asks Rosalie if she really means it. While he is talking to Rosalie, Tom goes over to a heavy couch, pulls it out toward the hall. Roland still at the 'phone talking, turns and asks Tom what he is doing. Tom still pulling the couch says: SP: "AH'M GOING TO BUY YOU A ENGAGEMENT RING." Roland smiles and nods, and suddenly thinks of the clock episode, stops Tom, tells him to wait a minute, then turns toward the telephone and says: SP: "WHAT WOULD YOU RATHER HAVE--A RING OR A SOFA?" 19. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie listening at the 'phone is utterly dumbfounded at this odd request, she asks him to repeat it, then finally still puzzled, says: SP: "WHY, A RING, OF COURSE! YOU SILLY BOY!" 20. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland listening at the 'phone, hears Rosalie wants the ring, turns to Tom and tells him to go on and hock the sofa. He then turns to Rosalie, starts in to talk to her ecstatically over the 'phone, smiling, as we fade out. T: THAT NIGHT AT THE HANGOUT OF THE FRINGE OF THE DIPLOMATIC SET. 21. A WOP RESTAURANT. (Fade in.) This is a typical $1.35 Table d'Hote joint. Seated at the various tables are many diplomatic hangers-on, all of them crooked and all looking out for the main chance. Among them is a Mexican, a Frenchman, an Englishman, a German, a Russian, an Italian, a Chinaman, a Jap, a Bulgarian, a Hindoo and their women--perhaps three or four Americans, but the atmosphere is generally foreign, the waiters being Wops. Seated at one table is Conwell alone. He is eating spaghetti and looking very sourly about. T: ENRICO DE CASTANET OF BUNKONIA. Enrico is seated at a table talking to a very attractive vamp type of a woman. T: HIS LADY FRIEND (THE INTERNATIONAL VAMP AND SPY), COUNTESS PULLOFF DE PLOTZ. The Countess is listening very intently to Enrico. Enrico goes on talking very earnestly, and finally says: SP: "YOU SEE, WE MUST HAVE A MAN WHO CAN BE BOUGHT BODY AND SOUL." The Countess agrees with him, and perhaps suggests somebody, whom Enrico says would never do. The Countess starts thinking again, and, as she does, her eyes wander over the room and she sees Conwell, who has just gotten up, paid his bill and given the waiter a very small tip, at which the waiter shows his disgust. Conwell then turns to leaves the restaurant, starts down toward Enrico and the Countess. The Countess sees him, has a sudden idea that he would be fine for the job and points him out to Enrico. At this moment, Conwell has stopped to talk to someone at one of the tables, Enrico looks him over from head to foot, asks the Countess if she is sure he can be handled; she assures him he can. SP: "HE WORKED FOR THE SHIPPING BOARD." Enrico agrees that he looks like a good bet, and just at this moment Conwell comes past the table, sees the Countess motion to him. He comes over to the table, Enrico rises and the Countess introduces him saying: SP: "SENOR DE CASTANET IS MINISTER OF WAR OF BUNKONIA." Conwell is mildly interested in this fact. Enrico then asks Conwell to sit down, so he takes a seat, and the Countess then begins to get very confidential. She looks around to see that no one is looking, then getting their three heads together, she says in whispered tones: SP: "WE ARE ENGINEERING A LITTLE REVOLUTION DOWN IN BUNKONIA." Conwell is a little more interested now. He pricks up his ears a bit and casually glances around to make sure no one is overhearing, then looks to De Castanet for some information, and De Castanet, with a quick glance around says to Conwell: SP: "THE AMERICAN CONSUL HAS RESIGNED AND A NEW ONE IS TO BE APPOINTED NEXT MONTH." Conwell is still more interested, asks Enrico where do I come in? Enrico says, indicating Madame: SP: "I AM HERE TO SEE THAT THE 'RIGHT' MAN IS APPOINTED." Conwell says "Oh ho," he sees and looks at the Countess, who nods her approval. He then asks her where he comes in. With more mysterious looks, they get their heads very closely together, and the Countess says: SP: "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU FOR CONSUL? THE PICKINGS ARE GOING TO BE FINE FOR THE 'RIGHT MAN.'" Conwell considers a moment, smiles quizzically and shakes his head and says: SP: "NO, I'M IN WRONG--THE SENATE WOULDN'T CONFIRM ME." The Countess tries to argue with him but heis obdurate and says there's no chance for him, but as they are talking he is suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. He says, "Wait a minute." They all wait and finally he speaks and says: SP: "I'VE GOT JUST THE MAN FOR YOU!" They are all attention and eager to know who it is. He indicates that this must be very much on the quiet and then says: SP: "OLD COLONEL BIRD--FINE RECORD--EASY TO HANDLE--BEEN WAITING THIRTY-FIVE YEARS FOR A JOB." The Countess indicates that she knows old Bird and tells Enrico that he is ideal, that they couldn't do better. Enrico asks if he can be handled when the time comes. Conwell swells up and tells him to leave that to him. It's the easiest thing in the world. Enrico turns to Madame, who backs up Conwell and Enrico is then satisfied. Conwell then speaks up and says: SP: "I'LL GO ALONG AS SECRETARY AND KEEP MY EYE ON THE OLD BOY." They both express their approval of that, and indicate that he will get part of the swag. The Countess leans over and says rather tauntingly: SP: "I SUPPOSE THE OLD BOY'S DAUGHTER WILL GO ALONG, TOO!" Conwell says he bets she will and winks the other eye. The Countess laughs and Enrico smiles, interested at the idea of a romance. He and the Countess exchange glances. Conwell then says: SP: "REMEMBER--MUM'S THE WORD UNTIL AFTER THE APPOINTMENT IS MADE." They all agree to that and put their heads together and go on with their scheming. (Fade out.) T: AND SO IT CAME TO PASS---- 22. PARLOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. (Fade in.) An old trunk in the middle of the floor and the Colonel and mammy are packing in his books, papers, etc. The Colonel all full of business and very busy. Rosalie is helping, but is very sad over the matter. 23. EXTERIOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Roland rushes down the street with a newspaper in his hand, runs up the steps and rings the bell. 24. PARLOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie looks up quickly, thinking that this must be Roland. Mammy starts for the door but Rosalie tells her she will answer the bell, and she runs out into hall. 25. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie runs to the door and opens it. 26. EXTERIOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Rosalie opens the door, and Roland rushes in. 27. HALLWAY COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Roland, full of excitement, grabs Rosalie, shows her the article in the newspaper. INSERT--Article in newspaper stating that Colonel Bird has been appointed Consul of Bunkonia and that he is to leave for there immediately with his daughter and his Secretary, James Conwell. Roland asks Rosalie if this is true. Rosalie nods her head sadly, says that it is and SP: "I DIDN'T KNOW A THING ABOUT IT MYSELF UNTIL THIS MORNING." Roland protests that she can't go away and leave him, and Rosalie asks what she can do and says that her father has waited for this all his life and insists on taking her along. Roland asks where her father is, she points into parlor, and Roland tells her that he will see about whether she will be taken away or not, and full of worry, rushes into the parlor followed by Rosalie. 28. PARLOR COLONEL BIRD'S HOUSE. Colonel Bird is helping mammy pack and Roland rushes in followed by Rosalie. He goes to the Colonel and protests against taking his fiancée away from him. He puts his arm around Rosalie and says that he wants to marry her now and keep her. The Colonel can't see this at all, and says: SP: "IF YOU MARRY NOW, HOW ARE YOU GOING TO SUPPORT HER?" Rosalie turns to Roland and says that is the trouble--that her father won't let her stay there and marry him because he can't support her. Roland then turns to the Colonel and says: SP: "BUT, COLONEL, IN ANOTHER MONTH EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL RIGHT!" Rosalie seconds the motion and tries to persuade her father that everything will be all right, but her father shakes his head, looks grimly at Roland and says: SP: "THAT'S WHAT CLEVELAND SAID TO ME IN '89." Roland looks discouraged and realizes that he is up against a hard proposition in the old Colonel, but tries to explain that if they can just struggle along for a month he will have millions, but the Colonel says: SP: "WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR INHERITANCE RIGHT IN YOUR HAND, COME DOWN TO BUNKONIA AND GET HER." Roland, much discouraged, still tries to argue with the old boy, but he cuts him off and goes on about his work. Roland then turns to Rosalie, who by this time is in tears. At the sight of Rosalie's tears, Roland forgets his own disappointment, and putting his arm around her, leads her off to a secluded corner out of sight of the old Colonel, seats her and tries to comfort her, putting his arm around her and saying: SP: "THE FIRST OF APRIL IS MY BIRTHDAY. I GET MY INHERITANCE THAT DAY AND I'LL START AT ONCE FOR BUNKONIA." At once Rosalie looks up at him with her eyes full of tears and smiles wanly. Roland takes her hand, wipes away her tears, kisses her and says: SP: "I'LL SEND YOU A CABLE EVERY DAY!" At this Rosalie is greatly cheered up, she looks and says: "Will you, dear?" and he assures her that he will and again kisses her. (Fade out.) T: THE AMERICAN CABLE COMPANY DID WELL THAT MONTH BUT LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO ROLAND'S HOUSE. 29. HALLWAY ROLAND'S HOUSE. (Fade in.) View of hall without a piece of furniture, bric-a-brac or pictures. (Dissolve out.) 30. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. (Dissolve in.) View of Library absolutely bare. (Dissolve out.) 31. ROLAND'S BEDROOM. (Dissolve in.) Bedroom has nothing in it but one couch, one chair and a soap box on which are Roland's mirror and toilet articles. Roland is asleep on the couch. Presently Briggs enters, looks about at the devastated room, then shaking his head over the laziness of his master, goes over, wakes Roland up and says: SP: "I WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIR." Roland wakes up, looks at him, rubs his eyes, realizes that his probation is over. Tom enters smiling with a telegram in his hand which he gives to Roland who opens it and reads: INSERT--TELEGRAM. New York, March 31, 1920. "Arrive Washington four-forty to-morrow, April first, to deliver inheritance. HOWE-GREENE." Roland jumps out of bed, goes over and claps Briggs on the back and shakes hands with him--then shakes hands with Tom. Then makes Briggs and Tom shake hands. Tells them both he's going to have loads of money and they will be paid. Roland then goes over to his soap box on which is a calendar. He looks at page marked "March 31." Tears it off and looks at page marked "April 1." He tears off the page with a flourish which reads March 31st, turns it over, and, sitting on the floor, writes on the back of it. Tom in the meantime sends Briggs for his breakfast and gets out Roland's clothes, brushing them with great gusto. Roland finishes writing and reads what he has written. INSERT--WHAT ROLAND IS WRITING. "Miss Rosalie Bird, Santo Grafto, Bunkonia. At last the great day is here. Lord Howe-Greene arrives to-day with my inheritance. Leave for Bunkonia to-morrow to claim you as my bride. Roland." He reads it and tells Tom to send it. Tom takes the message. Scratches his head and looks around the room for something to hock. Roland wants to know why he's hesitating, and he tells him. Roland then says: SP: "TAKE THE COUCH!" Tom looks at the couch dubiously, then looks at Roland and says: "Where are you going to sleep to-night?" Roland, in an extravagant manner and with a grand flourish, tells him to take it away. SP: "I WON'T BE ABLE TO SLEEP TO-NIGHT ANYWAY!" Tom goes over, picks up the couch and starts out of the room with it. At the door, Roland stops him, picks up the one remaining chair, hands it over to him and says: SP: "CABLE HER SOME ROSES WITH THIS!" Tom takes the chair, starts for the door when he suddenly thinks of the fact that Lord Howe-Greene is due that morning, so he stops, turns to Roland and says: SP: "WHAT DAT LORD HOWE-GREENE TO SIT ON WHEN HE COMES?" Roland says that's right, so he leaves the chair and starts out with the couch. Briggs in the meantime has entered with Roland's breakfast. Puts breakfast on soap box. Roland tells him to put the chair down in the hall. Briggs doleful. Roland slaps him on the back--tells him to cheer up. Briggs goes out shaking his head and Roland sits on chair and starts his breakfast all smiles. (Fade out.) T: THE NEW MILLIONAIRE. 32. FRONT OF ROLAND'S HOUSE. (Fade in.) Roland's taxi drives up and stops, followed by Tom's. Roland and Lord Howe-Greene with portfolio get out. Tom also gets out with bags. Howe-Greene starts up walk. Tom stops Roland and shows him three cents--all he has and whispers to him, saying: SP: "HOW DO I PAY THE TAXI?" Roland signifying that he can't be annoyed with such little things, says grandiloquently: SP: "TELL THEM TO WAIT!" He follows Lord Howe-Greene up the walk while Tom goes to the taxis and tells them to wait. Then he follows with bags. 33. RECEPTION HALL ROLAND'S HOUSE. It is perfectly bare. Briggs is just coming down the stairs carrying the one chair that is left, he puts it down, looks around at the bare hall, shakes his head sadly, dusts off the one chair, then looks up quickly at hearing bell ring, goes over to the door. 34. FRONT OF ROLAND'S HOUSE. Briggs opens the door and lets Roland and Lord Howe-Greene in followed by Tom with bags. 35. HALLWAY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland and Lord Howe-Greene enter, followed by Tom and Briggs. Briggs is delighted to see the old Englishman but is terribly chagrined at the condition of the house. He takes Lord Howe-Greene's coat and hat, and Roland engages Lord Howe-Greene in talking, then motions to Tom to get the chair into the library. Tom sneaks the chair around behind Lord Howe-Greene and into the library. 36. LIBRARY. Tom sneaks the chair in, puts it down near the fireplace. 37. HALLWAY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland noticing that Tom has the chair placed, escorts Lord Howe-Greene into the library with a grand flourish. 38. LIBRARY. Tom is standing behind the chair. Lord Howe-Greene and Roland enter. Tom seats Lord Howe-Greene very ceremoniously in the chair. Lord Howe-Greene looks around the empty room and is astounded. He turns to Roland and says: "_I say, old fellow, the place looks rather beastly bare? Where's the furniture?_" Roland thinks for a moment, looks at Tom; Tom does some quick heavy thinking and finally says, very graciously: SP: "WE SENT THE FURNITURE OUT TO BE CLEANED IN HONOR OF YOUR COMING." Roland smiles in relief and in approval of Tom, and then says: SP: "THE CLEANERS ARE ON STRIKE SO THEY DIDN'T GET IT DONE IN TIME." Lord Howe-Greene blandly accepts the explanation and thanks him for his thoughtfulness. Roland, who has been fondling the portfolio, can hardly wait for it to be opened, and he gives it to Lord Howe-Greene and then goes and stands by the mantel with Tom. Lord Howe-Greene fishes out the papers, finally comes to the will and starts to read the glad news. He reads for a moment and then INSERT--"That providing said Roland Stone has carried out previous instructions of the will, his father provides as follows:" Roland, overcome with impatience, begins to get even more interested. Lord Howe-Greene clears his throat and goes on reading: INSERT--"I bequeath to my son, Roland Stone, one unencumbered position in the Anglo-American Insurance Co. as soliciting agent with a guarantee of $25.00 per week." Roland looks in astonishment at Lord Howe-Greene as does also Tom. Lord Howe-Greene clears his throat again and goes on reading: INSERT--"If at the end of one year, the business said Roland Stone procures for the company has proven profitable, the same will be a proof of his good business judgment, and he is then to come into possession of my entire fortune." Roland stares simply open-mouthed in astonishment and disappointment, while Tom can hardly believe his ears. INSERT--"If on the other hand, the company at the end of one year has suffered a loss through the agency of said Roland Stone, my entire fortune shall be given to the support of the Washington Home for Incurables." Roland, absolutely dumbfounded by the news, stares at Lord Howe-Greene, then looks around at Tom. Tom looks at Roland accusingly. Roland then turns in discouragement and asks Lord Howe-Greene if there's any more. Lord Howe-Greene goes on reading: INSERT--"It is further provided that conditions under which said Roland Stone is to work, shall be subject to the approval of Lord Howe-Greene." Roland is utterly unable to take all of this in, and he insists on reading it himself. Lord Howe-Greene hands it to him, and Roland starts in to read it as though he could hardly believe his eyes. Tom looks over his shoulder, and, finally disgusted with the whole proceeding, he goes over toward the window, stands there dejectedly and looks out. 39. STREET IN FRONT OF ROLAND'S HOUSE. Flash of the two taxis waiting, taken from an angle of the house. 40. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. Tom receives a terrible shock on seeing the taxis and realizing that they can't pay them. He then goes over to Roland, and tells him that the two taxis are out there, eating their heads off. Roland looks out toward the window, thinks about the taxis, then looks over to Lord Howe-Greene, who is sitting comfortably in the last chair, thinks a moment, then goes over to Lord Howe-Greene, excuses himself, takes the chair from under the utterly flabbergasted Lord Howe-Greene, gives it to Tom and tells him to take it out to pay the taxis. Tom takes the chair and goes out, Lord Howe-Greene looking after him in wide-eyed astonishment. Roland then turns to Lord Howe-Greene and starts in to protest about the conditions of the will, but Lord Howe-Greene tells him that there is nothing that he can do. He takes the papers from Roland. Sits on window sill (especially built) and starts in to read the long document to Roland. Roland trying to follow Howe-Greene gets disgusted, leans against wall and at length slips to floor and sits there disconsolate, thinking of his rotten luck and of the girl away off with his rival. (Dissolve out.) 41. STUDIO GARDEN IN BUNKONIA. (Dissolve in.) Rosalie sitting in a hammock with Conwell standing near her, natives playing ukuleles, fanning them and giving them ice drinks, and Conwell whispering sweet nothings in Rosalie's ear. (Dissolve out.) 42. LIBRARY ROLAND'S HOUSE. (Dissolve in.) Roland, sitting in the corner, very much distressed by the vision he has just seen. Lord Howe-Greene is still sitting on window sill reading document. Roland gives him a dirty look, puts his hands on his ears and at length jumps up and stalks out into the hall, leaving Howe-Greene still reading. 43. HALLWAY--ROLAND'S HOUSE. Roland rushes in from library, looks back disgusted at Howe-Greene, who is still reading. At this moment Tom enters from street, goes to Roland, looks at him despondently, and says: "_What are we going to do now?_" Roland puts his hand on Tom's shoulder, and says with great emphasis: SP: "LOOK HERE, TOM, YOU'VE GOT TO THINK OF SOME WAY TO GET ME TO ROSALIE!" Tom thinks a moment, finally his face brightens and he says: SP: "IF YOU'VE GOT TO SELL INSURANCE, WHY NOT SELL IT IN BUNKONIA?" Roland is delighted at this, and tells Tom he knew he'd think up a way out--that they can start for Bunkonia to-morrow just as they had planned. Tom says of course they can. Roland says they will put it up to Lord Howe-Greene at once and they go into the library. 44. LIBRARY, ROLAND'S HOUSE. Lord Howe-Greene still sitting reading. Roland and Tom enter, see him, and stop, both disgusted. Howe-Greene finishes his reading. Gets up and goes to them--gives Roland the document, tells him it is very important for him to keep it safe. Roland puts it in his pocket then turns to Howe-Greene and says: SP: "I'VE BEEN THINKING THINGS OVER, AND I'VE DECIDED THAT IF I HAVE TO SELL INSURANCE, I WOULD LIKE VERY MUCH TO GET AWAY FROM WASHINGTON." Lord Howe-Greene indicates that he understands his feelings in the matter, thinks a moment and says: SP: "I HAVE IT! YOU SHALL TRY NEW YORK." Roland looks at him in utter astonishment and says he is surprised that Lord Howe-Greene would suggest such a terrible place to sell insurance. He then turns to Tom and Tom agrees with him. Roland then says to Lord Howe-Greene, SP: "NEW YORK WOULD NEVER DO! IT'S A TERRIBLE PLACE FOR INSURANCE!" Lord Howe-Greene is interested, and wants to know why, and Roland goes on saying: SP: "WHY THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ARE KILLED THERE DAILY!" Lord Howe-Greene is tremendously interested and surprised and wants to know how. Roland then goes on to describe the terrible life that New Yorkers lead and we fade out. INSERT--Animated Cartoon of subway entrance--people pushing their way madly into the subway. _Interior of subway car._ Animated Cartoon. Conductor is packing people in, smashing them in so they can hardly breathe and mashing them against the wall so that they collapse. He hammers others on the head with mallets to get them to move back. Everybody about him is mashed flat but still he pushes more in. (Fade out.) Roland concludes his story about the terrible life in New York and Lord Howe-Greene greatly surprised at this says: SP: "MY WORD!" Roland appeals to Tom for confirmation and Tom nods his head and says that he hasn't heard the half of it. Lord Howe-Greene shakes his head, thinks a moment and says: SP: "THEN YOU SHALL TRY CHICAGO!" Roland is surprised at his suggesting Chicago, shakes his head, and says: SP: "CHICAGO IS WORSE. PEOPLE ARE BLOWN TO DEATH IN CHICAGO BY MILLIONS!" He turns to Tom and Tom confirms this and Lord Howe-Greene, extremely puzzled and surprised, wants to know how. Roland then goes on to describe a scene of how people are blown to death in Chicago, along Michigan Avenue. (Fade out.) INSERT--Animated Cartoon. (Fade in.) Michigan Avenue. People are being blown down the Avenue and slammed up against walls where they mash out flat. Some of them are blown over and over and some of them are rolling like barrels. (Fade out.) Roland finishes his tale about Chicago, and Tom agrees with him, shaking his head and saying: "It is indeed a terrible sight to see this thing that Roland just described!" Lord Howe-Greene shows great distress, and shakes his head again and exclaims: SP: "MY WORD!" Roland looks over at Tom and gives him a wink. Tom gives Roland the high sign and the two of them feel that things are going fine when suddenly Lord Howe-Greene scratches his head and gets a brilliant idea. He then tells Roland that he has just the place for him and says: SP: "I HAVE A COUSIN--A REAL ESTATE AGENT IN LOS ANGELES--WHO WRITES ME THAT THE CLIMATE IS SO SALUBRIOUS THAT EVERY ONE LIVES TO A RIPE OLD AGE." Roland looks at Lord Howe-Greene in astonishment, feeling that he has been stuck at last. Lord Howe-Greene then pats him on the shoulder and says: SP: "THAT'S THE PLACE FOR YOU, MY BOY!" Roland looks genuinely alarmed and turns to Tom for aid, but Tom himself is pretty much stumped at this. Lord Howe-Greene feeling that their problem has been settled, says that that's exactly the place and everything will be fine. Roland stalls, does some quick, heavy thinking, finally gets an idea, and says: "Lord Howe-Greene, that's exactly where you're wrong." SP: "THE TROUBLE OUT THERE IS THAT PEOPLE NEVER DIE. THEY WON'T BUY INSURANCE!" Roland is rather pleased with himself for thinking up this and Tom congratulates him on it, smiling his approbation. Lord Howe-Greene can hardly believe this angle of the situation, says he doesn't think that's possible. Roland, realizing that he has got to spike this says: SP: "WHY, I TRIED TO SELL INSURANCE OUT THERE ONCE AND WHAT DO YOU THINK HAPPENED?" Lord Howe-Greene is interested and wants to know what did happen to him. Tom looks rather quizzically at Roland, feeling that he is getting out beyond his depth. Roland clears his throat and starts in to describe what happened. (Fade out.) 45. FRONT OF BUNGALOW IN LOS ANGELES. (Fade in.) Three men with white whiskers to their waist are playing leap-frog on the lawn. Roland comes down the street, approaches one with an insurance circular in his hand and asks if he could interest him in some insurance. The old fellow says: SP: "NO, I DON'T WANT ANY INSURANCE, BUT YOU MIGHT SEE PA." Roland is surprised that a man of his age should have a father and asks where he is. The old fellow points to the front door of the bungalow and says: SP: "HE'S HELPING GRANDPA CARRY THE PIANO UP IN GRANDMA'S ROOM." Roland can hardly believe his ears at this and says: "What?" The old man nods and says: SP: "YES, GRANDMA IS GOING TO TAKE MUSIC LESSONS." Roland looks aghast at the old man who goes back to his leap-frog, and finally coming to, goes up to the house and rings the bell while the three old boys continue their leap-frog. Presently a youthful looking Jap with long, white whiskers opens the door. Roland asks for the father and is shown in. 46. HALLWAY LOS ANGELES BUNGALOW. Roland enters with the Jap servant. Pa and Grandpa--one with whiskers to the knees and one with whiskers to the ankles--are lifting a piano up the stairs. Roland approaches pa and asks him if he could interest him in insurance. Pa holds the piano with one hand, with the other takes the young man's circular and looks at it. He then shakes his head no, turns to grandpa and says: "Father, do you want any insurance?" Grandpa asks to see the circular and Pa hands it up to him. Grandpa looks at it a minute, then looks at Roland, shakes his head and says: SP: "I THINK NOT, SON. I CAN LOOK AFTER MY FAMILY FOR A FEW YEARS YET, AND BY THAT TIME THEY'LL BE ABLE TO TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES." He hands the circular back to Roland and he and Pa pick up the piano and go on upstairs, Roland looking after them in absolute amazement. (Fade out.) 47. LIBRARY, ROLAND'S HOUSE. (Fade in.) Roland finishes his story about Los Angeles. Turns to Tom who confirms everything he has said. Lord Howe-Greene, shaking his head in amazement over these extraordinary conditions in America, says very weakly-- SP: "MY WORD" (in very small type). And Lord Howe-Greene is very much distressed. He feels that this case is baffling him. He finally looks up hopelessly and asks Roland what they're going to do. Roland, puzzled, turns to Tom and asks him what he thinks of the situation. Tom thinks a moment, finally gets an idea, turns to Lord Howe-Greene and says: SP: "IF YOU COULD ONLY GET HIM TO GO DOWN TO BUNKONIA." Roland pooh-poohs this idea and says no, he never would, he couldn't go there because it is too far away. But Tom goes on into raptures about Bunkonia, telling him what a marvelous place it is for business of all kinds, and Lord Howe-Greene, glad of some solution to his problem, finally jumps at the idea--turns to Roland and says: SP: "THAT'S AN IDEA! NEW COUNTRY--VIRGIN FIELD--IT'S JUST THE PLACE FOR YOU!" Roland thinks a minute as though he had to be convinced, but Lord Howe-Greene keeps on begging him to take a chance. Tom joins Lord Howe-Greene in urging him, and finally Roland allows himself to be persuaded, decides that he will go, Lord Howe-Greene shakes him warmly by the hand and--(fade out). T: SANTO GRAFTO, CAPITOL OF BUNKONIA, THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF SUNSHINE AND FLOWERS, MUSIC AND LAUGHTER, TAMALES, TYPHOID AND PTOMAINE. 48. EXTERIOR VIEW OF TOWN OF SANTO GRAFTO. (Fade in.) Showing natives, equipages, a few soldiers, etc. (Dissolve out.) 49. PARK (dissolve in) SINGERS, DANCERS, MUSICIANS, FLOWER SELLERS, CHILDREN, ETC. (Dissolve out.) T: KING CARAMBA AND HIS COUNCIL ENGAGED IN THEIR FAVORITE INDOOR SPORT OF RAISING TAXES AND DOWNING LIQUOR. 50. THE KING'S COUNCIL CHAMBER. Caramba sitting at the head of the table with three councilors on his right and three on his left--among them being Enrico. Some servants in livery are standing about. One of the councilors has just finished reading the text of a bill to raise the taxes. King Caramba is sound asleep with a bottle in his hand. Enrico, the only sober one in the lot, is looking in a sinister, calculating way around the table. The councilor who is reading the bill sways as he reads and the paper jiggles in his hand. 51. INSERT PAPER RAISING TAXES. The councilor finishes reading, puts paper in front of King and guides his hand while he signs it. INSERT--King's hand is signing the paper--it wanders all over the paper so that most of the name is written on the table with a grand flourish at the end. After signing the paper, the king takes another drink. The man takes the paper and blows on it. Enrico, with a sinister smile, gets up and starts to go. The Councilor takes the paper, waves it aloft to the other councilors who cheer in a drunken manner. They all pour out another bumper, Enrico stands by the doorway in a calculating manner, then smiling a satisfied smile, he turns on his heel and leaves. (Fade out.) T: THE REVOLUTIONISTS AWAIT THEIR LEADER AT THEIR RENDEZVOUS IN THE RUE DE STILETTO. 52. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. (Fade in.) A number of revolutionary leaders are there, including the Countess, Conwell, the General and two men in citizen's clothes. They are discussing matters more or less violently and waiting for Enrico. 53. RENDEZVOUS AT GATE. Enrico enters, looks about stealthily, sees that no one is watching and then wraps three times on the gate. The gate is opened by a villainous servant and Enrico enters. 54. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. The revolutionists are still talking together and they see Enrico entering. They gather about him to get the news and Enrico says: SP: "THEY WERE _ALL_ DRUNK TO-NIGHT. IT WILL SOON BE TIME TO STRIKE." They all rejoice at this. Enrico asks the General about the army and he replies: SP: "TWO HUNDRED OF THE ARMY ARE WITH US NOW. IT WILL TAKE A HUNDRED PESETAS TO WIN OVER THE OTHER FIFTY." Enrico is very angry at this, and asks him what he means by a hundred pesetas, and is very sore at the tremendous cost at buying these men. The Countess stops his raving, putting her finger over his lips, goes into her stocking, takes out the money and gives the General two bills, which amount to more than he has asked for. He then turns to Conwell and starts in to talk. The General puts the money in his pocket but Enrico notices him and says: SP: "HERE! HERE! GIVE US THE CHANGE!" Reluctantly the General digs it up, starts to pass it over to the Countess but Enrico stops him before the Countess notices, grabs the money and puts it in his own pocket. Enrico then crosses over to Conwell and says: SP: "ARE YOU SURE WE CAN HANDLE OLD BIRD WHEN WE'RE READY?" Conwell tells him it's the easiest thing in the world, that the old man has got to do just what he says and winds up with: SP: "DIDN'T I GET HIM THIS JOB?" They all seem satisfied with this and go on plotting. (Fade out.) T: ON THE EDGE OF THIS POLITICAL VOLCANO SITS OUR OLD FRIEND, COLONEL BIRD, AT PEACE WITH ALL THE WORLD IN THE FULLNESS OF HIS IGNORANCE. 55. COLONEL BIRD'S ROOM IN THE CONSULATE. (Dissolve in.) Colonel Bird is sitting at his desk reading a political book. Mammy is straightening room and dusting. Rosalie enters dressed for the street. She goes to the Colonel, looks over his shoulder, tells him that he works too hard, makes him promise he will get some rest and kisses him good-by and goes out. 56. CONWELL'S ROOM IN THE CONSULATE. Conwell is sitting at his desk very busily but rather slyly making out a report. Rosalie comes from her father's room, says good morning to Conwell and starts to pass through. Conwell immediately jumps to his feet, comes to her, and stops her, admiring her dress, etc. Rosalie shows by her attitude that she has begun to fear this man. She starts to pass him but he takes her by the hand, restrains her and says: SP: "HOW MUCH LONGER ARE YOU GOING TO KEEP ME WAITING?" Rosalie is embarrassed and doesn't know what to say. She tells him that she doesn't care about him in that way and he finally says: SP: "DON'T YOU THINK YOU OWE ME SOMETHING AFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOUR FATHER?" She expresses her gratitude for the help he has been to her father but doesn't quite see why she should marry him for that reason. Conwell is getting impatient and finally says: SP: "YOUR FATHER AS GOOD AS PROMISED THAT YOU'D MARRY ME." Rosalie is surprised and incredulous, says she doesn't believe it and turns and goes to the door. Conwell tries to restrain her but doesn't succeed. Rosalie calls in to her father and asks if he will come in. 57. COLONEL BIRD'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Colonel Bird puts down his book and goes in to Conwell's room. 58. CONWELL'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Rosalie looks up at her father almost in tears and asks if he promised that she marry Conwell. Colonel Bird berates Conwell for suggesting such a thing, tells her she shall marry the man of her choice. Conwell protests that Bird is indebted to him for his job, Colonel Bird straightens himself up with great dignity and says: SP: "WELL, SIR, DIDN'T I MAKE YOU MY SECRETARY?" Conwell looks at him as much as to say--"You poor old simp--just wait." Colonel Bird takes Rosalie to the door, kisses her good-by and she goes out. He then turns to Conwell and tells him to stop annoying his daughter. 59. EXTERIOR CONSULATE. Rosalie comes out and goes down the street toward the station. 60. CONWELL'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Colonel Bird is still laying down the law to Conwell who nods his head, and Colonel Bird goes back to his own room. Conwell looks after him in a menacing way, then shakes his fist after him and suggesting that he will get even with him yet. He then gets his hat and goes out. (Fade out.) T: 61. RAILWAY STATION AT SANTO GRAFTO. Station master is there, baggage man, three or four natives, some kids and several pretty native girls. Rosalie also is waiting. The train comes in, a couple of soldiers get off and greet the girls. Two natives get off and then Tom and Roland get off. Rosalie rushes to them. Roland kisses her, she greets Tom and leads them off. 62. BACK OF SANTO GRAFTO STATION. Carriage waiting with native driver. Rosalie enters with Roland and Tom, they get into the carriage and drive off. (Fade out.) T: THE HOTEL DEL MOSQUITO. 63. FRONT OF HOTEL. (Fade in.) There are several tables in front of the hotel and also several booths and a sign over the entrance. Several people are sitting at the tables drinking. At one table sits the Countess and Enrico. Conwell enters and joins them, rather sore over his rebuff by Rosalie. They ask him why so grouchy and he tells them. They give him the laugh but Enrico slaps him on the back and tells him she will come around all right. Waiters are going in and out. A pretty girl is selling flowers, a couple of musicians are playing guitars. Carriage drives up with Rosalie, Roland and Tom. Tom and Roland get out, a native porter comes from the hotel and takes their bags into the hotel followed by Tom, while Roland stops to speak to Rosalie. Conwell looks up, sees Roland and is very much disturbed. He calls the attention of his two friends to Roland and tells them who he is and they all look searchingly at him. Roland says a very affectionate good-by to Rosalie and says: SP: "MAY I COME TO SEE YOU THIS EVENING?" Rosalie tells him that he may, bids him good-by and he watches her drive away, sighs and turns and goes into hotel. Conwell half hides so that Roland won't see him. After he is well out of sight Conwell starts to grumble at his ill luck at having this fellow come down here. Enrico pats him on the back, whispers in his ear and says: SP: "WE CAN PUT HIM OUT OF THE WAY DURING THE REVOLUTION." The Countess nods that this will be easy but Conwell looks doubtful, shakes his head and says: SP: "NO, IT WOULD BE DANGEROUS FOR US--HE'S TOO WELL KNOWN IN WASHINGTON." Conwell shows his anger and chagrin at the turn of affairs. Enrico shrugs his shoulders but the Countess starts in to think of some way out. 64. HALLWAY OUTSIDE ROLAND'S APARTMENT. Porter enters with Roland and Tom, opens door and they enter Roland's room. 65. ROLAND'S APARTMENT IN THE HOTEL. The porter shows Tom and Roland in. Roland is quite pleased with the place, tips the porter generously; the porter leaves, followed by Tom and his bag. 66. FRONT OF HOTEL. Conwell is still cursing his luck. Enrico is sympathetic but helpless. The Countess is thinking heavily and finally gets an idea. She leans over, pats Conwell on the and says: SP: "THERE'S SOMETHING ON EVERY MAN IF YOU CAN ONLY FIND IT. LEAVE IT TO ME. I'LL FIND SOMETHING TO HANG ON HIM." Enrico approves of this, Conwell is slightly interested and the Countess goes on explaining that she has tackled many a difficult proposition and won out. Just to leave it to her. (Fade out.) T: EVENING. 67. BEAUTIFUL COURTYARD OR GARDEN AT THE CONSULATE. Roland, dinner coat, and Rosalie, evening dress, and the Colonel are there. Roland has just finished telling the story of his dad's directions regarding his fortune and he finishes up by saying to Rosalie: SP: "SO WE'VE GOT TO WAIT ANOTHER YEAR, ROSALIE." She takes his hand and says she doesn't mind at all, she knows he'll be a great success. The old Colonel comes to him, takes him by the hand and says: SP: "I'M GLAD SOMETHING HAS SET YOU TO WORK, BUT YOU'VE GOT TO WIN TO GET ROSALIE." Roland thanks the Colonel, tells him he knows it and that he's going to make good. The Colonel rather brusquely tells him he hopes he does and then leaves. Rosalie runs to Roland, tells him she knows he's going to make good. 68. HALLWAY OUTSIDE ROLAND'S APARTMENT. The Countess enters, looks around stealthily, goes to the door, tries it, finds it locked, takes a hairpin from her hair, unlocks the door with it, looks around and enters. 69. ROLAND'S ROOM IN HOTEL. The Countess in dark evening dress enters and closes the door. Begins to rummage around among Roland's things in his wardrobe trunk. She finally uncovers a lot of blank insurance policies. She shows great interest in the discovery of the papers, as papers are one of her main stock in trade. She starts feverishly to examine them. INSERT--HANDFUL OF INSURANCE BLANKS. The Countess looks at them in disgust, puts them back where she found them and goes on hunting. 70. GARDEN OF CONSULATE. Another very beautiful shot with Rosalie and Roland standing or sitting on a bench planning their future. 71. ROLAND'S BEDROOM IN HOTEL. The Countess still rummaging around. Down in the bottom drawer of the trunk, she discovers a copy of Roland's father's instructions which have been given him by Lord Howe-Greene. She pounces on this and reads it. INSERT--If at the end of one year the business said Roland Stone procures for the company has proven profitable, the same will be proof of his good business judgment and he is then to come into possession of my entire fortune. Countess ponders over this a moment, then reads next paragraph: INSERT--Part of statement as follows: "If, on the other hand, the company at the end of one year has suffered a loss through the agency of said Roland Stone, my entire fortune shall be given to the support of the Washington Home for Incurables." The Countess gloats over this discovery, carefully replaces everything just as she found it, conceals the paper in her dress and stealthily leaves the room. 72. EXTERIOR OF CONSULATE. Roland is just bidding Rosalie good-night. She is expressing her good wishes for his success. Roland looks out toward the view of Bunkonia, then turns to Rosalie and says: SP: "WHY, IN A VIRGIN FIELD LIKE THIS, I CAN'T HELP BUT MAKE THE COMPANY MONEY." Rosalie is just as certain as he is about it. He then goes on telling her that in just one little year he will be claiming her. Rosalie is delighted. Roland timidly kisses her, says good-night and leaves. Rosalie looks after him and sighs. 73. CAFE OF THE HOTEL. Enrico and Conwell sitting at a table smoking and drinking. Conwell is quite nervous and irritable. Enrico is trying to jolly him up. The Countess enters in a very mysterious way, sits beside them and tells them with much glee but in great secretiveness that she has great news. She stealthily draws the paper from her dress and shows it to them. INSERT--SAME CLAUSE AS BEFORE WITH THE COUNTESS' FINGER POINTING TO IT. Conwell and Enrico are puzzled over this, and Conwell asks the Countess how it concerns him. The Countess looks furtively about and says: SP: "DON'T YOU SEE--IF HE LOSES MONEY FOR THE COMPANY, HE LOSES THE FORTUNE AND THE GIRL!" Enrico and Conwell consider this for a moment, and finally realize the truth of it but ask the Countess what she has in her bean. The Countess looks furtively about and says: SP: "WE'LL HAVE HIM INSURE THE LIVES OF THE KING AND COUNCIL." Enrico and Conwell look at her, then at each other and ask what good that will do. The Countess looks at them in a surprised way and says: SP: "AREN'T THEY ALL TO BE KILLED IN OUR REVOLUTION?" Slowly the force of this breaks over the minds of Enrico and Conwell, their faces become wreathed in smiles, at length both laugh boisterously. Conwell takes the paper and looks at it again, then rises, takes his glass, holds it out toward the Countess and says: SP: "TO THE WOMEN--BLESS THEM. WHAT WOULD WE DO WITHOUT THEM?" He and Enrico raise their glasses and drink to the Countess who smiles and blushes. (Fade out.) T: THE NEXT MORNING--THE PLANT. 74. FRONT OF THE HOTEL. (Fade in.) Roland is sitting at a table in the f.g. having his breakfast. Conwell and Enrico come to the hotel doorway and look out. They finally spot Roland. Conwell then gives instructions to Enrico as to what to do. He then goes out toward Roland while Enrico backs into the hotel doorway and waits. Conwell goes over to Roland, slaps him on the back, greets him heartily. Roland rises, rather embarrassed, Conwell shakes his hand cordially and sits beside him. Enrico in the doorway watches with a sinister smile. Conwell asks Roland what he is doing down in Bunkonia. Roland says: SP: "I'VE COME DOWN TO SELL INSURANCE." Conwell is interested in this and Roland tells him in a few words what he wants to do. Conwell is quite interested and says: SP: "PERHAPS I CAN GIVE YOU A BOOST. I KNOW ALL THE BIG GUNS DOWN HERE." Roland is mildly interested but not overly enthusiastic as he knows something of Conwell's boasting proclivities. However he thanks him. Conwell offers Roland a cigarette and while Roland is taking it, Conwell quickly signals to Enrico. Enrico sees the signal and walks down to the front of the hotel. Conwell looks up sharply, pretending he has just seen Enrico, points him out to Roland, who looks also, and Conwell then speaks, saying: SP: "THAT'S ENRICO DE CASTANET, SECRETARY OF WAR, AND A GREAT PAL OF KING CARAMBA." Roland is quite impressed. Conwell says he will bring him over and gets up and goes over toward Enrico. Enrico turns, sees him, greets him very enthusiastically, saying, "Ah, my friend," shakes his hand and raises his hat at the same time Conwell is doing it. Conwell then asks him if he won't come over and meet his friend, at the same time giving Enrico the wink. Enrico says he will be pleased and they both go over to Roland's table. Conwell introduces Enrico to Roland. Enrico again raises his hat. They all sit, Roland orders drinks and Conwell briefly tells Enrico about Roland's business. Enrico says he is interested in any friend of Conwell's and after a few words of explanation from Roland, Enrico says to Conwell: SP: "THERE'S A MEETING OF THE COUNCIL TO-NIGHT. WHY NOT BRING YOUR FRIEND? I'LL HAVE HIM MEET THE KING." Roland is quite overcome by all this kindness, and Conwell says: "_That is exactly the thing to do_." Conwell takes his drink, holds it up and says: SP: HERE'S HOPING YOU INSURE THE LIVES OF THE KING AND ALL HIS COUNCIL." They all drink to Roland's success. Roland is overcome by their kindness. (Fade out.) T: AT THE COUNCIL MEETING. 75. KING CARAMBA'S COUNCIL ROOM. (Fade in.) King Caramba and his councilors are there, boozing as usual. Conwell is standing making a speech to them which they are not listening to very intently. Conwell is telling them what a great thing insurance is, and says: SP: "RIGHT AT YOUR VERY DOOR, GENTLEMEN, IS A YOUNG YANKEE WHO IS ABLE TO SELL YOU THIS WONDERFUL LIFE INSURANCE." The councilors listen in a drunken way, all except old Señor Frijole, who is very sore and grouchy and signifies that he wants nothing to do with this Yankee and his business. Enrico rises to speak, telling them what a wonderful thing insurance is, and then he says: SP: "WHY, DO YOU REALIZE, GENTLEMEN, THAT WE GET THOUSANDS OF PESETAS FOR A MERE FEW HUNDRED?" He turns to Conwell and asks him if he is right. Conwell assures him he is right, and then continues his speech. At this the Councilors begin to take very much more interest. They signify that this must be very good after all, all except old Señor Frijole, who is sitting next to Enrico. He pulls Enrico's sleeve and says: SP: "BUT YOU HAVE TO DIE TO GET IT--DON'T YOU?" Enrico gives him a quick, dirty look, tells him to shut up, which squelches him somewhat, but he goes on mumbling to himself. Conwell goes on talking, saying that this opportunity should not be overlooked. He sits down. Enrico says he thinks it is a fine idea and says: SP: "I'LL TAKE 10,000 PESETAS MYSELF." At this the councilors are more interested than ever as they know Enrico is not the type to be done. Old Frijole goes on grumbling into his glass of liquor saying he will have nothing to do with it. Conwell goes over to the door, opens it and goes out. 76. HALLWAY IN PALACE. Roland sitting on a settee. Conwell comes from Council Room. Roland with application in his hand jumps up nervously and meets him. Conwell tells him it is all right and they go into Council Room. 77. COUNCIL ROOM. Conwell brings Roland in and introduces him to the councilors who greet him, with drunken enthusiasm, while Conwell stands in the background with a menacing leer. Roland is very much pleased, but bashful, overcome by his luck. Enrico, with a grand flourish, asks Roland for an application which Roland gives him, and he signs his own application with a grand flourish and hands it over to Roland as if to say--"There, what more assurance do you want that this is a good thing?" At this the other councilors all reach out drunkenly and grab applications, Roland writing in the amounts, and all of them signing the applications drunkenly. Enrico and Conwell exchange triumphant looks, but old Señor Frijole shows his disgust for the entire affair. He finally goes up and tries to keep the King from signing his application, but the King gives him a push, he staggers back into his chair, mumbling and grumbling and warning them against Yankee tricks. By this time, Roland has most of the applications signed, Conwell comes up, pats him on the back and congratulates him. (Fade out.) T: ABOUT A WEEK LATER. (Fade in.) 78. COLONEL BIRD'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Rosalie in simple evening dress is standing by the window. Roland, in a blue coat and flannel trousers, rushes in and Rosalie runs to him. He tells her he has a surprise for her. She is very much interested and wants to know what it is. He says: SP: "I'VE INSURED KING CARAMBA AND HIS COUNCILORS FOR NEARLY A HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS." Rosalie is amazed and delighted at this good news. Roland says: SP: "I JUST DELIVERED THE POLICIES AND COLLECTED THE PREMIUMS." Rosalie is in ecstasies and throws her arm around him and kisses him, much to his embarrassment, although he is also greatly pleased. Roland says: SP: "I WANT YOU TO COME OUT TO HELP CELEBRATE MY GOOD FORTUNE." She is delighted, picks up a tulle scarf and goes out with Roland. 79. CONWELL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Conwell is standing at desk as Roland and Rosalie enter. Conwell turns to them smiling. Roland stops and tells Rosalie Conwell's influence got him his big clients. He goes to Conwell and thanks him, shaking his hand. Rosalie is surprised and puzzled that Conwell should help Roland. Roland gets Rosalie and they go out bidding Conwell good-night. Conwell looks after them leering. 80. EXTERIOR CONSULATE. Roland and Rosalie come out of the Consulate and leave in the direction of the hotel. 81. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. The Countess, three other Revolutionists and about thirty soldiers are there. They are all excited and talking among themselves. 82. GATEWAY OF RENDEZVOUS. General enters hurriedly and knocks three times--gate opens and he quickly enters. 83. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. Revolutionists talking and awaiting somebody. The general enters and joins group. He looks about and says: SP: "ENRICO HAS JUST LEFT THE COUNCIL MEETING. AS SOON AS HE COMES WE STRIKE." He then leaves and goes to soldiers--the others discuss this news excitedly. 84. GATEWAY OF RENDEZVOUS. A group of six or eight soldiers, led by a sergeant, approach skulkingly--the sergeant knocks at the gate, which opens and the soldiers all sneak in. 85. EXTERIOR CONSULATE. Colonel enters from opposite direction taken by Roland and Rosalie and enters consulate. Four guards look out from hiding places. 86. CAFE IN FRONT OF THE HOTEL (NIGHT). Several people at tables. Roland and Rosalie enter and go into one of the little booths and sit down--waiter comes and takes their order--they are very happy. 87. EXTERIOR CONSULATE. Enrico enters, whistles softly, and four guards sneak out of hiding places and come to him. He asks if Colonel Bird is home. They tell him he has just gone in. He tells them to wait in the shadow and they go into the shadow and Enrico, looking about cautiously, goes to the porch and knocks three times. 88. CONWELL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Conwell at desk hears knock, glances toward the colonel's room and goes to the door, opens it. Enrico quickly enters. Conwell closes the door. Enrico asks him if the Colonel is in. He smiles and says yes. Enrico tells him he has come to fix old Bird. Conwell says: "Easy--he'll do anything you say," and tells him to wait a moment and goes into the Colonel's room. 89. COLONEL'S ROOM. Colonel at his desk. Conwell enters, tells him that Enrico de Castanet wishes to see him. Colonel somewhat surprised and a little bit flattered, swells up a bit, tells Conwell to show Señor de Castanet in. Conwell opens the door and de Castanet enters. The Colonel greets him and they sit down and Conwell goes out and they begin to talk, Enrico telling him that they are going to pull a revolution that night and put King Caramba and his council out of the way. 90. CAFE IN FRONT OF HOTEL. Roland and Rosalie still dining, having a grand time. A couple of revolutionists enter and sit in the booth next to theirs. 91. COLONEL'S ROOM. Enrico is talking very earnestly to the Colonel. At length he says: SP: "NOW IF YOU WILL ADVISE THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT TO RECOGNIZE OUR NEW GOVERNMENT TO-MORROW, IT WILL MEAN ALMOST ANYTHING YOU WISH TO ASK." The old Colonel is puzzled and vaguely alarmed at this, doesn't quite get it. Asks Enrico: SP: "ARE YOU OFFERING ME A BRIBE?" Enrico shrugs his shoulders and says if that is what he chooses to call it. The old Colonel becomes very angry, rises at his desk, begins to lay down the law to Enrico and says: SP: "YOU WOULD HAVE ME BARTER THE HONOR OF MY COUNTRY? ARE YOU AWARE, SIR, THAT YOU ARE DEALING WITH _A LOYAL AMERICAN CITIZEN_?" He bangs the table, stretches himself to his full height. Enrico rises and tries to argue with him, but the Colonel brushes him away and grandiloquently points to American flag. SP: "THAT, SIR, IS THE GREATEST FLAG IN THE WORLD, AND NO ACT OF MINE SHALL EVER STAIN IT." At the finish of the speech, the old Colonel, with a grand flourish, orders Enrico out of the room. Enrico backs out, protesting all the way. The old man kicking him out at the finish. 92. CONWELL'S OFFICE. Conwell waiting expectantly. Enrico lands in the room, to which he has been catapulted by the old Colonel's foot. Conwell comes to him, much perturbed. 93. COL. BIRD'S ROOM AT THE CONSULATE. Old Colonel slams the door and walks up and down in excitement. 94. CONWELL'S ROOM. Enrico angrily telling Conwell what happened in the other room. Conwell very sore and disgusted at the old man, says: SP: "HAVE YOUR GUARD KIDNAP HIM AND LOCK HIM UP AND _I'LL_ TAKE CHARGE OF THE CONSULATE." Enrico angrily approves of this and rushes outdoors. 95. COLONEL'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Colonel at his desk, rapidly writing a telegram, presses button. 96. CONWELL'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Conwell, looking out, hears the button, goes into the Colonel's room. 97. COLONEL'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Colonel finishing telegram, rises. Conwell comes to him. Colonel indignantly tells him in a very few words what has happened, points to the flag, hammers his chest in great indignation, shows him a telegram which he is sending. Conwell reads telegram: INSERT--TELEGRAM. TO CAPT. HENRY HALYARD, U. S. BATTLESHIP UTAH, PORTO PUNKO, BUNKONIA. REVOLUTION THREATENED HERE TO-NIGHT. SEND MARINES AT ONCE TO PROTECT AMERICAN INTERESTS. BIRD, CONSUL. Conwell smiles at this. The Colonel orders him to send it at once and Conwell, still smiling, starts to leave the room, when the door opens and in bursts Enrico with his four guards. He tells them to arrest the Colonel, which they do, but the old boy puts up a fight. They finally overcome him and hold him prisoner. He appeals to Conwell, who only laughs at him and tears up the telegram and throws it in his face, shakes his finger at the old man and says: SP: "WE SHALL SEE NOW WHO IS THE BOSS AROUND HERE." The old Colonel is annoyed and tries to get at Conwell but the guards hold him. Conwell smiles and says: SP: "WE SHALL SEE NOW WHETHER I GET YOUR DAUGHTER OR NOT." He tells the guard to rush the old man out, which they do, followed by Conwell and Enrico. 98. CONWELL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. The guards rush the old Colonel through the room and out, followed by Conwell and Enrico. 99. FRONT OF THE CONSULATE. Guards rush the old Colonel out followed by Enrico and Conwell. Enrico tells the guard: SP: "LOCK HIM UP IN THE DUNGEONS UNDER THE PALACE." He scribbles on a card that he gives to one of the guards. The guards rush the Colonel off toward the palace and Enrico and Conwell go in the opposite direction, toward the rendezvous. 100. CAFE IN FRONT OF HOTEL. (Long shot) showing the two booths, with Roland and Rosalie in one and the two revolutionists in the other. CLOSE UP OF TABLE WITH ROLAND AND ROSALIE. They are talking animatedly. Roland has a little notebook in his hand, which he shows to Rosalie and says: SP: "THINK WHAT THIS MEANS TO US, ROSALIE! I CAN'T FAIL NOW." Rosalie is delighted at the wonder of this--takes his hand and they go on talking of their plans. CLOSE UP OF THE TABLE WITH THE REVOLUTIONISTS. A third revolutionist officer comes in hurriedly, sits down, looks about and says: SP: "THE HOUR TO STRIKE IS AT HAND." The other revolutionists listen. CLOSE UP OF ROLAND AND ROSALIE. They are pricking up their ears. CLOSE UP OF REVOLUTIONISTS' TABLE. One asks the newcomer what is going to happen and he says: SP: "THE REVOLUTION STARTS TO-NIGHT." The other two gloat over this. CLOSE UP--Roland and Rosalie listen, their alarm growing, Roland climbs on chair and looks into next booth. OTHER BOOTH--Roland looking over top, frightened. The revolutionists go on talking, the newcomer says: SP: "KING CARAMBA AND HIS COUNCIL WILL BE KILLED FIRST." They go on talking together. CLOSE UP, ROLAND AND ROSALIE--Roland is dismayed at what he has heard. Rosalie starts to speak and he tells her to keep quiet and he listens over the partition. CLOSE UP, THREE REVOLUTIONISTS--They are talking, call waiter, pay him and get up and leave hurriedly. Roland ducks down. CLOSE UP OF ROLAND--Finally he realizes what is to happen, and that it means ruin and he turns to Rosalie and says: SP: "THEY ARE GOING TO KILL EVERY ONE I'VE INSURED." They are both terribly alarmed and realize that this means ruin for their hopes. They don't know what to do, at length Rosalie says: SP: "WE MUST HAVE FATHER SEND FOR HELP." Roland in his terror agrees to this--he throws a bill on the table, she grabs him by the hand and they rush out. 101. EXTERIOR REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS--Enrico and Conwell enter. Enrico knocks on door three times, the door is opened and they enter. 102. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. Enrico and Conwell enter and join Countess and General and tell them the time has come to strike--that old Bird refused Enrico's request, that they chucked him in prison and Conwell now is boss of the Consulate. 103. DUNGEONS UNDER PALACE. Four guards rush in Colonel Bird and chuck him in one of the cells, lock the door and rush out. 104. EXTERIOR CONSULATE. Roland and Rosalie run in and rush into the Consulate. 105. CONWELL'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Roland and Rosalie rush through. 106. COL. BIRD'S ROOM AT CONSULATE. Roland and Rosalie rush in--see the overturned furniture and realize something has happened. Mammy enters from back door. Rosalie runs to her and asks what has happened and she doesn't know. Rosalie asks Mammy where her father is. Mammy says she left him here. Rosalie is terrified. Rosalie and the old servant rush out. Rosalie upstairs and Mammy to kitchen to look for the Colonel. Roland picks up the bits of the telegram from the floor and pieces them together. Rosalie comes back into the room and the old servant enters and shakes her head. Rosalie in terror, says: SP: "FATHER IS NOT HERE." Roland thinks a moment, realizes that they have taken him away, shows his anger at this, calls Rosalie to him, finishes piecing the telegram together and then reads it. INSERT OF TELEGRAM PIECED TOGETHER. Rosalie having read the telegram shows hope in her face and says to Roland: SP: "YOU MUST SEND THAT MESSAGE AT ONCE." Roland jumps at this and gathers up the pieces in his hand, starts to go, then thinks of the girl, stops and asks her what she will do in the meantime. She says never to mind, but to go on, old Mammy will stay with her. Roland is reluctant to go, but Rosalie goes to the drawer of the desk, takes out her father's old army revolver, and then goes to Roland and says: SP: "I AM AN AMERICAN GIRL AND CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF." She tells him to go and forces him out toward the door. He takes her in his arms and kisses her and rushes out. The old mammy comes to her and puts her arm about her. 107. FRONT OF CONSULATE--Roland rushes out and down the street toward the station. 108. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. The Countess, the General and a few other officers, about 100 soldiers and a major are there. Enrico is giving his instructions to the various people. Conwell and Enrico enter. Conwell tells Countess, General and others what has happened and tells them what to do. Conwell says: SP: "LOOK HERE, WHAT ABOUT THE GIRL? I WANT HER ABDUCTED AND KEPT FOR ME IN THE PALACE." Enrico says that's all right--tells the general to put a guard at the disposal of Conwell. Conwell and the general leave--go to soldiers. Enrico tells Countess to look after the girl when she gets to the palace. Countess says she will and Enrico goes on talking to others. About 100 soldiers are there. Conwell and General enter. General selects a guard of about three men. Tells them to obey Conwell's orders and Conwell leaves with the three men. The General then turns to the rest of the soldiers instructing them as to what they are to do. 109. EXTERIOR R. R. STATION. Roland runs in and enters station. 110. INTERIOR R. R. STATION AND TELEGRAPH OFFICE. Roland rushes in and tells station master he wants to send a message. Starts to write it. Station master stops him--says he cannot send message. Roland asks why. Station master points to telegraph instrument. CLOSE UP OF TELEGRAPH INSTRUMENT SMASHED. Roland asks who did that. Station master says: SP: "THE REVOLUTIONISTS." Roland is nonplused for the moment--rushes out of the door, followed by the station master. 111. EXTERIOR R. R. STATION. Roland rushes out followed by station master. Roland runs in the direction of the hotel. Station master looks after him and bites his thumb at him, then goes back into station. 112. EXTERIOR WINDOW SIDE OF CONSULATE. Conwell sneaks in with his three soldiers and peeks in window and sees-- 113. COL. BIRD'S ROOM IN CONSULATE--Rosalie sitting tense holding gun and watching door. Mammy beside her standing. 114. EXTERIOR WINDOW SIDE OF CONSULATE. Conwell shows his chagrin at the fact of Rosalie's having a gun, thinks a moment, then tells his guard to keep very quiet and follow him. He sneaks out toward front of house, followed by guard very quietly. 115. CAFE IN FRONT OF HOTEL. Tom is sitting in one of the booths shooting craps with a native civilian. Roland rushes in, tells Tom about the revolution, says: SP: "WE'VE GOT TO SAVE ALL THOSE GINKS I INSURED." He grabs Tom and they rush out of the cafe toward the palace leaving the native flat. 118. CONWELL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Conwell, with his three guards, enter stealthily. He places the three guards against the wall on each side of the door leading to the Colonel's room and he then knocks on the door. 117. COLONEL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Rosalie, terrified, says: "Who is it?" 118. CONWELL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Conwell says, "It's I--Jim Conwell." 119. COLONEL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Rosalie, greatly relieved, lowers gun and says, "come in." Conwell enters, leaving the door open. He smiles ingratiatingly and comes forward. She asks him if he knows where her father is. He doesn't know, but pats her reassuringly on the shoulder and gently takes the revolver from her. In this position he whistles. The girl looks up quickly and jumps to her feet in alarm, but before she can make any move, the three guards rush in and seize her. Conwell steps to her and says: SP: "DON'T BE ALARMED, THESE GENTLEMEN WILL ESCORT YOU TO THE KING'S PALACE WHERE OUR WEDDING WILL TAKE PLACE TO-MORROW MORNING." Rosalie is horrified at this and starts to struggle, but the men hold her and start to take her out of the room. The old Mammy grabs a big book and lambasts Conwell over the head, stunning him for a moment. She then runs for the guards, jumping on their backs like a cat. By this time Conwell has regained his feet, grabs the colored servant and bangs her on the head with something heavy, then chucks her over into a corner and he follows the guards and Rosalie out through a back door. 120. BACK DOOR OF CONSULATE. Conwell rushes out followed by the three guards dragging Rosalie. They start toward palace but Conwell stops them and says: SP: "WE'LL KEEP HER IN OUR RENDEZVOUS UNTIL ENRICO CAPTURES THE PALACE." They all exit in the opposite direction. 121. REVOLUTIONISTS' RENDEZVOUS. Enrico is there with the General, Major and Countess. Enrico is haranguing the soldiers, giving them final instructions. They all cheer. Enrico calls Major to him and tells him to look after the Countess and after they have captured the palace to bring her there. Major salutes and steps aside with Countess. Enrico goes on haranguing the soldiers and at length says: SP: "AND REMEMBER THERE IS A PRICE OF THIRTY PESETAS ON THE HEAD OF THE KING!" They all cheer. Enrico draws his sword and says: SP: "ON TO THE PALACE!" He gives orders to fall in, which they do, then forward march. They all march out led by Enrico, the Countess and Major looking after them. T: THIRTY PESETAS' WORTH OF ROYALTY. 122. KING'S BEDCHAMBER. Councilors standing by bed all salute drunkenly. Two lackeys carry the King (who is dressed in a long white night gown and night cap and hugging a bottle of booze to his chest) and chuck him on the bed, cover him up and stand. The king dozes off into a drunken stupor. Councilors salute and stagger out toward Council Room (followed by lackeys). 123. HALLWAY IN PALACE. Councilors stagger out of King's bedroom across hall and into Council Room. 124. COUNCIL ROOM IN PALACE. Councilors stagger in and sit at table and begin boozing--drinking to: SP: "GOOD REST TO HIS MAJESTY." They all down a drink and sit down. 125. FRONT DOOR OF PALACE. Two royal guards on duty (uniforms elaborate and different from those of the army). Roland and Tom rush up and demand admittance and are refused. Roland says it is very important to see the king, but they won't let him in. Tom wants to wallop them on the nose and go in, but is restrained by their guns and finally he and Roland leave in disgust and go down to the edge of the grounds, then look back and see the guards are not looking and beat it around to the side of the palace. 126. STREET. Enrico, the General and soldiers march through toward palace. 127. WALL OF PALACE (outside). Roland and Tom run in and scale wall. 128. WALL OF PALACE (inside). Roland and Tom jump down and run toward back of palace. 129. BACK OF PALACE. Roland and Tom run in. Tom leans down and makes a stepping stone for Roland, who jumps from his back to window, pushes it open and crawls in. He then pulls Tom up after him. 130. HALLWAY OF PALACE LOOKING TOWARD THE BACK. Roland and Tom crawl in the window, quickly look about, rush into the Council Room. 131. COUNCIL CHAMBER. Councilors all drunk. Tom and Roland rush in from hall, tell them there is a revolution on and they've got to beat it to save their hides as the soldiers and revolutionists are coming. They all get up in a drunken, stupid sort of way--don't take it in. Two lackeys rush out the window at back. Roland demands of one of the councilors: SP: "WHERE IS THE KING?" The councilor, half soused, points across the hall. Roland and Tom stir up the councilors and drive them out into the hall. One of them is too far gone to walk. Roland pitches him over to Tom who throws him over his shoulder and carries him out. Little Frijole, the grouch, is the soberest of the lot and realizes the situation and tries to follow along, but Roland gives him a shove and lands him in a chair, saying: SP: "GET AWAY! YOU'RE NOT INSURED." They all go out into the hall, Frijole getting up and following. As he does so, he draws an old revolver out of his pocket. 132. HALLWAY IN THE PALACE. They all cross the hallway to the king's bedroom--Tom carrying his councilor, Frijole following, waving his revolver. 133. KING'S BEDROOM. They all rush in--Tom carrying the same councilor and Frijole waving his revolver. Roland rushes to the king's bed and wakes him up while the councilors stagger about stupidly, bumping into each other and not yet fully realizing what's up. Tom drops his councilor on a couch or floor. Roland wakes the king up--pulls him out of bed--tells him that the revolutionists are coming and he has got to get out. The King is very stupid from drink and doesn't take it in. Roland shakes him and tries to make him understand. 134. STREET CORNER NEARER THE PALACE. Enrico, the General and army march through. 135. KING'S BEDROOM. Roland, trying to make old King Caramba understand, says to Tom: SP: "GET SOME WATER." Tom leaves. Roland goes on shaking the King. CLOSE UP OF LITTLE PRIVATE SIDEBOARD OR BAR in corner of room. Tom rushes in, looks for water but there is none. He turns and says: SP: "EVERYTHING HERE _BUT_ WATAH!" Roland says to bring a bottle of something. Tom takes a bottle of champagne, knocks neck off of it and goes toward bed. CLOSE UP BY BED--Roland still trying to bring King to. Tom enters with champagne. Roland takes it and souses it in King's face--King falls back on bed. Roland and Tom pull him up again to his feet. King licks champagne from his face with tongue. They punch, pummel and slap him and finally bring him to. Roland tells him about the revolution--that they must get out of the palace and hide. The King looks around and sees the various councilors. Finally realizes what is up--asks where the Revolutionists are. 136. FRONT OF PALACE. Two royal guards sleeping on ground. Enrico, General and soldiers march in. Royal guards are overpowered and Enrico, General and soldiers begin to bang on door. 137. KING'S BEDROOM IN PALACE. Roland tells him they are rushing on the Palace. The old King is scared blue--begins to shake and tremble. Roland asks him if he doesn't know some way to get out. Finally the old King comes to his senses enough to remember a trap door under the flagging of the floor. He takes Roland over to the place in the floor and points down there. Roland and Tom look and see nothing but flagging. The old King keeps pointing and poking with his toe, says: SP: "STAIRWAY UNDER THERE." Finally Roland taps the flagging with his heel. Then he and Tom get down on their knees and try to pull up the stone. It won't come. They look up at the King. He says, yes, that's the place. SP: "TUNNEL--LEADS TO EL JUGGO PRISON." Tom then gets a big jack-knife from his pocket, opens it and begins to pry up the flagging. The old King claps his hands and nods his head. Roland and Tom continue pulling up the flagging from the floor. 138. FRONT OF THE PALACE. Enrico, the General and soldiers banging on the door. 139. THE KING'S BEDROOM. Roland finishes pulling up the last stone. Tom chucks the stones under the bed. Roland then raises the trap door, starts to shove the Councilors down. 140. FRONT OF THE PALACE. Soldiers still banging on the door trying to break it down. 141. THE KING'S BEDCHAMBER. Roland is shooing the King and Councilors down the stairway. Frijole keeps butting in and Roland pushing him back. CLOSE UP OF THE STAIRWAY. Frijole is trying to push himself down, but Roland holds him back and says: SP: "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP OUT OF THIS--YOU'RE NOT INSURED." But Frijole insists that he shall go and raises his revolver at Roland. Roland ducks and knocks the revolver out of his hand. Tom picks it up. Roland pushes Frijole over to Tom, who picks up the little man and drops him out of the window. 142. FRONT OF PALACE. Soldiers still banging on the door--door breaks through and they enter. 143. KING'S BEDCHAMBER IN PALACE. Tom runs to door to hall, opens it a crack and peeks out. 144. HALLWAY OF PALACE (front end). Soldiers rush in. Enrico is holding his soldiers at the door, through which they have broken, telling them just where to go. 145. KING'S BEDCHAMBER. Tom calls to Roland to look. Roland comes to the door and looks. 146. HALLWAY IN PALACE. Enrico giving instructions to his men. 147. KING'S BEDROOM. Tom aims revolver at Enrico. Roland stops him and says: SP: "FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T KILL _HIM_. HE'S INSURED FOR TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS." He grabs Tom, closes the door and locks it, pulls Tom away. 148. HALLWAY. Enrico, with a flourish, leads his men down the hall toward the King's bedroom. 149. KING'S BEDROOM. Tom picks up his councilor and starts down through trap with him. Roland quickly removing traces of the broken floor, takes a rug and pulls it to the back of the trap door. 150. HALLWAY OF PALACE. Enrico and part of his soldiers are beating down the door of the King's chamber--the rest going to the council chamber. 151. KING'S BEDCHAMBER. He closes the trap just as the door breaks open and Enrico rushes in with his soldiers. Enrico rushes to the bed, sees the King is gone, looks angrily all about the room, points toward the council chamber and they all rush out. 152. COUNCIL CHAMBER. Soldiers with General looking about coming in from door leading to other rooms where they have found nothing. Enrico enters, followed by soldiers, discovers there is nobody there. He meets the General and they are much puzzled as to who could have tipped off the King and let him escape. The General shrugs his shoulders, says if they have escaped, Enrico can proclaim himself dictator. Enrico goes to the head of the council table, the General on his right raising his sword and shouting: SP: "THE KING AND COUNCIL HAVING FLED, SENOR DE CASTANET PROCLAIMS HIMSELF DICTATOR OF BUNKONIA!" Soldiers wave their hats, officers their swords, and all acclaim him dictator. He starts to make a speech and says: SP: "GENERAL, OUR FIRST MOVE MUST BE TO CAPTURE AND SHOOT OUR RENEGADE KING AND HIS COUNCIL." The General approves and calls an officer and tells him to take a troop and go after the King. Officer leaves. 153. HALLWAY OF PALACE. Officer comes in, gets together his men, and beats it. 154. OLD STONE STAIRWAY WITH HEAVY WOODEN DOOR AT THE TOP. Roland, Tom, King and four Councilors stumble up the stairs. 155. HALLWAY OF EL JUGGO PRISON WITH HEAVY WOODEN DOORS AT BACK. Guard is sitting there half asleep. He arouses a little bit. 156. OLD STONE STAIRWAY WITH HEAVY WOODEN DOOR (same as 154). Roland still beating on the door. 157. HALLWAY OF JAIL. The guard, amazed at hearing the noise outside this door, gets up, unlocks the big lock and opens the door. Roland rushes in with the King on his arm, followed by the four Councilors, Tom carrying one. The guard is dumbfounded at seeing all these notables coming through the tunnel and asks what the trouble is. Roland tells him there is a revolution. He looks closely at the King, realizes who it is, drops on his knees and kisses the King's hand. Roland pulls him up to his feet and says: SP: "I WANT YOU TO LOCK THIS WHOLE GANG UP UNTIL I CAN GET HELP!" The guard looks at Roland then at the King and says: SP: "LOCK UP MY KING--NEVER!" He then kneels down and kisses the King's hand. Roland again pulls him to his feet, takes him aside and gives him a couple of pesetas. The guard says, "Sure, that's all right," grabs the King and hustles him and others down corridor, Tom carrying his councilor. Roland tells Tom to stay with them. Tom follows them down the corridor and Roland beats it out of the front of the jail. 158. HALLWAY IN PALACE. Countess and Major enter, followed by Conwell, Rosalie and guards. They walk down the hall and into the Council Chamber. 159. COUNCIL CHAMBER. Enrico at the head of the table, the General on his right (Councilors' liquor still on table). Several other officers at the table and a number of soldiers standing about. Countess enters with Colonel, Conwell, Rosalie and guards. Countess is escorted by Colonel to Enrico, who kisses her hand and steps over to Rosalie, who is with Conwell. She is terribly frightened but Enrico leers at her and tells her she has nothing to fear. Then turns to the party and says: SP: "LET US DRINK TO OUR LITTLE BRIDE." They all take glasses. Conwell raises glass to Rosalie and says: SP: "TO-MORROW AT TEN." They all drink to Rosalie, who stands shivering pitifully. (Quick fade out.) T: TOO LATE. 160. EXTERIOR CONSULATE. Roland runs in and rushes in the Consulate. 161. COLONEL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE--Old mammy lying unconscious where Conwell had thrown her. Roland rushes in, is alarmed at seeing the girl gone. He goes to mammy, raises her up, shakes her, rubs her hands and slaps them, trying to bring her to. 162. STREET. Tom runs through desperately. 163. COLONEL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Roland is giving mammy a drink of water. She opens her eyes and slowly comes to. He puts her in a chair and asks her what has happened. She pulls herself together and says that Conwell was there with soldiers--says: SP: "THEY TOOK HER TO THE KING'S PALACE! THEY ARE GOING TO MAKE HER MARRY CONWELL IN THE MORNING!" Roland shows his alarm and anger, is stumped for a moment. The old mammy begs him to save her girl. Roland thinks for a minute what is best to do. 164. FRONT OF CONSULATE. Tom runs in and rushes into the house. 165. COLONEL'S ROOM IN CONSULATE. Roland is still talking to old mammy, who is describing what happened. Tom rushes in from Conwell's room, rushes to Roland and all out of breath points hand and says: SP: "THE REVOLUTIONISTS PAID THE JAIL GUARD TEN PEZITS AND HE TURNED OVER THE KING AND HIS WHOLE GANG TO THEM!" Roland is in despair at this news. Tom still panting, says: SP: "THEY ARE GOING TO SHOOT THEM ALL IN THE MORNING!" Roland is utterly flabbergasted at this, looks bewildered at Tom and the old mammy and finally says to Tom that they have Rosalie in the palace and are going to make her marry Conwell. Tom is open mouthed at this news. At length Roland says: SP: "THERE'S ONLY ONE CHANCE--WE MUST GO TO PORTO PUNKO AND GET THE MARINES!" Tom and the old mammy are very much interested in this and urge him to try it and Roland asks mammy if she is all right. She says she is and tells them to go on. Tom and Roland beat it out toward the front. She looks after them. 166. FRONT OF CONSULATE. Roland and Tom come out and rush down the street toward the station. 167. DUNGEON UNDER PALACE. Squad of soldiers bring in the King and four Councilors. Tom's Councilor is being carried. They chuck them in the cells and go out. Col. Bird looking out of adjoining cell and demanding that he be released. The soldiers spit at him and go out. 168. THE R. R. STATION--Roland and Tom run in and quickly enter the station. 169. INTERIOR R. R. STATION. Roland and Tom rush in. Roland asks the station master when the next train goes to Porto Punko. Station master laughs sardonically and replies: SP: "NO TRAINS TO PORTO PUNKO TO-NIGHT! THE REVOLUTION LEADERS HAVE GIVEN ORDERS THAT NO ONE SHALL LEAVE TOWN!" He laughs again at Tom and Roland. Roland looks at Tom in alarm then asks the station master if he is sure. Station master says of course he's sure. Roland steps out of back door. Tom starts an altercation with the station master, telling him he is too fresh, etc. 170. EXTERIOR BACK OF STATION. Roland comes out and looks around in desperation. Sees native riding by on an old bony horse, runs to him and tries to hire horse. 171. INTERIOR R. R. STATION. Tom and station master's argument is getting warmer. They are threatening each other violently. 172. EXTERIOR FRONT R. R. STATION. Two soldiers (officers with revolvers) ride up on hand car, get off and run into station. 173. INTERIOR R. R. STATION. Tom is pounding station master's head on counter as two officers enter. They see him, draw their revolvers and shout, "Throw up your hands." Tom stops thumping station master and throws up his hands. They make him turn toward front door and while one covers him the other talks excitedly to station master. 174. EXTERIOR BACK OF R. R. STATION. Roland trying to bribe native to give him horse, but native refuses and rides off. Roland turns and looks toward station and sees-- 175. INTERIOR R. R. STATION. One of officers covering Tom whose hands are up, the other talking to station master. 176. EXTERIOR BACK OF R. R. STATION. Roland, alarmed, runs to station. 177. INTERIOR R. R. STATION. Officer finishes his talk with station master, covers Tom also and they start to march him toward front door. Roland rushes in and fairly catapults himself on the two officers, knocking them down. Then he and Tom rush out front door jumping over officers. 178. EXTERIOR FRONT OF R. R. STATION. Tom and Roland rush out of station and start down road. 179. INTERIOR R. R. STATION. Two officers scramble to their feet and rush out front door, followed by station master. 180. EXTERIOR FRONT OF R. R. STATION. Roland and Tom running down road. Two officers rush out, see them and both fire at them. Roland falls and Tom stops to help him. The two officers run up to them followed by station master. They stick Tom up again and jerk Roland to his feet. Roland loses his hat and puts his hand to his head. He has only a scalp wound. Two common soldiers run in from opposite direction--attracted by shots. One of the officers says to them: SP: "TAKE THEM TO THE PALACE DUNGEON AND LOCK THEM UP." The two soldiers start off with Roland and Tom. The officer says, "wait a minute"--they stop. He speaks to the other officer who nods his head. The first officer then says to Tom: SP: "YOU COME WITH US." He tells the two soldiers to take Roland off, which they do. The two officers then march Tom off to the hand car, followed by station master. Arrived at the hand car one of them says to Tom: SP: "GET ON THERE AND PUMP THAT CAR." Tom and two officers get on hand car. Officers cover Tom with their revolvers. The station master says: SP: "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" One of the officers turns to him and says: SP: "TO PORTO PUNKO." At this Tom's face lights up and he begins to pump like mad and the hand car goes down the track in opposite direction to one of train in scene. Station master waves his hand to them and exits to station. (Fade out.) NEXT MORNING. THE FATAL HOUR APPROACHES. 181. PLAZA--FRONT OF PALACE. Soldiers are lined up in front of palace. Populace in native costumes are running about talking excitedly and reading placards which are posted all about. INSERT--PLACARD (in fake language). _PROKLAMATIONIZ_ BINGUS DE SPOLIO KAYITZ! ETC. DISSOLVE INTO ENGLISH WHICH READS: PROCLAMATION EX REX CARAMBA AND HIS COUNCIL HAVE DESERTED THEIR PEOPLE. ENRICO DE CASTANET HAS BEEN PROCLAIMED DICTATOR BY UNANIMOUS VOTE OF THE ARMY. CARAMBA AND HIS COUNCIL WILL BE SHOT AT TEN. ALL TAXES WILL BE RAISED TWENTY PER CENT AT TEN-THIRTY. The people are frightened at this and call others to read. 182. COURTYARD BACK OF PALACE. Officer enters from palace with sixteen soldiers. He picks out ten for a firing squad. He goes to the wall and paces off a distance, then lines up his firing squad. He then takes the other six and goes back into the palace. 183. COUNCIL ROOM. Enrico enters with Magistrate carrying a book. Enrico leads him across the room and says: SP: "THE WEDDING TAKES PLACE HERE!" The Magistrate says "all right" and gets ready. 184. DUNGEONS UNDER PALACE. Conwell and guards with guns enter and open the door of cell and drag Roland out leaving old Colonel in. They lock the door. Roland reaches through the bars and grasps Bird's hand, saying "Good-by." They take out Roland, who has a handkerchief tied around his head. March out. Roland then straightens up and marches out like a Sidney Carton. 185. COUNCIL ROOM. Enrico and Magistrate are waiting (no guns on anybody in this scene). Countess enters with Rosalie who is terrified and completely cowed. Enrico goes to her, pinches her cheek and says: SP: "WELL, HAVE YOU MADE UP YOUR MIND TO MARRY CONWELL?" She weakly shakes her head and says she doesn't know what to do. Enrico smiles and says: SP: "SO YOU'D RATHER SEE YOUR FATHER KILLED, WOULD YOU?" She miserably shakes her head and says "No." Enrico pats her on the shoulder and says: "That's a sensible little girl." 186. HALL OF PALACE. Roland, with two guards and Conwell, comes up the stairs and they march to the door of council room and stop. Conwell smiles at Roland and says: SP: "I DID YOU A GOOD TURN, NOW YOU ARE GOING TO DO ME ONE." Roland looks at him suspiciously and Conwell still smiling, says: SP: "YOU'RE GOING TO BE BEST MAN AT MY WEDDING." He then throws the door wide open and indicates the wedding party on the opposite side of the room, with a flourish. Roland looks in astounded and horrified. 187. COUNCIL ROOM. Enrico, Magistrate, Countess and Rosalie standing opposite door. They all look at doorway and see Conwell and Roland. Rosalie stands transfixed with her eyes wide open. 188. HALL IN PALACE. Roland stands transfixed, looking at Rosalie. Conwell invites him in with a sinister smile and enters first, followed by Roland, who is followed by the two guards. 189. COUNCIL ROOM. Conwell enters, followed by Roland and two guards. Conwell crosses to Rosalie but Roland stops near door, with guards back of him almost in doorway. Conwell takes Rosalie's hand, tells her Roland is to be their best man and, looking tauntingly at Roland, he leans over and kisses her. This infuriates Roland so he cannot contain himself. He suddenly whirls, pushes the two guards in the face. They fall through the door out into the hall. Roland quickly closes the door. 190. HALL IN PALACE. The two guards fall through the doorway, sprawling on the floor. 191. COUNCIL ROOM. Roland closes the door and locks it, turns and rushes upon the astonished Conwell. Then follows a general mixup. Roland having to fight Conwell, Enrico and possibly the Magistrate--or the Magistrate might be an old guy who beats it out the window as soon as the fight begins. Rosalie tries to help by picking up a vase or some such object and hitting Conwell or Enrico, but the Countess stops her and Rosalie keeps the Countess busy by struggling with all her might. Conwell must be put out completely and Roland conquers Enrico and the Magistrate and would be a complete winner but for the Countess. While she is struggling with Rosalie and the fight is going on, the guards in the hall struggle to their feet and begin banging on the door. The Countess hears this and her object is to get the door open. She is prevented for some time by Rosalie but just as Roland has finished off Conwell and the Magistrate and has Enrico down and practically out, the Countess manages to get the door open and let in the two guards. They cover Roland and he rises and surrenders. Conwell and Enrico are pretty far gone but they manage to get up and Enrico says to the guards: SP: "TAKE HIM TO THE COURTYARD AND SHOOT HIM!" The guards rush Roland out--Rosalie collapses. During this fight we see a long shot of Tom with an American flag and the marines coming down the street. A man running to a group of the populace and saying: "The Americans are coming!" The whole of this group then run out toward the palace. This group runs to the crowd in front of the palace and yell: "The Americans are coming!" The crowd falls back to the other side of the Plaza and the soldiers guarding the palace look anxiously up and down. Tom with his marines rushes into the plaza. The crowd falls back and the soldier guards beat it hot foot. Part of the marines rush into the palace, led by Tom. The man with the flag and the rest of them stop outside and guard the palace. Also, during this fight the officer and his guard of six men take the King and Councilors out of their cells and lead them off toward the courtyard, line them up against the wall, tie their hands behind them, blindfold each one and are just about to give the order to shoot when Tom rushes into the courtyard with his marines, who chase the soldiers off and Tom picks up the King and carries him and shoos them all before him into the palace, having jerked off their blindfolds. 192. HALLWAY OF PALACE. Just as the two guards bring Roland out of the Council Room into the hall and start toward the stairs, Tom runs in at front with his marines. The guards, seeing them, drop Roland and beat it out the back window. Roland greets Tom ecstatically, looks at his watch, sees that it is one-half minute to ten and says: SP: "TRY AND SAVE THE KING AND COUNCIL!" Tom wants to know where they are and Roland points down stairs and back. Roland tells twenty of the marines to come with him and the rest run down stairs with Tom. Roland leads his little bunch into the council room. 193. COUNCIL ROOM. Countess is holding up Rosalie, Conwell leaning against the wall side of her. Magistrate is starting marriage service. Enrico is sitting on the table holding his head and watching the ceremony. The door bursts open and in rushes Roland with six marines. He rushes over and grasps Rosalie and tells the marines to cover all the others, which they do. 194. COURTYARD OF PALACE. Officers just finishing blindfolding King and Councilors. They are all lined up to be shot. Firing squad is all ready--sixteen in all, now. Officer leaves King and Councilors and takes place at end of firing squad. He is just about to raise his sword when Tom runs in from the Palace, lets out a yell, and followed by his twenty marines rushes in. The soldiers seeing them, run like mad, chased by the marines. Tom quickly jerks off blindfolds and shoos the whole bunch--King and Councilors--into the palace. 195. COUNCIL ROOM. Colonel Bird and two marines run in. Rosalie rushes to her father's arms and Roland tells Bird to look after her and to go into the hall, which they do. He tells two of the marines to guard Conwell and the Countess and Magistrate. He then grabs Enrico, tells the other six marines to follow, and drags Enrico out into the hall, followed by six marines. 196. HALLWAY IN PALACE. Colonel Bird and Rosalie are waiting. Roland drags Enrico out, followed by six marines. They start toward the front. At this moment the King and Council come up the stairs headed by Tom. Roland grabs the King in his other hand, calls Tom and tells him to bring the King along; hands him over to Tom. Tells the marines to herd along the Council, and they all go toward front of hall. 197. FRONT OF THE PALACE. People waiting. American soldiers there. Roland and Tom drag the King and Enrico out on the porch, followed by Bird and Marines. The people become silent, not knowing what has happened. CLOSE UP OF ROLAND STARTING SPEECH. He raises his hand while Tom holds the King. He points at the King, then turns and says: SP: "MY FRIENDS, FOR TEN YEARS YOUR BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY HAS BEEN RULED BY THIS COMIC OPERA KING, WHO HAS NOT DRAWN A SOBER BREATH SINCE HE ASCENDED THE THRONE." Tom holds up the King, to whom Roland points--the King weakly protesting. Roland turns front and speaks again, pointing at Enrico: SP: "LAST NIGHT THE KING WAS DETHRONED BY THE MOST CORRUPT AND CONTEMPTIBLE GRAFTER THE COUNTRY HAS EVER KNOWN--ENRICO DE CASTANET!" He points at Enrico, who grits his teeth and wants to pounce on Roland, but is restrained by guns of marines at his back. Roland looks triumphantly at Enrico, then front, and says: SP: "THE FIRST ACT OF THIS TYRANT, ON ASSUMING POWER, WAS TO RAISE THE ALREADY EXORBITANT TAXES!" The people nod their heads "yes" and shake their fists at Enrico. Roland points to Enrico and says, "Look at him." He then turns to the King and says "Look at him." Then he turns to the people and says: SP: "IS EITHER OF THESE WRETCHES FIT TO RULE THIS BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY?" The people shake their heads yelling "No, no," and to-helling both the King and Enrico. CLOSE UP OF ROLAND listening to this demonstration, turning first to the King and then to Enrico, as if to say "Ah, you see," and then front again and says: SP: "IN AMERICA WE CHOOSE OUR OWN RULERS AND DETERMINE OURSELVES WHAT OUR TAXES ARE TO BE." LONG SHOT OF THE CROWD--Hearing this, turning to each other and expressing their approval of the idea, one or two yelling out exclamations of approval. CLOSE UP OF ROLAND--Smiling, looking again at the men on his right and left and again speaking front: SP: "WHY NOT CHANGE THIS GOVERNMENT INTO A _DEMOCRACY_ LIKE AMERICA AND ALL THE _CIVILIZED_ COUNTRIES OF THE WORLD?" LONG SHOT OF THE CROWD, yelling approval, waving their hats and hands and (fade out). T: AND SO A NEW REPUBLIC WAS BORN. THEY TRIED TO MAKE ROLAND PRESIDENT, BUT THERE WAS ONLY ONE JOB HE WANTED. 198. FADE IN JUDGE'S COURT. Roland is sitting on the bench all dolled up in a judge's rig. Beside him stands Tom in a policeman's uniform. He indicates to Tom to bring in the prisoners. Tom tells an officer to open the door. CLOSE UP OF DOOR AT SIDE OF ROOM. Officer opens door and the King and four Councilors and Enrico file past the camera going to the front of the Judge's bench. LONG SHOT OF COURTROOM, showing prisoners, Judge and Tom. CLOSE UP OF ROLAND looking over the prisoners and saying: SP: "YOU ARE ALL SENTENCED TO ONE YEAR IN PRISON--THIS COUNTRY MUST BE MADE SAFE FOR DEMOCRACY AND INSURANCE." The prisoners all look at each other in dismay. Tom steps down, starts to jerk Enrico roughly toward the door. Roland raises his hand and speaks: SP: "TREAT THEM GENTLY, CHIEF. THEIR POLICIES DON'T EXPIRE FOR ELEVEN MONTHS!" Then Tom takes them very gently and leads them out of the room. As they go out, Roland says: SP: "WE'LL CALL THAT A DAY. COURT IS ADJOURNED!" He leaves by door at back. 199. GARDEN. Rosalie waiting. Roland comes to her. (Fade out.) Transcriber Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate, and the table of illustrations is changed to reflect those moves. Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. In the list of Illustrations, "CREPE" was replaced with "CRÊPE". On page 6, "ConstanceTalmadge" was replaced with "Constance Talmadge". In the illustration on page 20, "CREPE" was replaced with "CRÊPE" and crepe was replaced with "crêpe". On page 59, "ORCHID'S" was replaced with "ORCHIDS". On page 69, a double quotation mark was added before "WHAT DAT LORD HOWE-GREENE" On page 81, one title has no text. On page 104, "(same as 158)" was replaced with "(same as 154)". On page 104, "king's" was replaced with "King's". 
15720	----	RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST OR THE INDIAN GIRL STAR OF THE MOVIES BY ALICE B. EMERSON AUTHOR OF "RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL," "RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE," "RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED_ NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY PUBLISHERS [Illustration: BEHIND HER THE TIMBERS POURED DOWN THE BLUFF. "Ruth Fielding in the Great Northwest." Page 159] BOOKS FOR GIRLS BY ALICE B. EMERSON RUTH FIELDING SERIES 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. * * * * * RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST * * * * * BETTY GORDON SERIES BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL CUPPLES & LEON CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY * * * * * RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST Printed in U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. RUTH IN PERIL 1 II. A PERFECT SHOT 10 III. IN THE RING 18 IV. SMOKING THE PEACE PIPE 26 V. INSPIRATION 34 VI. EVERYBODY AGREES BUT DAKOTA JOE 43 VII. DAKOTA JOE'S WRATH 50 VIII. A WONDERFUL EVENT 59 IX. THE PLOT DEVELOPS 65 X. ONE NEW YORK DAY 75 XI. EVADING THE TRAFFIC POLICE 89 XII. BOUND FOR THE NORTHWEST 96 XIII. DAKOTA JOE MAKES A DEMAND 104 XIV. THE HUBBELL RANCH 112 XV. PURSUING DANGER 122 XVI. NEWS AND A THREAT 130 XVII. THE PROLOGUE IS FINISHED 138 XVIII. AN ACCIDENT THREATENING 146 XIX. IN DEADLY PERIL 154 XX. GOOD NEWS 160 XXI. A BULL AND A BEAR 168 XXII. IN THE CANYON 175 XXIII. REALITY 183 XXIV. WONOTA'S SURPRISE 192 XXV. OTHER SURPRISES 198 RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST CHAPTER I RUTH IN PERIL The gray dust, spurting from beneath the treads of the rapidly turning wheels, drifted across the country road to settle on the wayside hedges. The purring of the engine of Helen Cameron's car betrayed the fact that it was tuned to perfection. If there were any rough spots in the road being traveled, the shock absorbers took care of them. "Dear me! I always do love to ride in Nell's car," said the plump and pretty girl who occupied more than her share of the rear seat. "Even if Tom isn't here to take care of it, it always is so comfy." "Only one thing would suit you better, Heavy," declared the sharp-featured and sharp-tongued girl sitting next to Jennie Stone. "If only a motor could be connected to a rocking-chair--" "Right-o!" agreed the cheerful plump girl. "And have it on a nice shady porch. I'd like to travel that way just as well. After our experience in France we ought to be allowed to travel in comfort for the rest of our lives. Isn't that so, Nell? And you agree, Ruthie?" The girl at the wheel of the flying automobile nodded only, for she needed to keep her gaze fixed ahead. But the brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, whose quiet face seemed rather wistful, turned to smile upon the volatile--and voluble--Heavy Stone, so nicknamed during their early school days at Briarwood Hall. "Don't let's talk about it, honey," she said. "I try not to think of what we all went through." "And the soup I tasted!" groaned the plump one. "That diet kitchen in Paris! I'll never get over it--never!" "I guess _that's_ right," agreed Mercy Curtis, the sharp-featured girl. "How that really nice Frenchman can stand for such a fat girl--" "Why," explained Heavy calmly, "the more there is of me the more there is for him to like." Then she giggled. "There were so few fat people left in Europe after four years of war that everybody liked to look at me." "You certainly are a sight for sore eyes," Helen Cameron shot over her shoulder, but without losing sight of the road ahead. She was a careful, if rapid, driver. "And for any other eyes! One couldn't very well miss you, Heavy." "Let's not talk any more about France--or the war--or anything like that," proposed Ruth Fielding, the shadow on her face deepening. "Both your Henri and Helen's Tom have had to go back--" "Helen's Tom?" repeated Mercy Curtis softly. But Jennie Stone pinched her. She would not allow anybody to tease Ruth, although they all knew well enough that the absence of Helen's twin brother meant as much to Ruth Fielding as it did to his sister. This was strictly a girl's party, this ride in Helen Cameron's automobile. Aside from Mercy, who was the daughter of the Cheslow railroad station agent, and therefore lived in Cheslow all the year around, the girls were not native to the place. They had just left that pretty town behind them. It appeared that Ruth, Helen, and surely Jennie Stone, knew very few of the young men of Cheslow. So this jaunt was, as Jennie saucily said, entirely "_poulette_". "Which she thinks is French for 'old hen,'" scoffed the tart Mercy. "I do not know which is worse," Ruth Fielding said with a sigh, as Helen slowed down for a railroad crossing at which stood a flagman. "Heavy's French or her slang." "Slang! Never!" cried the plump girl, tossing her head "Far be it from me and et cetera. I never use slang. I am quite as much of a purist as that professor at Ardmore--what was his name?--that they tell the story about. The dear dean told him that some of the undergrads complained that his language was 'too pedantic and unintelligible.'" "'Never, Madam! Impossible! Why,' said the prof, 'to employ a vulgarism, perspicuity is my penultimate appellative.'" "Ow! Ow!" groaned Helen at the wheel "I bet that hurt your vocal cords, Heavy." She let in the clutch again as the party broke into laughter, and they darted across the tracks behind the passing train. "Just the same," added Helen, "I wish some of the boys we used to play around with were with us. Those fellows Tom went to Seven Oaks with were all nice boys. Dear me!" "Most of them went into the war," Ruth reminded her. "Nothing is as it used to be. Oh, dear!" "I must say you are all very cheerful--not!" exclaimed Jennie. "Ruth is a regular Grandmother Grimalkin, and the rest of you are little better. I for one just won't think of my dear Henri as being food for cannon. I just won't! Why! before he and Tom can get into the nasty business again the war may be over. Just see the reports in the papers of what our boys are doing. They really have the Heinies on the run." "Ye-as," murmured Mercy. "Running which way?" "Treason!" cried Jennie. "The only way the Germans have ever run forward is by crawling." "Oh! Oh! Listen to the Irish bull!" cried Helen. "Oh, is it?" exclaimed Jennie. "Maybe there is a bit of Irish in the McStones, or O'Stones. I don't know." She certainly was the life of the party. Helen and Ruth had too recently bidden Tom Cameron good-bye to feel like joining with Jennie in repartee. Though it might have been that even the fat girl's repartee was more a matter of repertoire. She was expected to be funny, and so forced herself to make good her reputation. This trip by automobile in fact was a forced attempt to cheer each other up on the part of the chums. At the Outlook, the Cameron's handsome country home, matters had become quite too awful to contemplate with calm, now that Tom had gone back to France. At least, so Helen stated. At the Red Mill Ruth had been (she admitted it) ready to "fly to pieces." For naturally poor Aunt Alvirah and Jabez Potter, the miller, were pot cheerful companions. And the two chums had Jennie Stone as their guest, for she had returned from New York with them, where they had all gone to bid Tom and Henri Marchand farewell. The three college friends had picked Mercy Curtis up (she had been with them at boarding-school "years and years before," to quote Jennie) and started on this trip from Cheslow to Longhaven. On the outskirts of Longhaven a Wild West Show was advertised as having pitched its tents. "And, of course, if there is anything about the Wild West close at hand our movie writer must see it," said Jennie. "Give you local color, Ruth, for another western screen masterpiece." "I suppose it is one of these little fly-by-night shows!" scoffed Mercy. "Let's see that bill. Dakota Joe's Wild West and Frontier Round-Up' Mm! Sounds big. But the bigger they sound the smaller they are, as a rule." "I am glad I am not a pessimist," sighed Jennie Stone. "It must be an awfully uncomfortable feeling inside one to wear such a cloak." "Ow! Ow!" cried Helen again. "Another Hibernianism, without a doubt." She turned the car into a much-traveled road just then. Not a mile ahead loomed the "big top." A band was playing, and what it lacked in sweetness it certainly made up in noise. "Look at the cars!" exclaimed Ruth, becoming interested. "We shall have to park before long, Helen, and walk to the show lot." "Right here!" returned Helen, with vigor, and turned her car into a field where already a dozen automobiles were parked. A man with a whisp of whisker on his chin, and actually chewing a straw, motioned the young girl where to run her car. He was evidently the farmer who owned the field, and he was surely "making hay while the sun shone," for he was collecting a quarter from every automobile owner who wished to get his car off the public road. "Your car'll be all right here, young ladies," he said, reaching for the quarter Ruth offered him. "I'm going to stay here myself and watch 'em until the show's over. Cal'late to stay here anyway till them wild Injuns and wilder cowboys air off Peleg Swift's land yonder. No knowing what they'll do if they ain't watched." "Listen to the opinion our friend has of your old Wild West Show," hissed Jennie, as Ruth hopped out of the seat beside Helen. Ruth laughed. The other girls, getting out of the car on the other side, were startled by hearing her laugh change to a sudden ejaculation. "Dear me! has that thing broken loose from the show?" Jennie was the first to speak, and she stepped behind the high car in order to catch sight of what had caused Ruth's exclamation. Instantly the plump girl emitted a most unseemly shout: "Oh! Oh! Look at the bull!" "What is the matter with you, Heavy?" demanded Mercy snappishly. But when she and Helen followed the plump girl behind the automobile, they were stricken dumb with amazement, if not with fear. Tearing down the field toward the row of automobiles was a big black bull--head down, strings of foam flying from his mouth, and with every other indication of extreme wrath. "Run!" shrieked Jennie, and turned to do so. She bumped into Mercy and Helen, who clung to her and really retarded the plump girl's escape. But plowing right on to the shelter of the automobile, Jennie actually swept her two friends with her. Their cries and evident fright attracted the notice of the farmer before he really knew what was happening. Then he saw the bull and gave tongue to his own immediate excitement: "Look at that critter! He's broke out of the barnyard--drat him! Don't let him see you, gals, for he's as vicious as sin!" He started forward with a stick in his hand to attack the enraged bull. But the animal paid no attention to him. It had set its eyes upon something which excited its rage--Ruth Fielding's red sweater! "Oh, Ruth! Ruth!" shrieked Helen, suddenly seeing her chum cornered on the other side of the car. Ruth tried to open the car door again. But it stuck. Nor was there time for the girl of the Red Mill to vault the door and so escape the charge of the maddened bull. The brute was upon her. CHAPTER II A PERFECT SHOT One may endure dangers of divers kinds (and Ruth Fielding had done so by land and sea) and be struck down unhappily by an apparently ordinary peril. The threat of that black bull's charge was as poignant as anything that had heretofore happened to the girl of the Red Mill. After that first outcry, Ruth did not raise her voice at all. She tugged at the fouled handle of the automobile door, looking back over her shoulder at the forefront of the bull. He bellowed, and the very sound seemed to weaken her knees. Had she not been clinging to that handle she must have dropped to the earth. And then, Crack! It was unmistakably a rifle shot. The bull plowed up several yards of sod, swerved, shook his great head, bellowing again, and then started off at a tangent across the field with the farmer, brandishing a stick, close on his heels. Saved, Ruth Fielding did sink to the earth now, and when the other girls ran clamorously around the motor-car she was scarcely possessed of her senses. Truly, however, she had been through too many exciting events to be long overcome by this one. Many queer experiences and perilous adventures had come into Ruth Fielding's life since the time when, as an orphan of twelve years, she had come to the Red Mill, just outside the town of Cheslow, to live with her Great Uncle Jabez and his queer little old housekeeper, Aunt Alvirah. The miller was not the man generously to offer Ruth the advantages she craved. Had it not been for her dearest friend, Helen Cameron, at first Ruth would not have been dressed well enough to enter the local school. But if Jabez Potter was a miser, he was a just man after his fashion. Ruth saved him a considerable sum of money during the first few months of her sojourn at the Red Mill, and in payment for this Uncle Jabez allowed her to accompany Helen Cameron to that famous boarding school, Briarwood Hall. While at school at Briarwood, and during the vacations between semesters, Ruth Fielding's career actually began, as the volumes following "Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill" show. The girl had numerous adventures at Briarwood Hall, at Snow Camp, at Lighthouse Point, at Silver Ranch, on Cliff Island, at Sunrise Farm, among the gypsies, in moving pictures, down in Dixie, at college, in the saddle, in the Red Cross in France, at the war front, and when homeward bound. The volume just previous to this present story related Ruth's adventures "Down East," where she went with Helen and Tom Cameron, as well as Jennie Stone, Jennie's fiancé, Henri Marchand, and her Aunt Kate, who was their chaperon. The girl of the Red Mill had long before the time of the present narrative proved her talent as a scenario writer, and working for Mr. Hammond, president of the Alectrion Film Corporation, had already made several very successful pictures. It seemed that her work in life was to be connected with the silver sheet. Even Uncle Jabez had acknowledged Ruth's ability as a scenario writer, and was immensely proud of her work when he learned how much money she was making out of the pictures. For the old miller judged everything by a monetary standard. Aunt Alvirah was, of course, very proud of her "pretty" as she called Ruth Fielding. Indeed, all Ruth's friends considered her success in picture-making as only going to show just how smart Ruth Fielding was. But the girl of the Red Mill was far too sensible to have her head turned by such praise. Even Tom Cameron's pride in her pictures only made the girl glad that she succeeded in delighting him. For Ruth and Tom were closer friends now than ever before--and for years they had been "chummy." The adventures which had thrown them so much together in France while Tom was a captain in the American Expeditionary Forces and Ruth was working with the American Red Cross, had welded their confidence in and liking for each other until it seemed that nothing but their youth and Tom's duties in the army kept them from announcing their engagement. "Do finish the war quickly, Tom," she had said to him whimsically, not long before Tom had gone back to France. "I do not feel as though I could return to college, or write another scenario, or do another single solitary thing until peace is declared." "And _then_?" Tom had asked significantly, and Ruth had given him an understanding smile. The uncertainty of that time--the whole nation waited and listened breathlessly for news from abroad--seemed to Ruth more than she could bear. She had entered upon this pleasure jaunt to the Wild West Show with the other girls because she knew that anything to take their minds off the more serious thoughts of the war was a good thing. Now, as she felt herself in peril of being gored by that black bull a tiny thought flashed into her mind: "What terrible peril may be facing Tom Cameron at this identical moment?" When the bull was gone, wounded by that unexpected rifle shot, and her three chums gathered about her, this thought of Tom's danger was still uppermost in Ruth's mind. "Dear me, how silly of me!" she murmured. "There are lots worse things happening every moment over there than being gored by a bull." "What an idea!" ejaculated Helen. "Are you crazy? What has that to do with you being pitched over that fence, for instance?" She glanced at the fence which divided the field in which the automobiles stood from that where the two great tents of the Wild West Show were pitched. A broad-hatted man was standing at the bars. He drawled: "Gal ain't hurt none, is she? That was a close shave--closer, a pile, than I'd want to have myself. Some savage critter, that bull. And if Dakota Joe's gal wasn't a crack shot that young lady would sure been throwed higher than Haman." Ruth had now struggled to her feet with the aid of Jenny and Mercy. "Do find out who it was shot the bull!" she cried. Jennie, although still white-faced, grinned broadly again. "_Now_ who is guilty of the most atrocious slang? 'Shot the bull,' indeed!" "Thar she is," answered the broad-hatted man, pointing to a figure approaching the fence. Helen fairly gasped at sight of her. "Right out of a Remington black-and-white," she shrilled in Ruth Fielding's ear. The sight actually jolted Ruth's mind away from the fright which had overwhelmed it. She stared at the person indicated with growing interest as well as appreciation of the picturesque figure she made. She was an Indian girl in the gala costume of her tribe, feather head-dress and all. Or, perhaps, one would better say she was dressed as the white man expects an Indian to dress when on exhibition. But aside from her dress, which was most attractive, the girl herself held Ruth's keen interest. Despite her high cheekbones and the dusky copper color of her skin, this strange girl's features were handsome. There was pride expressed in them--pride and firmness and, withal, a certain sadness that added not a little to the charm of the Indian girl's visage. "What a strange person!" murmured Helen Cameron. "She is pretty," announced the assured Mercy Curtis, who always held her own opinion to be right on any subject. "One brunette never does like another," and she made a little face at Helen. "Listen!" commanded Jennie Stone. "What does she say?" The Indian girl spoke again, and this time they all heard her. "Is the white lady injured, Conlon?" "No, ma'am!" declared the broad-hatted man. "She'll be as chipper as a blue-jay in a minute. That was a near shot, Wonota. For an Injun you're some shot, I'll tell the world." An expression of disdain passed over the Indian girl's face. She looked away from the man and Ruth's glance caught her attention. "I thank you very much, Miss--Miss--" "I am called Wonota in the Osage tongue," interposed the Indian maiden composedly enough. "She's Dakota Joe's Injun sharpshooter," put in the man at the fence. "And she ain't no business out here in her play-actin' costume--or with her gun loaded that-a-way. Aginst the law. That gun she uses is for shootin' glass balls and clay pigeons in the show." "Well, Miss Wonota," said Ruth, trying to ignore the officious man who evidently annoyed the Indian maiden, "I am very thankful you did have your rifle with you at this particular juncture." She approached the fence and reached over it to clasp the Indian girl's hand warmly. "We are going in to see you shoot at the glass balls, for I see the show is about to start. But afterward, Wonota, can't we see you again?" The Indian girl's expression betrayed some faint surprise. But she bowed gravely. "If the white ladies desire," she said. "I must appear now in the tent. The boss is strict." "You bet he is," added the broad-hatted man, who seemed offensively determined to push himself forward. "After the show, then," said Ruth promptly to the girl. "I will tell you then just how much obliged to you I am," and she smiled in a most friendly fashion. Wonota's smile was faint, but her black eyes seemed suddenly to sparkle. The man at the fence looked suspiciously from the white girls to the Indian maid, but he made no further comment as Wonota hastened away. CHAPTER III IN THE RING "What do you know about that Indian girl?" demanded Jennie Stone excitedly. "She was just as cool as a cucumber. Think of her shooting that bull just in the nick of time and saving our Ruth!" "It does seem," remarked Mercy Curtis in her sharp way, "that Ruthie Fielding cannot venture abroad without getting into trouble." "And getting out of it, I thank you," rejoined Helen, somewhat offended by Mercy's remark. "Certainly I have not been killed yet," was Ruth's mild observation, pinching Helen's arm to warn her that she was not to quarrel with the rather caustic lame girl. Mercy's affliction, which still somewhat troubled her, had never improved her naturally crabbed disposition, and few of her girl friends had Ruth's patience with her. "I don't know that I feel much like seeing cowboys rope steers and all that after seeing that horrid black bull charge our Ruthie," complained Helen. "Shall we really go to the show?" "Why! Ruth just told that girl we would," said Jennie. "I wouldn't miss seeing that Wonota shoot for anything," Ruth declared. "But there is nobody here to watch the automobile now," went on Helen, who was more nervous than her chum. "Yes," Jennie remarked. "Here comes 'Silas Simpkins, the straw-chewing rube,'" and she giggled. The farmer was at hand, puffing and blowing. He assured them that "that critter" was tightly housed and would do no more harm. "Hope none o' you warn't hurt," he added. "By jinks! that bull is jest as much excited by this here Wild West Show as I be. Did you pay me for your ortymobile, young ladies?" "I most certainly did," said Ruth. "Your bull did not drive all memory away." "All right. All right," said the farmer hastily. "I thought you did, but I wasn't positive you'd remember it." With which frank confession he turned away to meet another motor-car party that was attempting to park their machine on his land. The four girls got out into the dusty road and marched to the ticket wagon that was gaily painted with the sign of "Dakota Joe's Wild West and Frontier Round-Up." "This is my treat," declared Ruth, going ahead to the ticket window with the crowd. "I certainly should pay for all this excitement I have got you girls into." "Go as far as you like," said Jennie. "But to tell the truth, I think the owner of the black bull should be taxed for this treat." Dakota Joe's show was apparently very popular, for people were coming to it not only from Longhaven and Cheslow, but from many other towns and hamlets. This afternoon performance attracted many women and children, and when the four young women from Cheslow got into their reserved seats they found that they were right in the midst of a lot of little folks. The big ring, separated from the plank seats by a board fence put up in sections, offered a large enough tanbark-covered course to enable steers to be roped, bucking broncos exhibited, Indian riding races, and various other events dear to the heart of the Wild West Show fans. And the program of Dakota Joe's show was much like that of similar exhibitions. He had some "real cowboys" and "sure-enough Indians," as well as employees who were not thus advertised. The steers turned loose for the cowboys to "bulldog" were rather tame animals, for they were used to the employment. The "bronco busters" rode trick horses so well trained that they really acted better than their masters. Some of the roping and riding--especially by the Indians--was really good. And then came a number on the program that the four girls from Cheslow had impatiently awaited. The announcer (Dakota Joe himself, on horseback and wearing hair to his shoulders _à la_ Buffalo Bill) rode into the center of the ring and held up a gauntleted hand for attention. "We now offer you, ladies and gentlemen, an exhibition in rifle shooting second to none on any program of any show in America to-day. The men of the old West were most wonderful shots with rifle or six-gun. To-day the new West produces a rifle shot that equals Wild Bill Hickok, Colonel Cody himself, or Major Lillie. And to show that the new West, ladies and gentlemen, is right up to the minute in this as in every other pertic'lar, we offer Wonota, daughter of Chief Totantora, princess of the Osage Indians, in a rifle-shooting act that, ladies and gentlemen, is simply marv'lous--simply marv'lous!" He waved a lordly hand, the band struck up a strident tune, and on a "perfect love of a white pony," as Helen declared, Wonota rode into the ring. She looked just as calm as she had when she had shot the bull which threatened Ruth. Nothing seemed to flutter the Indian girl's pulse or to change her staid expression. Yet the girls noticed that Dakota Joe spurred his big horse to the white pony's side, and, unless they were mistaken, the man said something to Wonota in no pleasant manner. "Look at that fellow!" exclaimed Helen. "Hasn't he an ugly look?" "I guess he didn't say anything pleasant to her," Ruth rejoined, for she was a keen observer. "I shouldn't wonder if that girl was far from happy." "I shouldn't want to work for that Dakota Joe," added Mercy Curtis. "Look at him!" Unable to make Wonota's expression of countenance change, the man, who was evidently angry with the Indian girl, struck the white pony sharply with his whip. The pony jumped, and some of the spectators, thinking it a part of the program, laughed. Unexpecting Dakota Joe's act, Wonota was not prepared for her mount's jump. She was almost thrown from the saddle. But the next instant she had tightened the pony's rein, hauled it back on its haunches with a strong hand, and wheeled the animal to face Dakota Joe. What she said to the man certainly Ruth and her friends could not understand. It was said in the Osage tongue in any case. But with the words the Indian girl thrust forward the light rifle which she carried. For a moment its blue muzzle was set full against the white man's chest. "Oh!" gasped Jennie. And she was not alone in thus giving vent to her excitement. "Oh!" "Why doesn't she shoot him?" drawled Mercy Curtis. "I--I guess It was only in fun," said Helen rather shakingly, as the Indian girl wheeled her mount again and rode away from Dakota Joe. "I wouldn't want her to be that funny with me," gasped Jennie Stone. "She must be a regular wild Indian, after all." "I am sure, at least, that this Dakota Joe person would have deserved little sympathy if she had shot him," declared Mercy, with confidence. "Dear me," admitted Ruth herself, "I want to meet that girl more than ever now. There must be some mystery regarding her connection with the owner of the show. They certainly are not in accord." "You've said something!" agreed Jennie, likewise with conviction. If Wonota had been at all flurried because of her treatment by her employer, she no longer showed it. Having ridden to the proper spot, she wheeled the white pony again and faced the place where there was a steel shield against which the objects she was to shoot at were thrown. Dakota Joe rode forward as though to affix the first clay ball to the string. Then he pulled in his horse, scowled across the ring at Wonota, and beckoned one of the cowboys to approach. This man took up the duty of affixing the targets for the Indian girl. "Do you see that?" chuckled Jennie Stone. "He's afraid she might change her mind and shoot him after all." "Sh!" cautioned Ruth. "Somebody might hear you. Now look." The swinging targets were shattered by Wonota as fast as the man could hook them to the string and set the string to swinging. Then he threw glass balls filled with feathers into the air for the Indian girl to explode. It was evident that she was not doing as well as usual, for she missed several shots. But this was not because of her own nervousness. Since the pony had been cut with Dakota Joe's whip it would not stand still, and its nervousness was plainly the cause of Wonota's misses. The owner of the show was, however, the last person to admit this. He showed more than annoyance as the act progressed. Perhaps it was the strained relations so evident between the owner of the show and Wonota that affected the man attending to the targets, for he became rather wild. He threw a glass ball so far to one side that to have shot at it would have endangered the spectators, and the Indian girl dropped the muzzle of her rifle and shook her head. The curving ball came within Dakota Joe's reach. "Some baseball player, I'll say!" ejaculated Jennie Stone slangily. For the owner of the show caught the flying ball. He wheeled his spirited horse, and, holding the ball at arm's length, he spurred down the field toward the Indian girl. "Oh!" cried Ruth under her breath. "He is going to throw it at her!" "The villain!" ejaculated Mercy Curtis, her eyes flashing. But if that was his intention, Dakota Joe did not fulfill it. The Indian girl whipped up the muzzle of her rifle and seemed to take deliberate aim at the angry man. Evidently this act was not on the bill! CHAPTER IV SMOKING THE PEACE PIPE Ruth Fielding almost screamed aloud. She rose in her seat, clinging to Helen Cameron's arm. "Oh! what will she do?" gasped the girl of the Red Mill, just as the rifle in the Indian sharp-shooter's hands spat its brief tongue of flame. The glass ball in Dakota Joe's fingers was shattered and he went through a cloud of feathers as he turned his horse at a tangent and rode away from the Indian girl. It was a good shot, but one that the proprietor of the Wild West Show did not approve of! "Oh!" exclaimed Mercy Curtis, bitterly, "why didn't she shoot him instead of the ball? He deserves it, I know." "Dear me, Mercy," drawled Jennie Stone, "you most certainly are a blood-thirsty person!" "I just know that man is a villain, and the Indian girl is in his power." "Next reel!" giggled Helen. "It is a regular Western cinema drama, isn't it?" "I certainly want to become better acquainted with that Wonota," declared Ruth, not at all sure but that Mercy Curtis was right in her opinion. "There! Wonota is going off." The applause the Indian girl received was vociferous. Most of the spectators believed that the shooting of the glass ball out of the man's hand had been rehearsed and was one of Wonota's chief feats. Ruth and her friends had watched what had gone before too closely to make that mistake. There was plainly a serious schism between Dakota Joe and the girl whom he had called the Indian princess. The girls settled back in their seats after Wonota had replied to the applause with a stiff little bow from the entrance to the dressing-tent. The usual representation of "Pioneer Days" was then put on, and while the "stage" was being set for the attack on the emigrant train and Indian massacre, the fellow who had stood at the pasture fence and talked to the girls when the black bull had done his turn, suddenly appeared in the aisle between the plank seats and gestured to Ruth. "What?" asked the girl of the Red Mill "You want me?" "You're the lady," he said, grinning. "Won't keep you a minute. You can git back and see the rest of the show all right." "It must be that Wonota has sent him for me," explained Ruth, seeing no other possible reason for this call. Refusing to let even Helen go with her, she followed the man up the aisle and down a narrow flight of steps to the ground. "What is the matter with her? What does she want me for?" Ruth asked him when she could get within earshot and away from the audience. "Her?" "Yes. You come from Wonota, don't you?" The man chuckled, but still kept on. "You'll see her in a minute. Right this way, Miss," he said. They came to a canvas-enclosed place with a flap pinned back as though it were the entrance to a tent. The guide flourished a hamlike hand, holding back the canvas flap. "Just step in and you'll find her," he said, again chuckling. Ruth was one not easily alarmed. But the fellow seemed impudent. She gave him a reproving look and marched into what appeared to be an office, for there was a desk and a chair in view. There, to her surprise, was Dakota Joe, the long-haired proprietor of the Wild West Show! He stood leaning against a post, his arms folded and smoking a very long and very black cigar. He did not remove his hat as Ruth entered, but rolled his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other and demanded harshly: "You know this Injun girl I got with the show?" "Certainly I know her!" Ruth exclaimed without hesitation, "She saved my life." "Huh! I heard about that, ma'am. And I don't mean it just that way. I'm talking about her--drat her! She says she has got a date with you and your friends between the afternoon and night shows." "Yes," Ruth said wonderingly. "We are to meet--and talk." "That's just it, ma'am," said the man, rolling the cigar again in an offensive way. "That's just it. When you come to talk with that Injun girl, I want you to steer her proper on one p'int. We're white, you an' me, and I reckon white folks will stick together when it comes to a game against reds. Get me?" "I do not think I do--yet," answered Ruth hesitatingly. "Why, see here, now," Dakota Joe went on. "It's easy to see you're a lady--a white lady. I'm a white gent. This Injun wench has got it in for me. Did you see what she come near doin' to me right out there in the ring?" Ruth restrained a strong wish to tell him exactly what she had seen. But somehow she felt that caution in the handling of this rough man would be the wiser part. "I saw that she made a very clever shot in breaking that ball in your hand, Mr. Dakota Joe," the girl of the Red Mill said. "Heh? Well, didn't you see she aimed straight at me? Them reds ain't got no morals. They'd jest as lief shoot a feller they didn't like as not. We have to keep 'em down all the time. I know. I been handling 'em for years." "Well, sir?" asked Ruth impatiently. "Why, this Wonota--drat her!--is under contract with me. She's a drawin' card, I will say. But she's been writin' back to the agency where I got her and making me trouble. She means to leave me flat if she can---and a good winter season coming on." "What do you expect me to do about it, Mr.--er--Dakota Joe?" asked Ruth. "Fenbrook. Fenbrook's my name, ma'am," tardily explained the showman. "Now, see here. She's nothin' but an ignorant redskin. Yep. She's daughter of old Totantora, hereditary chief of the Osages. But he's out of the way and her guardian is the Indian Agent at Three Rivers Station in Oklahoma where the Osages have their reservation. As I say, this gal has writ to the agent and told him a pack o' lies about how bad she is treated. And she ain't treated bad a mite." "Well, Mr. Fenbrook?" demanded Ruth again. "Why, see now. This Injun gal thinks well of you. I know what she's told the other performers. And I see her looking at you. Naturally, being nothin' but a redskin, she'll look up to a white lady like you. You tell her she's mighty well off here, all things considered--will you? Just tell her how hard some gals of her age have to work, while all she does is to ride and shoot in a show. All them Injuns is crazy to be play-actors, you know. Even old Chief Totantora was till he got mixed up with them Germans when the war come on. "Huh? You savvy my idee, Miss? Jest tell her she's better off with the show than she would be anywhere else. Will you? Do as I say, Miss, and I'll slip you a bunch of tickets for all your friends. We're showin' at Great Forks on Friday, at Perryville Saturday, and at Lymansburg fust of the week. You can take your friends in and have fust-class seats to all them places." "Thank you very much, Mr. Fenbrook," said Ruth, having difficulty to keep from laughing. "But owing to other engagements I could not possibly accept your kind offer. However, I will speak to the girl and advise her to the best of my ability." Which was exactly what Ruth did when, later, she and her friends were met by the Princess Wonota at the exit of the big tent. The girl of the Red Mill had had no opportunity to explain to Helen and Jennie and Mercy in full about her interview with Dakota Joe. But she was quite decided as to what she proposed to do. "Let us go on to the automobile, girls," Ruth said, taking Wonota's hand. "We want to talk where nobody will overhear us." It was Mercy, when they arrived at Helen's car, who put the first question to the Indian maid: "Why didn't you shoot that man? I would have done so!" "Oh, hush, Mercy!" ejaculated Jennie Stone. "She will think you are quite a savage." Helen laughed gaily and helped Wonota into the tonneau. "Come on!" she cried. "Let us smoke the peace-pipe and tell each other all our past lives." But Ruth remained rather grave, looking steadily at the Indian girl. When they were seated, she said: "If you care to confide in us, Wonota, perhaps we can advise you, or even help you. I know that you are unhappy and unkindly treated at this show. I owe you so much that I would be glad to feel that I had done something for you in return." The grave face of the Indian girl broke into a slow smile. When she did smile, Ruth thought her very winsome indeed. Now that she had removed her headdress and wore her black hair in two glossy plaits over her shoulders, she was even more attractive. "You are very kind," Wonota said. "But perhaps I should not trouble you with any of my difficulties." "If you have troubles," interposed Jennie, "you've come to the right shop. We all have 'em and a few more won't hurt us a bit. We're just dying to know why that man treats you so mean." "He wouldn't treat me that way!" put in Mercy vigorously. "But you see I--I am quite alone," explained Wonota. "Since Father Totantora went away I have been without any kin and almost without friends in our nation." "That is it," said Ruth. "Begin at the beginning. Tell us how the chief came to leave you, and how you got mixed up with this Dakota Joe. I have a very small opinion of that man," added the girl of the Red Mill, "and I do not think you should remain in his care." CHAPTER V INSPIRATION It was on the verge of evening, and a keen and searching wind was blowing across the ruffled Lumano, when Helen Cameron's car and its three occupants came in sight of the old Red Mill. Mercy Curtis had been dropped at the Cheslow railway station, where she had the "second trick" as telegraph operator. For the last few miles of the journey from the Wild West Show there had been a good-natured, wordy battle between Ruth and Helen as to which of the twain was to have Jennie Stone for the night. "Her trunk is at my house," Helen declared. "So now!" "But her toilet bag is at the farmhouse. And, anyway, I could easily lend her pajamas." "She could never get into a suit of yours, you know very well, Ruth Fielding!" exclaimed Helen. "I'd get one of Uncle Jabez's long flannel nightgowns for her, then," giggled Ruth. "Look here! I don't seem to be in such great favor with either of you, after all," interposed the plump girl. "One would think I was a freak. And I prefer my own night apparel in any case." "Then you'll come home with me," Helen announced. "But I have things at Ruth's house, just as she says," said Jennie. At the moment the car wheeled around the turn in the road and Helen stopped it at the gate before the old, shingled farmhouse which was connected by a passage with the grist mill. A light flashed in the window and at once the place looked very inviting. A door opened upon the side porch, and to the girls' nostrils was wafted a most delicious odor of frying cakes. "That settles it!" ejaculated Jennie Stone, and immediately sprang out of the car. "I'm as hungry as a bear. I'll see you to-morrow, Nell, if you'll ride over. But don't come too near mealtime. I never could withstand Aunt Alvirah's cooking. M-mm! Griddle-cakes--with lashin's of butter and sugar on 'em, I wager." "Dear me!" sighed Helen, as Ruth, too, got out, laughing. "You are incurable, Jennie. Your goddess is your tummy." But the plump girl was not at all abashed. She ran up the walk on to the porch and warmly greeted the little old woman who stood in the doorway. "How-do, Jennie. Oh, my back and oh, my bones! Be careful, child! I'm kinder tottery to-day, and no mistake. Coming in, Helen Cameron?" "Not to-night, Aunt Alvirah," replied the girl, starting the car again. "Good-night, all." "And here's my pretty!" crooned Aunt Alvirah, putting up her thin arms to encircle Ruth's neck as the girl came in. "It does seem good to have you home again. Your Uncle Jabez (who is softer-hearted than you would suppose) is just as glad to have you home as I am, to be sure." They had a merry supper in the wide, home-like kitchen, for even the miller when he came in was cheerful. He had had a good day at the grist mill. The cash-box was heavy that night, but he did not retire to his room to count his receipts as early as usual. The chatter of the two girls kept the old man interested. "It is a shame that the Indian agent should let a girl like Wonota sign a contract with that Dakota Joe. Anybody might see, to look at him, that he was a bad man," Jennie Stone said with vehemence at one point in the discussion. "I am not much troubled over that point for the girl," said Ruth. "She says she has already written to the agent at the Three Rivers Station, Oklahoma, telling him how badly Fenbrook treats her. That will soon be over. She will get her release." "I shouldn't wonder," said Uncle Jabez, "that if a gal can fire a gun like you say she can, there ain't much reason to worry about her. She can take care of herself with that showman." "But suppose she should be tempted to do something really desperate!" cried Ruth. "I hope nothing like that will happen. She is really a savage by instinct." "And a pretty one," agreed Jennie, thoughtfully. "Shucks! Pretty is as pretty does," said Aunt Alvirah. "I didn't s'pose there was any real wild Injuns left." "You'd think she was wild," chuckled Jennie, "if you'd seen her draw bead on that Dakota Joe person." "All that is not so much to the point," pursued Ruth. "I know that the girl wants to earn money--not alone for her mere living. She could go back to the reservation and live very comfortably without working--much. The Osage Nation is not at all poverty stricken and it holds its property ill community fashion." "What makes her travel around in such a foolish way, then?" Aunt Alvirah asked. "She wants ready cash. She wants it for a good purpose, too," explained Ruth thoughtfully. "You see, this girl's father is Chief Totantora, a leading figure in the Osage Nation. The year before Germany began the war he was traveling with a Wild West Show in Europe. The show was in the interior of Germany when war came and the frontiers were closed. "Once only did Wonota hear from her father. He was then in a detention camp, for, being a good American, he refused to bow down to Hun gods--" "I should say he had a right to call himself an American, if anybody has," said Jennie quickly. "And he is not the only Indian who proved his loyalty to a Government that, perhaps, has not always treated the original Americans justly," Ruth remarked. "I dunno," grumbled Uncle Jabez. "Injuns is Injuns. You say yourself this gal is pretty wild." "She is independent, at any rate. She wishes to earn enough money to set afoot a private inquiry for Chief Totantora. For she does not believe he is dead." "Well, the poor dear," Aunt Alvirah said, "she'd ought to be helped, I haven't a doubt." "Now, now!" exclaimed the miller, suspiciously. "Charity begins at home. I hope you ain't figgerin' on any foolish waste of money, Niece Ruth." The latter laughed. "I don't think Wonota would accept charity," she said. "And I have no intention of offering it to her in any case. But I should like to help the girl find her father--indeed I should." "You'd oughtn't to think you have to help everybody you come 'cross in the world, gal," advised Uncle Jabez, finally picking up the cash-box to retire to his room. "Every tub ought to stand on its own bottom, as I've allus told ye." When he was gone Aunt Alvirah shook her head sadly. "Ain't much brotherhood of man in Jabez Potter's idees of life," she said. "He says nobody ever helped him get up in the world, so why should he help others?" "Of all things!" exclaimed Ruth, with some warmth. "I wonder what he would have done all these years without you to make a home for him here!" "Tut, tut!" objected the old woman. "'Tain't me that's done for him. I was a poor lone creeter in the poorhouse when Jabez Potter came and took me out. I know that deep down in his old heart there's a flame of charity. Who should know it better?" "Oh, dear!" cried Ruth. "He keeps it wonderfully well hidden--that flame. He certainly does." Jennie laughed. "Well, why shouldn't he be cautious? See how many times you have been charitable, Ruth, and seen no gratitude in return." "Well!" gasped the girl of the Red Mill, in disgust, "is _that_ what we are to be charitable for? For shame!" "Right you are, my pretty," said Aunt Alvirah. "Doin' one's duty for duty's sake is the way the good Lord intended. And if Jabez Potter is charitable without knowin' it--and he _is_--all the better. It's charged up to his credit in heaven, I have no doubt." The girls were tired after their long ride in the keen evening air and they were ready for bed at a comparatively early hour. But after Ruth had got into bed she could not sleep. Thoughts rioted in her brain. For a week she had felt the inspiration of creative work milling in her mind--that is what she called it. She had promised the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation to think up some unusual story--preferably an outdoor plot--for their next picture. And thus far nothing had formed in her mind that suggested the thing desired. Outdoor stories had the call on the screen. They had but lately made one on the coast of Maine, the details of which are given in "Ruth Fielding Down East." Earlier in her career as a screen writer the girl of the Red Mill had made a success of a subject which was photographed in the mining country of the West. "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle" tells the story of this venture. There spun through her half-drowsing brain scenes of the Wild West Show they had attended this day. That was surely "outdoor stuff." Was there anything in what she had seen to-day to suggest a novel scheme for a moving picture? She turned and tossed. Her eyes would not remain closed. The program of Dakota Joe's Wild West and Frontier Round-Up marched in sequence through her memory. She did not want anything like that in her picture. It was all "old stuff," and the crying need of the film producer is "something new under the sun." Yet there was color and action in much of the afternoon's performance. Even Dakota Joe himself--as the figure of a villain, for instance--was not to be scorned. And Princess Wonota herself-- If the story was up to date, showing the modern, full-blooded Indian princess in love and action! Ruth suddenly bounded out of bed. She grabbed a warm robe, wrapped herself in it and ran across to Jennie's room. "Jennie! Jennie! I've got it!" Ruth cried in a loud whisper. Jennie's only answer was a prolonged and pronounced snore! She was lying on her back. "Jennie Stone!" exclaimed Ruth, shaking the plump girl by the shoulder. "Wo--wow--ough! Is it fire?" gasped Jennie, finally aroused. "No, no! I've got it!" repeated Ruth. "Well--ell--I hope it isn't catching," said the other rather crossly. "You've spoiled--ow!--my beauty sleep, Ruthie Fielding." "Listen!" commanded her friend. "I've the greatest idea for a picture. I know Mr. Hammond will be delighted. I am going to get Wonota on contract when she breaks with Dakota Joe. I'll make her the central figure of a big picture. She shall be the leading lady." "Why, Ruthie Fielding! that's something you have never yet done for me, and I have been your friend for years and years." "Never mind. When it seems that the time is ripe to screen a story about a pretty, plump girl, you shall have an important part in the production," promised Ruth. "But listen to me--do! I am going to make Princess Wonota an Indian star--" "I believe you," drawled the plump girl. "I suppose you might call her a 'shooting star'?" CHAPTER VI EVERYBODY AGREES BUT DAKOTA JOE An inspiration is all right--even when it strikes one in the middle of the night. So Jennie Stone remarked. But there had to be something practical behind such a venture as Ruth Fielding had suggested to the sleepy girl. Her thought regarding Princess Wonota of the Osage Tribe was partly due to her wish to help the Indian girl, and partly due to her desire to furnish Mr. Hammond and the Alectrion Film Corporation with another big feature picture. Ruth and Jennie (who became enthusiastic when she was awake in the morning) chattered about the idea like magpies from breakfast to lunch. Then Helen drove over from The Outlook, and she had to hear it all explained while Ruth and Jennie were making ready to go out in the car with her. "You must drive us right to Cheslow," Ruth said, "where I can get Mr. Hammond on the long-distance 'phone. This is important. I feel that I have a really good idea." "But what do you suppose that Dakota Joe will say?" drawled Helen. "He won't love you, I fear." "Has he got to know?" demanded Jennie. "Don't be a goose, Helen. This is all going to be done on the q.t." "Very well," sniffed the other girl. "Guess you'll find it difficult to take Wonota away from the Wild West Show without Joe's knowing anything about it." "Of course!" laughed Ruth. "But until the fatal break occurs we must not let him suspect anything." "I see. It is a fell conspiracy," remarked Helen. "Well, come on! The chariot awaits, my lady. If I am to drive a bunch of conspirators, let's be at it." "Helen would hustle one around," complained Jennie, "if she were in the plot to kill Cæsar." "Your tense is bad, little lady," said Helen. "Cæsar, according to the books, has been dead some years now. Right-o?" The girls sped away from the old mill, and in a little while Ruth was shut into a telephone booth talking with Mr. Hammond in a distant city. She told him a good deal more than she had the girls. It was his due. Besides, she had already got the skeleton of a story in her mind and she repeated the important points of this to the picture producer. "Sounds good, Miss Ruth," he declared. "But it all depends upon the girl. If you think she has the looks, is amenable to discipline, and has some natural ability, we might safely go ahead with it, I will get into communication by telegraph with the Department of Indian Affairs at Washington and with the agent at Three Rivers Station, Oklahoma, as well. We can afford to invest some money in the chance that this Wonota is a find." "Fifty-fifty, Mr. Hammond," Ruth told him. "On whatever it costs, remember, I am just as good a sport as you are when it comes to taking a chance in business." He laughed. "I have often doubted your blood relationship to Uncle Jabez," Mr. Hammond declared "He has no gambler's blood in his old veins." "He was born too long before the moving picture came into existence," she laughingly returned. "Now I mean to see Wonota again and try to encourage her to throw in her fortunes with us. At least, I hope to get her away from that disgusting Dakota Joe." Later Jennie teasingly suggested: "You should have taken up with his offer, Ruthie. You could have had free passes to the show in several towns." "I don't much wish to see the show again," Ruth declared. "I bet Mercy Curtis would like to see it," giggled Helen, "if Wonota was sure to shoot Joe. What a bloodthirsty child that Mercy continues to be." "She has changed a lot since we were all children together," Ruth said reflectively. "And I never did blame Mercy much for being so scrappy. Because of her lameness she missed a lot that we other girls had. I am so glad she has practically gotten over her affliction." "But not her failings of temper," suggested Jennie. "Still, as long as she takes it out on Dakota Joe, for instance, I don't know but I agree with her expressions of savage feeling." "Hear! Hear!" cried Helen. Despite their expressed dislike for Fenbrook, Helen and Jennie Stone accompanied Ruth the next day to the afternoon performance of the Wild West Show at a town much farther away than that at which they had first met Wonota, the Indian princess. Wonota was glad to see them--especially glad to see Ruth Fielding. For Ruth had given her hope for a change. The Indian girl was utterly disillusioned about traveling with a tent show; and even the promises Fenbrook had made her of improved conditions during the winter, when they would show for week-runs in the bigger cities, did not encourage Wonota to continue with him. "Yet I would very much like to earn money to spend in searching for the great Chief Totantora," she confessed to the three white girls. "The Great Father at Washington can do nothing now to find my father--and I do not blame the White Father. The whole world is at war and those peoples in Europe are sick with the fever of war. It is sad, but it cannot be helped." "And if you had money how would you go about looking for Chief Totantora?" Helen asked her curiously. "I must go over there myself. I must search through that German country." "Plucky girl!" ejaculated Jennie. "But not a chance!" "You think not, lady?" asked Wonota, anxiously. "We three have been to Europe--to France. We know something about the difficulties," said Ruth, quietly. "I understand how you feel, Wonota. And conditions may soon change. We believe the war will end. Then you can make a proper search for your father." "But not unless I have much money," said Wonota quickly. "The Osage people have valuable oil lands on their reservation. But it will be some years before money from them will be available, so the agent tells me. That is why I came with this show." "And that is why you wish to keep on earning money?" suggested Ruth reflectively. "That is why," Wonota returned, nodding. At this point in the conversation the showman himself came up. He smirked in an oily manner at the white girls and tried to act kindly toward his pretty employee. Wonota scarcely looked in the man's direction, but Ruth of course was polite in her treatment of Dakota Joe. "I see you're doin' like I asked you, ma'am," he hoarsely whispered behind his hairy hand to the girl of the Red Mill. "What's the prospect?" "I could scarcely tell you yet, Mr. Fenbrook," Ruth said decidedly. "Wonota must decide for herself, of course." "Humph! Wal, if she knows what's best for her she'll aim to stay right with old Dakota Joe. I'm her best friend." Ruth left the girl at this time with some encouraging words. She had told her that if she, Wonota, could get a release from her contract with the showman there would be an opportunity for her to earn much more money, and under better conditions, in the moving picture business. "Oh!" cried Wonota with sparkling eyes, "do you think I could act for the movies? I have often wanted to try." "There it is," said Helen, as the girls drove home. "Even the Red Indian is crazy to act in the movies. Can you beat it?" "Well," Ruth asked soberly, "who is there that is not interested in getting his or her picture taken? Not very many. And when it comes to appearing on the silver sheet--well, even kings and potentates fall for that!" Ruth was so sure that Wonota could be got into the moving pictures and that Mr. Hammond would be successful in making a star of the Indian girl, that that very night she sat up until the wee small hours laying out the plot of her picture story--the story which she hoped to make into a really inspirational film. There was coming, however, an unexpected obstacle to this achievement--an obstacle which at first seemed to threaten utter failure to her own and to Mr. Hammond's plans. CHAPTER VII DAKOTA JOE'S WRATH It was a crisp day with that tang of frost in the air that makes the old shiver and the young feel a tingling in the blood. Aunt Alvirah drew her chair closer to the stove in the sitting-room. She had a capable housework helper now, and even Jabez Potter made no audible objection, for Ruth paid the bill, and the dear old woman had time to sit and talk to "her pretty" as she loved to do. "Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she murmured, as she settled into her rocking-chair. "I am a leetle afraid, my pretty, that you will have your hands full if you write pictures for red savages to act. It does seem to me they air dangerous folks to have anything to do with. "Why, when I was a mite of a girl, I heard my great-grandmother tell that when she was a girl she went with her folks clean acrosst the continent--or, leastways, beyond the Mississippi, and they drove in a big wagon drawed by oxen." "Goodness! They went in an emigrant train?" cried Ruth. "Not at all. 'Twarn't no train," objected Aunt Alvirah. "Trains warn't heard of then. Why, _I_ can remember when the first railroad went through this part of the country and it cut right through Silas Bassett's farm. They told him he could go down to the tracks any time he felt like going to town, wave his hat, and the train would stop for him." "Well, wasn't that handy?" cried the girl. "It sounded good. But Silas didn't have it on paper. First off they did stop for him if he hailed the train. He didn't go to town more'n three or four times a year. Then the railroad changed hands. 'There arose up a new king over Egypt which knew not Joseph'--you know, like it says in the Bible. And when Silas Bassett waved his hat, the train didn't even hesitate!" Ruth laughed, but reminded her that they were talking about her great-grandmother's adventures in the Indian country years and years before. "Yes, that's a fact," said Aunt Alvirah Boggs. "She did have exciting times. Why, when they was traveling acrosst them Western prairies one day, what should pop up but a band of Indians, with tall feathers in their hair, and guns--mebbe bow and arrows, too. Anyway, they scare't the white people something tremendous," and the old woman nodded vigorously. "Well, the neighbors who were traveling together hastened to turn their wagons so as to make a fortress sort of, of the wagon-bodies, with the horses and the cattle and the humans in the center. You understand?" "Yes," Ruth agreed. "I have seen pictures of such a camp, with the Indians attacking." "Yes. Well, but you see," cackled the old woman suddenly, "them, Indians didn't attack at all. They rode down at a gallop, I expect, and scared the white folks a lot But what they come for was to see if there was a doctor in the party. Those Indians had heard of white doctors and knowed what they could do. The chief of the tribe had a favorite child that was very sick, and he come to see if a white doctor could save his child's life." "Oh!" cried Ruth, her eyes sparkling. "What an idea!" "Well, my pretty, I dunno," said Aunt Alvirah. "'Twas sensible enough, I should say, for that Indian chief to want the best doctoring there was for his child. The medicine men had tried to cure the poor little thing and failed. I expect even Red Indians sometimes love their children." "Why, of course, Aunt Alvirah. And you ought to see how lovable this girl Wonota is." "Mm--well, mebbe. Anyway, there was a doctor in that party my great-grandmother traveled with, and he rode to the Indian village and cured the sick child. And for the rest of their journey across them plains Indians, first of one tribe, then of another, rode with the party of whites. And they never had no trouble." "Isn't that great!" cried Ruth. And when she told Helen and Jennie about it--and the idea it had given Ruth for a screen story--her two chums agreed that it was "perfectly great." So Ruth was hard at work on a scenario, or detailed plot, even before Mr. Hammond made his arrangements with the Indian Department for the transferring of the services of Princess Wonota from Dakota Joe's Wild West Show to the Alectrion Film Corporation for a certain number of months. The matter had now gone so far that it could not be kept from Dakota Joe. He had spent money and pulled all the wires he could at the reservation to keep "Dead-Shot" Wonota in his employ. At first he did not realize that any outside agency was at work against him and for die girl's benefit. Ruth and her friends drove to a distant town to see the Indian girl when the Wild West Show played for two days. They attended the matinee and saw Wonota between the two performances and had dinner with her at the local hotel. After dinner they all went to an attorney's office, where the papers in the case were ready, and Wonota signed her new contract and Helen and Jennie were two of the witnesses thereto. Mr. Hammond could not be present, but he had trusted to Ruth's good sense and business acumen. In a week--giving Dakota Joe due notice--the old contract would be dead and Wonota would be at liberty under permission from the Indian Agent to leave the show. As Helen stopped the car before the torch-lighted entrance to the show for Wonota to step out, Dakota Joe strode out to the side of the road. He was scowling viciously. "What's the matter with you, Wonota?" he demanded. "You trying to queer the show? You ain't got no more'n enough time to dress for your act. Get on in there, like I tell you." Instead of propitiating Ruth now, he showed her the ugly side of his character. "I guess you been playin' two-faced, ain't you, ma'am?" he growled as Wonota fled toward the dressing tent "I thought you was a friend of mine. But I believe you been cuttin' the sand right out from under my feet. Ain't you?" "I do not know what you mean, Mr. Fenbrook," said Ruth sharply. "You're Ruth Fielding, ain't you?" he demanded. "Yes. That is my name." "So they tell me," growled Dakota Joe. "And you are coupled up with this Hammond feller that they tell me has put in a bid for Wonota over and above what she's wuth, and what I can pay. Ain't that so?" "If you wish to discuss the matter with Mr. Hammond I will give you his address," Ruth said with dignity. "I am not prepared to discuss the matter with you, Mr. Fenbrook." "Is that so?" he snarled. "Well, ma'am, whether you want to talk or don't want to talk, things ain't goin' all your way. No, ma'am! I got some rights. The courts will give me my rights to Wonota. I'm her guardian, I am. Her father, Totantora, is dead, and I'll show you folks--and that Injun agent--just where you get off in this business!" "Go on," said Ruth to Helen, without answering the angry man. But when the car had gone a little way along the road, the girl of the Red Mill exclaimed: "Dear me! I fear that man will make trouble. I--I wish Tom were here." "Don't say a word!" gasped Helen. "But not only because he could handle this Western bully do I wish Tommy-boy was home and the war was over." "Why don't you offer Dakota Joe a job in your picture company, too?" drawled Jennie Stone. "He'd make such a fine 'bad man.'" "He certainly would," agreed Helen. Just how bad the proprietor of the Wild West Show could be was proved the following day. Mr. Hammond sent Ruth a telegram In the morning intimating that something had gone wrong with their plans to get Wonota into their employ. * * * * * "The Court has given Fenbrook an injunction. What do you know about it?" * * * * * Now, of course, Ruth Fielding did not know anything at all about it. And after what she had seen of Dakota Joe she had no mind to go to him on behalf of Mr. Hammond and herself. If the Westerner was balking the attempt to get Wonota out of his clutches, nothing would beat him, Ruth believed, but legal proceedings. She telegraphed Mr. Hammond to this effect, advising that he put the matter in the hands of the attorney that had drawn the new contract with the Indian girl. "The goodness knows," she told Aunt Alvirah and Uncle Jabez, "I don't want to have anything personally to do with that rough man. He is just as ugly as he can be." "Wal," snorted the miller, "he better not come around here cutting up his didoes! Me and Ben will tend to him!" Ruth could not help being somewhat fearful of the proprietor of the Wild West Show. If the man really made up his mind to make trouble, Ruth hoped that he would not come to the Red Mill. Helen and Jennie drove over to the mill to get Ruth that afternoon, and they planned to take Aunt Alvirah out with them. She had lost her fear of the automobile and had even begun to hint to the miller that she wished he would buy a small car. "Land o' Goshen!" grumbled Uncle Jabez, "what next? I s'pose you'd want to learn to run the dratted thing, Alvirah Boggs?" "Well, Jabez Potter, I don't see why not?" she had confessed. "Other women learns." "Huh! You with one foot in the grave and the other on the gas, eh?" he snorted. However, Aunt Alvirah did not go out in Helen's car on this afternoon. While the girls were waiting for her to be made ready, Helen looked back, up the road, down which she and Jennie had just come. "What's this?" she wanted to know. "A runaway horse?" Jennie stood up to look over the back of the car. She uttered an excited squeal. "Helen! Ruthie!" she declared. "It's that Indian girl--in all her war-togs, too. She is riding like the wind. And, yes! There is somebody after her! Talk about your moving picture chases--this is the real thing!" "It's Dakota Joe!" shrieked Helen. "Goodness! He must have gone mad. See him beating that horse he rides. Why--" "He surely has blown up," stated Jennie Stone with conviction. "Ruthie! what are you going to do?" CHAPTER VIII A WONDERFUL EVENT Wonota was a long way ahead of the Westerner. She was light and she bestrode a horse with much more speed than the one Dakota Joe rode. She lay far along her horse's neck and urged it with her voice rather than a cruel goad. The plucky pony was responding nobly, although it was plain, as it came nearer to the girls before the old mill farmhouse, that it had traveled hard. It was thirty miles from the town where the Wild West Show was performing to the Red Mill. "Oh, Wonota!" cried Jennie Stone, beckoning the Indian girl on. "What is the matter?" Ruth had not waited to get any report from Wonota. She turned and dashed for the house. Already Sarah, the maid-of-all-work, had started through the covered passage to the mill, shrieking for Ben, the hired man. Ben and the miller ran down the long walk to roadside. Jabez Potter was no weakling despite his age, while Ben was a giant of a fellow, able to handle two ordinary men. Wonota pulled her pony in behind Helen's car, whirling to face her pursuer. She did not carry the light rifle she used in her act. Perhaps it would have been better had she been armed, for Dakota Joe was quite beside himself with wrath. He came pounding along, swinging his whip and yelling at the top of his voice. "What's the matter with that crazy feller?" demanded the old miller in amazement. "He chasin' that colored girl?" "She's not colored. She is my Indian princess, Uncle Jabez," Ruth explained. "I swanny, you don't mean it! Hi, Ben!" But nobody had to tell Ben what to do. As Fenbrook drew in his horse abruptly, the mill-hand jumped into the road, grabbed Dakota Joe's whip-hand, broke his hold on the reins, and dragged the Westerner out of the saddle. It was a feat requiring no little strength, and it surprised Dakota Joe as much as it did anybody. "Hey, you! What you doin'?" bawled Dakota Joe, when he found himself sitting on the hard ground, staring up at the group. "Ain't doing nothing," drawled Ben. "It's done. Better sit where you be, Mister, and cool off." "What sort o' tomfoolishness is this?" asked the miller again. "Makin' one o' them picture-shows right here on the public road? I want to know!" At that, and without rising from his seat in the road, Dakota Joe Fenbrook lifted up his voice and gave his opinion of all moving picture people, and especially those that would steal "that Injun gal" from a hard-working man like himself. He stated that the efforts of a "shark named Hammond" and this girl here that he thought was a lady an' friendly to him were about to ruin his show. "They'll crab the whole business if they git Wonota away from me. That's what will happen! And I ought to give her a blame' good lickin'--" "We won't hear nothing more about that," interrupted the old miller, advancing a stride or two toward the angry Westerner. "Whether the gal's got blue blood or red blood, or what color, she ain't going to be mishandled none by you. Understand? You git up and git!" "But what has happened, Wonota?" the puzzled Ruth asked the Indian girl. Wonota pointed scornfully at Fenbrook, just then struggling to his feet. "Joe, heap smart white man. Wuh!" She really was grimly chuckling. "He go get a talking paper from the court. Call it injunction, eh?" "I heard about the injunction," admitted Ruth interestedly. "All right Wonota can't leave Joe to work for you, eh? But the paleface law-man say to me that that talking paper good only In that county. You see? I not in that county now." "Oh, Jerry!" gasped Jennie Stone. "Isn't that cute? She is outside the jurisdiction of the court." "Sho!" exclaimed Jabez Potter, much amused by this outcome of the matter. "It is a fact. Go on back to your show, mister. The gal's here, and she's with friends, and that's all there is to it." Dakota Joe had already realized this situation. He climbed slowly into his saddle and eyed them all--especially Ruth and Wonota--with a savage glare. "Wait!" he growled. "Wait--that's all. I'll fix you movie people yet--the whole of you! It's the sorriest day's job you ever done to get Wonota away from me. Wait!" He rode away. When he was some rods up the road, down which he had galloped, he set spurs to his horse again and dashed on and out of sight. For a little while nobody spoke. It was Jennie who, as usual, light-hearted and unafraid, broke the silence. "Well, all right, we'll wait," she said. "But we needn't do it right here, I suppose. We can sit down and wait just as easily." Helen laughed. But Ruth and Wonota were sober, and even Uncle Jabez Potter saw something to take note of in the threat of the proprietor of the Wild West Show. "That man is a coward. That's as plain as the nose on your face. And a coward when he gits mad and threatens you is more to be feared than a really brave man. That man's a coward. He's mean. He's p'ison mean! You want to look out for him, Niece Ruth. I wouldn't wonder if he tried, some time, to do you and Mr. Hammond some trick that won't bring you in no money, to say the least." The old miller went off with that statement on his lips. Ben, the hired man, followed him, shaking his head. The girls looked at each other, then at the rapidly disappearing cloud of dust raised by Dakota Joe's pony. Jennie said: "Well, goodness! why so serious? Guess that man won't do such a much! Don't be scared, Wonota. We won't let anybody hurt you." "I wish Tom were here," Ruth Fielding repeated. And in less than forty-eight hours this wish of the girl of the Red Mill seemed to her almost prophetical. Tom Cameron was coming home! The whole land rejoiced over that fact. The whole world, indeed, gave thanks that it was possible for a young captain in the American Expeditionary Forces to look forward to his release and return to his home. The armistice had been declared. Cheslow, like every town and city in the Union, celebrated the great occasion. It was not merely a day's celebration. The war was over (or so it seemed) and the boys who were so much missed would be coming home again. It took some time for Ruth and her friends to realize that this return must be, because of the nature of things, postponed for many tiresome months. Before Tom Cameron was likely to be freed from the army, the matter of the Indian girl's engagement with the moving picture corporation must be completely settled--at least, as far as Dakota Joe's claim upon Wonota's services went. CHAPTER IX THE PLOT DEVELOPS Ruth had insisted upon Wonota's remaining at the Red Mill from the hour she had ridden there for protection. Not that they believed Fenbrook would actually harm the Indian girl after he had cooled down. But it was better that she should be in Ruth's care as long as she was to work somewhat under the latter's tutelage. Besides, it gave the picture writer a chance to study her subject. It would be too much to expect that Wonota could play a difficult part. She had had no experience in acting. Ruth knew that she must fit a part to Wonota, not the girl to a part. In other words, the Indian girl was merely a type for screen exploitation, and the picture Ruth wrote must be fitted to her capabilities. Grasping, like any talented writer does, at any straw of novelty, Ruth had seen possibilities in the little incident Aunt Alvirah had told about her ancestor who had crossed the Western plains in the early emigrant days. She meant to open her story with a similar incident, as a prologue to the actual play. Ruth made her heroine (the part she wished to fit to Wonota, the Osage Indian girl) repay in part the debt her family owed the white physician by saving a descendant of the physician from peril in the Indian country. This young man, the hero, is attracted by the Indian maid who has saved his life; but he is under the influence of a New York girl, one of the tourist party, to whom he is tentatively engaged. But the New York girl deserts the hero when he gets into difficulty in New York. He is accused of a crime that may send him to the penitentiary for a long term and there seems no way to disprove the crime. Word of his peril comes to the Indian maid in her Western home. She knows and suspects the honesty of the timber men with whom the hero is connected in business. She discovers these villains are the guilty ones, and she travels to New York to testify for him and to clear him of the charge. The end of the story, as well as the beginning, was to be filmed in the wilds. With the incidents of her plot gradually taking form in her mind and being jotted down on paper, Ruth's hours began to be very full. She was with Wonota as much as possible, and the Indian girl began to show an almost doglike devotion to the girl of the Red Mill. "That is not to be wondered at, of course," Jennie Stone said, as she was about to return to her New York home. "Everybody falls for our Ruth. It's a wonder to me that she has not been elected to the presidency." "Wait till we women get the vote," declared Helen. "Then we'll send Ruth to the chair." "Goodness!" ejaculated Jennie. "That sounds terrible, Nell! One might think you mean the electric chair." "Is there much difference, after all, between that and the presidential chair?" Helen demanded, chuckling. "The way some people talk about a president!" "We are a loose-talking people," Ruth interrupted gravely, "and I think you girls talk almost as irresponsibly as anybody I ever heard." "List to the stern and uncompromising Ruthie," scoffed Jennie. "I am glad I am going back to Aunt Kate. She is a spinster, I admit; but she isn't anywhere near as old-maid-like as Ruth Fielding." "I'll tell Tom about that," said Tom's sister wickedly. "Spinsters are the balance-wheel of the universe machinery," declared Ruth, laughing. "I always have admired them. But, joking aside, at this time when the whole world should be so grateful and so much in earnest because of the end of a terrible war, trivial matters and trivial talk somehow seems to jar." "Not so! Not so!" cried Helen vigorously. "We have been holding in and trying to keep cheerful with the fear at our hearts that some loved one would suddenly be taken. It was not lightness of heart that made people dance and act as though rattled-pated during the war. It was an attempt to hide that awful fear in their hearts. See how the people in Cheslow acted as though they were crazy the night of the armistice. And did you read what the papers said about the times in New York? It was only a natural outbreak." "Well," remarked. Ruth, shrugging her shoulders, "you certainly have got off the subject of old maids--bless 'em! Give my love to your Aunt Kate, Jennie, and when we come to the city to take the shots for this picture, I'll surely see her." "Hi!" cried Miss Stone energetically. "I guess you will! You'll come right to the house and stay with us during that time!" "Oh, no. I shall have Wonota with me. We will stay at a hotel. Our hours are always so uncertain when we shoot a picture that I could not undertake to be at any private house." There was some discussion over this. Ruth did not intend to let Wonota out of her sight much while the picture was being made. Nor did she propose to let the script of the picture out of her sight until copies could be made of it, and the continuity man had made his version for the director. Ruth was not going to run the risk of losing another scenario, as she had once while Down East. Ruth put in two weeks' hard work on the new story. As she laughingly said, she ate, slept, and talked movies all the time. Wonota had to amuse herself; but that did not seem hard for the Indian girl to do. She was naturally of a very quiet disposition. She sat by Aunt Alvirah for hours doing beadwork while the old woman darned or knitted. "You wouldn't ever suspect she was a Red Indian unless you looked at her," Aunt Alvirah confessed to the rest of the family. "She's a very nice girl." As for Wonota, she said: "I used to sit beside my grandmother and work like this. Yes, Chief Totantora taught me to shoot and paddle a canoe, and to do many other things out-of-doors. But my grandmother was the head woman of our tribe, and her beadwork and dyed porcupine-quill work was the finest you ever saw, Ruth Fielding. I was sorry to leave my war-bag with Dakota Joe. It had in it many keepsakes my grandmother gave me before she passed to the Land of the Spirits." A demand had been made upon the proprietor of the Wild West Show for Wonota's possessions, but the man had refused to give them up. The girl had not brought away with her even the rifle she had used so successfully in the show. But her pony, West Wind, was stabled in the Red Mill barn. Indeed, Uncle Jabez had begun to hint that the animal was "eating its head off." The miller could not help showing what Aunt Alvirah called "his stingy streak" in spite of the fact that he truly was interested in the Indian maid and liked her. "That redskin gal," he confessed in private to Ruth, "is a pretty shrewd and sensible gal. She got to telling me the other day how her folks ground grist in a stone pan, or the like, using a hard-wood club to pound it with. Right slow process of makin' flour or meal, I do allow. "But what do you think she said when I put that up to her--about it's being a slow job?" and the miller chuckled. "Why, she told me that all her folks had was time, and they'd got to spend it somehow. They'd better be grinding corn by hand than making war on their neighbors or the whites, like they used to. She ain't so slow." Ruth quite agreed with this. The Osage maiden was more than ordinarily intelligent, and she began to take a deep interest in the development of the story that Ruth was making for screen use. "Am I to be that girl?" she asked doubtfully. "How can I play that I am in love when I have never seen a man I cared for--in that way?" "Can't you imagine admiring a nice young man?" asked Ruth in return. "Not a white man like this one in your story," Wonota said soberly. "It should be that he did more for himself--that he was more of a--a brave. We Indians do not expect our men to be saved from disgrace by women. Squaws are not counted of great value among the possessions of a chief." "So you could not really respect such a man as I describe here if he allowed a girl to help him?" Ruth asked reflectively, for Wonota's criticism was giving her some thought. "He should not be such a man--to need the help of a squaw," declared the Indian maid confidently. "But, of course, it does not matter if only palefaces are to see the picture." But Ruth could not get the thought out of her mind. It might be that the Indian girl had suggested a real fault in the play she was making, and she took Mr. Hammond into her confidence about it when she sent him the first draft of the story. Her whole idea of the principal male character in "Brighteyes" might need recasting, and she awaited the picture producer's verdict with some misgiving. While she waited a red-letter day occurred---so marked both for herself and for Helen Cameron. The chums had hoped--oh, how fondly!--that they would hear that Tom Cameron was on his way home. But gradually the fact that demobilization would take a long time was becoming a fixed idea in the girls' minds. Letters came from Tom Cameron--one each for the two girls and one for Mr. Cameron. Instead of being on his way home, Captain Cameron had been sent even farther from the French port to which he had originally sailed in the huge transport from New York. * * * * * "I am now settled on the Rhine--one of the 'watches,' I suppose, that the Germans used to sing about, now stamped 'Made in America,' however," he wrote to Ruth. "We watch a bridge-head and see that the Germans don't carry away anything that might be needed on this side of the most over-rated river in the world. I have come to the conclusion, since seeing a good bit of Europe, that most of the scenery is over-rated and does not begin to compare with the natural beauties of America. So many foreigners come to our shores and talk about the beauty-spots of their own countries, and so few Americans have in the past seen much of their own land, that we accept the opinions of homesick foreigners as to the superiority of the beauties of their father-and-mother-lands. After this war I guess there will be more fellows determined to give the States the 'once over.'" * * * * * Tom always wrote an Interesting letter; but aside from that, of course Ruth was eager to hear from him. And now, as soon as she could, she sat down and replied to his communication. She had, too, a particular topic on which she wished to write her friend. Now that embattled Germany would no longer hold its prisoners _incommunicado_, Ruth hoped that news about the imprisoned performers of the Wild West Show might percolate through the lines. Chief Totantora had been able but once to get a message to his daughter. This message had reached America long before the United States had got into the war. Although the Osage chieftain was an American (who could claim such proud estate if Totantora could not?), the show by which he was employed had gone direct to Germany from England, and anything English had, from the first, been taboo in Germany. Now, of course, the Indian girl had no idea as to where her father was. "See if you can hear anything about those performers," Ruth wrote to Tom. "Get word if you can to the Chief of the Osage Indians and tell him that his daughter is with me, and that she longs for his return. "I should love to make her happy by aiding in Chief Totantora's reappearance in his native land. She is so sad, indeed, that I wonder if she is going to be able to register, for the screen, the happiness that she should finally show when my picture is brought to its conclusion." CHAPTER X ONE NEW YORK DAY That "happy ending" became a matter of much thought on Ruth's part, and the cause of not a little argument between her and Mr. Hammond when he came up to Cheslow and the Red Mill to discuss "Brighteyes" with its youthful author. He had come, too, to get a glimpse of Wonota in the flesh. One of the first things Ruth had done when the Indian girl came under her care was to take Wonota to Cheslow and have the best photographer of the town take several "stills" of the Indian girl. Copies of these she had sent to the Alectrion Film Corporation, and word had come back from both Mr. Hammond and his chief director that the photographs of Wonota were satisfactory. The president of the film company, however, was interested in talking with Wonota and judging as far as possible through cursory examination just how much there was to the girl. "What has she got in her? That is what we want to know," he said to Ruth. "Can she get expression into her face? Can she put over feeling? We want something besides mere looks, Miss Ruth, as you very well know." "I realize all that," the girl of the Red Mill told him earnestly. "But remember, Mr. Hammond, you cannot judge this Osage girl by exactly the same standards as you would a white girl!" "Why not? She's got to be able to show on the screen the deepest feelings of her nature--" "Not if you would have my 'Brighteyes' true to life," interrupted Ruth anxiously. "You must not expect it." "Why not?" he demanded again, with some asperity. "We don't want to show the people a dummy. I tell you the public is getting more and more critical. They won't stand for just pretty pictures. The actors In them must express their thoughts and feelings as they do in real life." "Exactly!" Ruth hastened to say. "That is what I mean. My 'Brighteyes' is a full-blooded Indian maiden just like Wonota. Now, you talk with Wonota--try to get to the very heart of the girl. Then you will see." "See what?" he demanded, staring. "What you will see," returned Ruth, with a laugh. "Go ahead and get acquainted with Wonota. Meanwhile I will be getting this condensed plot of the story into shape for us to talk over. I must rewrite that street scene again, I fear. And, of course, we are in a hurry?" "Always," grumbled the producer. "We must start for our Western location as soon as possible; but the New York scenes must be shot first." It was a fine day, and the shore of the Lumano River offered a pleasant prospect for out-of-door exercise, and after he had spent more than an hour walking about with Wonota, the canny Mr. Hammond obtained, he said, a "good line" on the character and capabilities of the Indian girl. "You had me guessing for a time, Miss Ruth," he laughingly said to the girl of the Red Mill. "I did not know what you were hinting at I see it now. Wonota is a true redskin. We read about the stoicism of her race, but we do not realize what that means until we try to fathom an Indian's deeper feelings. "I talked with her about her father. She is very proud of him, this Totantora, as she calls him. But only now and then does she express (and that in a flash) her real love and admiration for him. "She is deeply, and justly, angered at that Dakota Joe Fenbrook. But she scarcely expresses that feeling in her face or voice. She speaks of his cruelty to her with sadness in her voice merely, and scarcely a flicker of expression in her countenance." "Ah!" Ruth said. "Now you see what I see. It is impossible for her to register changing expressions and feelings as a white girl would. Nor would she be natural as 'Brighteyes' if she easily showed emotion. Yet she mustn't be stolid, for if she does the audience will never get what we are trying to put over." "The director has got to have judgment--I agree to that," said Mr. Hammond, nodding. "Wonota must be handled with care. But she's got it in her to be a real star in time. She photographs like a million dollars!" and he laughed. "Now if we can teach her to be expressive enough--well, I am more than ever willing to take the chance with her, provided you, Miss Ruth, will agree to supply the vehicles of expression." "You flatter me, Mr. Hammond," returned Ruth, flushing faintly. "I shall of course be glad to do my best in the writing line." "That's it. Between us we ought to make a lot of money. And incidentally to make an Indian star who will make 'em all sit up and take notice." Ruth was so much interested in "Brighteyes" by this time that she "ate, slept, walked and talked" little else--to quote Helen. But Tom's sister grew much interested in the production, too. "I'm going with you--to New York, anyway," she announced. "I might as well. Father is so busy with his business now that I scarcely see him from week end to week end. Dear me, if Tommy only would come home!" "I guess he'd be delighted," rejoined Ruth, smiling. "But if you go with me, honey, you're likely to be dragged around a good deal. I expect to jump from New York to somewhere in the Northwest. Mr. Hammond has not exactly decided. The weather is very promising, and if we can shoot the outdoor scenes before Christmas we'll be all right." "Well, I do love to travel. Maybe we could get Jennie to go, too," Helen said reflectively. "She certainly would help," laughed Ruth. "I would rather laugh with Jennie than grouch with anybody else." "The wisdom of Mrs. Socrates," scoffed Helen. "Anyway, Ruthie, I'll write her at once and tell her to begin pulling wires. You know, Mr. Stone is as 'sot as the everlasting hills'--and it takes something to move the hills, you know. He will have to be convinced, maybe, that Jennie's health demands a change of climate at just this time." "She looks it." "Well, one might expect her to fade away a bit because of Henri's absence. I wonder if she's heard from him since the armistice?" "If she hasn't she'll need something besides a change of climate, I assure you," laughed Ruth again. "She hates ocean voyaging, does Jennie; but she wouldn't wait till she could go in an ox-cart to get back to France if Henri forgot to write." There was one thing sure: Jennie Stone was a delighted host when Helen arrived in New York a few days ahead of Ruth and Wonota. Ruth had not intended to go to the Stones; she would have felt more independent at a hotel. She did not know what engagements Mr. Hammond or the director of the picture might make for her. So she tried to dodge Jennie's invitation. When the train got in from New England, however, and Ruth and the Indian girl, following a red-capped porter with their bags, walked through the gateway of entrance to the concourse of the Grand Central Terminal, there were both Jennie and Helen waiting to spy them. "Mr. Hammond told me to come to the Borneaux. He has made reservations there," Ruth said. "That's all right for to-morrow," declared Jennie bruskly. "Hotel rooms are all right to make up in, or anything like that. But you are both going to my house for to-night" "Now, Jennie--" "No buts or ands about it!" exclaimed her friend. "If you don't come, Ruthie Fielding, I'll never speak to you again. And if Wonota doesn't come I declare I'll tell Dakota Joe where she is, and he'll come after her and steal her. In fact," Jennie added, wickedly smiling, "his old Wild West Show is playing right here in the Big Town this week." "You don't mean it!" exclaimed Ruth, while the Indian girl shrank a little closer to her friend. "Sure do. In Brooklyn. A three-day stand in one of the big armories over there, I believe. So a telephone call--" "Shucks!" exclaimed Helen. "Don't you believe her, Wonota. Just the same you folks had better come to the Stone house. Mr. Stone has taken a whole box to-night for one of the very best musical shows that ever was!" Ruth could see that the Indian girl was eager to agree. She did show some small emotions which paleface girls displayed. She laughed more than at first, too. But she was often downright gloomy when thinking of Chief Totantora. However, seeing Wonota wished to accept the invitation, and desiring herself to please Helen and Jennie, Ruth agreed. They telephoned a message to the Hotel Borneaux and then went off to dinner at the Stone house. It was a very nice party indeed, and even busy Mr. Stone did his best to put Wonota at her ease. "Some wigwam this, isn't it, Wonata?" said Helen, smiling, as the girls went upstairs after dinner to prepare for the theatre. "The Osage nation does not live in wigwams, Miss Cameron," said Wonota quietly. "We are not blanket Indians and have not been for two generations." "Well, look at the clothes you wore in that show!" cried Jennie. "That head-dress looked wild enough, I must say--and those fringed leggings and all that." Wonota smiled rather grimly. "The white people expect to see Indians in their national costumes. Otherwise it would be no novelty, would it? Why, some of the girls--Osage girls of pure blood too--at Three Rivers Station wear garments that are quite up to date. You must not forget that at least we have the catalogs from the city stores to choose from, even if we do not actually get to the cities to shop." "Printer's ink! It is a great thing," admitted Helen. "I don't suppose there are really any wild Indians left." The four girls and Aunt Kate were whisked in a big limousine to the play, and Wonota enjoyed the brilliant spectacle and the music as much as any of the white girls. "Believe me," whispered Jennie to Ruth, "give any kind of girl a chance to dress up and go to places like this, and see other girls all fussed up, as your Tommy says--" "Helen's Tommy, you mean," interposed Ruth. "Rats!" murmured the plump girl, falling back upon Briarwood Hall slang in her momentary disgust. "Well, anyway, Miss Fielding, what I said is so. Wonota would like to dress like the best dressed girl in the theatre, and wear ropes of pearls and a plume in her hat--see that one yonder! Isn't it superb?" "The poor birdie that lost it," murmured Ruth. "I declare, I don't believe you half enjoy yourself thinking of the reverse of the shield all the time," sniffed Jennie Stone. "And yet you do manage to dress pretty good yourself." "One does not have to be bizarre to look well and up-to-date," declared the girl of the Red Mill. "But that has nothing to do with Wonota." "I did get off the track, didn't I?" laughed Jennie. "Oh, well! Dress her up, or any other foreign girl, in American fashion and she seems to fit into the picture all right--" "'Foreign girl' and 'American fashion'?" gasped Ruth. "As--as _you_ sometimes say, Jennie, 'how do you get that way'? Wonota is a better American than we are. Her ancestors did not have to come over in the _Mayflower_, with Henry Hudson, or with Sir Walter Raleigh." "Isn't that a fact?" laughed Jennie. "I certainly am forgetting everything I ever learned at school. And, to tell the truth," she added, making a little face at her chum, "I feel better for it. I just _crammed_ at Ardmore and Briarwood." Helen heard this. She glanced scornfully over Jennie's still too plump figure. "I should say you did," she observed. "You used to create a famine at old Briarwood Hall, I remember. But I would not brag about it, Heavy." "Crammed my brain, I mean," wailed the plump girl. "Can't you let me forget my avoirdupois at all?" "It is like the poor," laughed Ruth. "It is always with us, Jennie. We cannot look at you and visualize your skeleton. You are too well upholstered." This sort of banter did not appeal to the Indian girl. She did not, in fact, hear much of it. All her attention was given to the play on the stage and the brilliant audience. She had traveled considerably with Dakota Joe's show, but she had never seen anything like the audience in this Broadway theatre. She went back to the Stone domicile in a sort of daze--smiling and happy in her quiet way, but quite speechless. Even Jennie could not "get a rise out of her," as she confessed to Helen and Ruth after they were ready for bed and the plump girl had come in to perch on one of the twin beds her chums occupied for the night. "But I like this Osage flower," observed Jennie. "And I am just as anxious as I can be to see you make a star actress out of her, Ruthie." "It will be Mr. Hammond and the director who do that." "I guess you'll be in it," said Helen promptly. "If it wasn't for your story they would not be able to feature Wonota." "Anyway," went on Jennie, "I want to go West with you, Ruth--and so does Helen. Don't you, Nell?" "I certainly do," agreed Ruth's good friend. "Heavy and I are going to tag along, Ruthie, somehow. If there is a chaperone, father said I could go." "Not Aunt Kate!" cried Jennie. "She says she has had enough. We dragged her down East this summer, but she will not leave Madison Avenue this winter." "No need of worrying about that. Mother Paisley is going with the company. I have a part for her in my picture. She always looks out for the girls--a better chaperone than Mr. Hammond could hire," said Ruth. "Fine!" cried Helen. "We'll go, then." "We will," echoed Jennie. "I wish you'd go to bed and let me go to sleep," complained the girl of the Red Mill. "I have a hard day's work to-morrow--I feel it." She was not mistaken in this feeling. At eight Mr. Hammond's assistant telephoned that the director and the company would meet Ruth and Wonota at a certain downtown corner where several of the scenes were to be shot. Dressing rooms in a neighboring hotel had been engaged. Ruth and her charge hastened through their breakfast, and Mr. Stone's chauffeur drove them down to the corner mentioned. It was a very busy spot, especially about noon. Ruth had seen so much of this location work done, that it did not bother her. She was only to stand to one side and watch, anyway. But Wonota asked: "Oh! we don't have to do this right out here in public, do we, Miss Fielding?" "You do," laughed her friend. "Why, the people on the street help make the picture seem reasonable and natural. You need not be frightened." "But, shall I have to be in that half-Indian costume Mr. Hammond told me to wear? What will people say--or think?" Ruth was amused. "That's the picture. You will see some of the characters in stranger garments than those of yours before we have finished. And, anyway, in New York you often see the most outlandish costumes on people--Turks in their national dress, Hindoos with turbans and robes, Japanese and Chinese women dressed in the silks and brocades of their lands. Oh, don't worry about bead-trimmed leggings and a few feathers. And your skirt in that costume is nowhere near as short as those worn by three-fourths of the girls you will see." Aside from Wonota herself, there were few of the characters of the picture of "Brighteyes" appearing in the scenes at this point. Mr. Hammond had obtained a police permit of course, and the traffic officers and some other policemen in the neighborhood took an interest in the affair. Traffic was held back at a certain point for a few moments so that there would not be too many people in the scene. Wonota could not be hidden. Ruth stood in the street watching the arrangements by the director and his assistants. Two films are always made at the same time, and the two camera men had got into position and had measured with their tapes the field of the picture to be taken. Ruth had noticed an automobile stopped by the police on the other side of the cross street. She even was aware that two men in it were not dressed like ordinary city men. They had broad-brimmed hats on their heads. But she really gave the car but a momentary glance. Wonota took up her closest attention. The Indian girl crossed and recrossed the field of the camera until she satisfied the director that her gait and facial expression was exactly what he wanted. "All right!" he said through his megaphone. "Camera! Go!" And at that very moment, and against the commanding gesture of the policeman governing the traffic, the car Ruth had so briefly noticed started forward, swerved into the avenue, and ran straight at Ruth as though to run her down! CHAPTER XI EVADING THE TRAFFIC POLICE Ruth had turned her back on the car and did not see it slip out of the crowd of motor traffic and turn into the avenue. But Wonota, the Indian girl, saw her friend's danger. She uttered a loud cry and bounded out of the camera field just as the two camera men began to crank their machines. "Look out, Miss Fielding!" The cry startled Ruth, but it did not aid her much to escape. And perhaps the chauffeur of the car only intended to crowd by the girl of the Red Mill and so escape from the traffic hold-up. At Wonota's scream the director shouted for the camera men to halt. He started himself with angry excitement after the Indian girl. She had utterly spoiled the shot. But on the instant he was adding his warning cry to Wonota's and to the cries of other bystanders. Ruth, amazed, could not understand what Wonota meant. Then the car was upon her, the mudguard knocked her down, and her loose coat catching in some part of the car, she was dragged for several yards before Wonota could reach her. Over and over in the dust Ruth had been whirled. She was breathless and bruised. She could not even cry out, the shock of the accident was so great. The instant the Indian girl reached the prostrate Ruth the motor-car broke away and its driver shot the machine around the nearest corner and out of sight. A policeman charged after the car at top speed, but when he reached the corner there were so many other cars in the cross street that he could not identify the one that had caused the accident. To Ruth, Wonota gasped: "That bad man! I knew he would do something mean, but I thought it would be to me." Ruth could scarcely reply. The director was at her side, as well as other sympathetic people. She was lifted up, but she could not stand. Something had happened to her left ankle. She could bear no weight upon it without exquisite pain. For the time the taking of the picture was called off. The traffic officer allowed the stalled cars to pass on. A crowd began to assemble about Ruth. "Do take me into the hotel--somewhere!" she gasped. "I--I can't walk--" One of the camera men and the director, Mr. Hooley, made a seat with their hands, and sitting in this and with Wonota to steady her, the girl of the Red Mill was hurried under cover, leaving the throng of spectators on the street quite sure that the accident had been a planned incident of the moving picture people. They evidently considered Ruth a "stunt actress." It was not until Ruth was alone with Wonota in a hotel room, lying on a couch, the Indian girl stripping the shoe and stocking from the injured limb, that Ruth asked what Wonota had meant when she first bounded toward her, shrieking her warning of the motor-car's approach. "What did you mean, Wonota?" asked the girl of the Red Mill. "Who was it ran over me? I know Mr. Hooley will try to find him, but--" "That bad, _bad_ Dakota Joe!" interrupted the Indian girl with vehemence, her eyes flashing and the color deeping in her bronze cheeks. "When your friend told us he was in this city, I feared." "Why, Wonota!" cried Ruth, sitting up in surprise, "do you mean to say that Dakota Joe Fenbrook was driving that car?" "No. He cannot drive a car. But it was one of his men--Yes." "I can scarcely believe it. He deliberately ran me down?" "I saw Dakota Joe in the back of the car just as it shot down toward you, Miss Fielding. He is a bad, bad man! He was leaning forward urging that driver on. I know he was." "Why, it seems terrible!" Ruth sighed. "Yes, that feels good on my ankle, Wonota. I do not believe it is really sprained. Oh, but it hurt at first! Wrenched, I suppose." Jim Hooley, the director, had telephoned for Mr. Hammond, and the producer hurried to the hotel. He insisted on bringing a surgeon with him. But by the time of their arrival Ruth felt much easier, and after the medical man had pronounced no real harm done to the ankle, Ruth dressed again, insisting that a second attempt be made to shoot the scene while the sun remained high enough. The police had endeavored to trace the motor-car that had caused the accident. But it seemed that nobody had noted the numbers on the machine, or even the kind of car it was. Ruth had forbidden Wonota to tell what she revealed to her. If it was Dakota Joe who had run her down there was no use attempting to fasten the guilt of the incident upon him unless they were positive and could prove his guilt. "And you know, Wonota, you cannot be _sure_--" "I saw him. It was for but a moment, but I _saw_ him," said the Indian girl positively. "Even at that, it would take corroborative testimony to convince the court," mused Ruth. "I do not understand paleface laws," said Wonota, shaking her head. "If an Indian does something like that to another Indian, the injured one can punish his enemy. And he almost always does." "But we cannot take the law into our own hands that way." "Why not?" asked Wonota. "Is a redman so much superior to a white man? If the redman can punish an enemy why cannot a white man?" "Our law does not leave it in our hands to punish," said Ruth, quietly, though rather staggered by the Indian girl's question. "We have courts, and judges, and methods of criminal procedure. A person who has been injured by another cannot be the best judge of the punishment to be meted out to the one who has harmed him." "Why not?" demanded Wonota, promptly. "He is the one hurt. Who other than he should deal out punishment?" Ruth was silenced for the time being. In fact, Wonota looked upon mundane matters from such a different angle that it was sometimes impossible for Ruth to convince her protégé that the white man's way was better. However, this incident gave Ruth Fielding a warning that she did not intend to ignore. A little later she told Mr. Hammond of the Indian girl's suspicion that it was Fenbrook who had been the cause of Ruth's slight injury. It was too late then to set the police on the track of the showman, for on making private inquiry Mr. Hammond found that Dakota Joe's show had already left Brooklyn and was _en route_ for some city in the Middle West. "But it seems scarcely probable, Miss Ruth," the producer said, "that that fellow would take such a chance. And to hurt _you!_ Why, if he had tried to injure that Indian girl, I might be convinced. She probably saw somebody in the car with a sombrero on--" "I noticed two men in that car with broad hats," confessed Ruth. "But I gave them only a glance. It doesn't seem very sensible to believe that the man would deliberately hurt me. Yet he did threaten us when he was angry, there at the mill. No getting around that." Mr. Hammond shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "You will begin to believe that the making of moving pictures is a pretty perilous business." "It may be." She laughed, yet rather doubtfully. "I am to be on the watch for the 'hand in the dark,' am I not? At any rate when we are hear Dakota Joe again, I will keep a very sharp lookout." "Yes, of course, Miss Ruth, we'll all do that," returned Mr. Hammond, more seriously now, for he saw that Ruth was really disturbed. "Still, whatever his intentions, I do not believe Fenbrook will have the power to do any real harm. At any rate, keep your courage up, for we are forewarned now, and can take care of ourselves--and of you," he added, with a smile, as he left her. CHAPTER XII BOUND FOR THE NORTHWEST Because of the accident in which Ruth might have been seriously hurt, the company was delayed for a day in New York, Altogether the various shots (some of them of and in one of the tallest office buildings on Broadway) occupied more than a week--more time than Mr. Hammond wished to give to the work in the East. Nevertheless, Ruth's finished script, as handled deftly by the continuity writer, promised so well that the producer was willing to make a special production of it. The money--and time--cost were important factors in the making of the picture; but the selection of the cast was not to be overlooked. Jim Hooley had chosen the few acting in the Eastern scenes with Wonota, including the hero, whom, to tell the truth, the Indian girl considered a rather wonderful person because she saw him in a dress suit" "Yes, it is true! No Indian could look so heroic a figure," she whispered to Ruth. "He looks like--like a nobleman. I have read about noblemen in the book of an author named Scott--Sir Walter Scott. Noblemen must look like Mr. Albert Grand." "And to me he looks like a head waiter," said Ruth, when laughingly relating this to Helen and Jennie. "Don't let Mr. Grand hear you say that," warned Helen. "They tell me that he refuses to appear in any picture where at least once he does not walk into the scene in a dress suit. He claims his clientele demand it--he looks so perfectly splendid in the 'soup and fish.'" "Then why laugh at Wonota?" demanded Jennie Stone. "She is no more impressed by his surface qualities than are the movie fans who like Mr. Grand." "Well, it is a great game," laughed Ruth. "Some of the movie stars have more laughable eccentricities or idiosyncracies than that. I wonder what our Wonota will develop if she becomes a star?" The development of the Indian girl was promising so far. She had feeling for her part, if it was at first rather difficult for her to express in her features those emotions which, as an Indian, she had considered it proper to hide. She did just enough of this to make her feelings show on the screen, yet without being unnatural in the part of Brighteyes, the Indian maid. Mr. Hammond was inclined to believe that "Brighteyes" would be a big feature picture. The director was enthusiastic about it as well. And even the camera man (than whom can be imagined no more case-hardened critic of pictures) expressed his belief that it would be a "knockout." Mr. Hammond arranged for a special car for the cross-continent run, and he took his own family along, as the weather prophesied for the ensuing few weeks was favorable to out-of-door work and living. The special car made it possible for Ruth and her two friends, Helen and Jennie, as well as the Osage Indian girl, to be very comfortably placed during the journey. Ruth had traveled before this--north, south, east and west--and there was scarcely anything novel in train riding for her. But a journey would never be dull with Jennie Stone and Helen Cameron as companions! They ruined completely the morale of the car service. The colored porter could scarcely shine the other passengers' shoes he was kept so much at the beck and call of the two wealthy girls, who tipped lavishly. The Pullman conductor was cornered on every possible occasion and led into discourse entirely foreign to his duties. Even the "candy butcher" was waylaid and made to serve the ends of two girls who had perfectly idle hands and--so Ruth declared--quite as idle brains. "Well, goodness!" remarked Helen, "we must occupy our minds and time in some way. You, Ruthie, are confined to that story of yours about twenty-five hours out of the twenty-four. Even Wonota has thought only for her tiresome beadwork when she is not studying her part with Mr. Hooley and you. I know we'll have fun when we get to the Hubbell Ranch where Mr. Hammond says your picture is to be filmed. I do just dote on cowboys and the fuzzy little ponies they ride." "And the dear cows!" drawled Jennie. "Do you remember that maniacal creature that attacked our motor-car that time we went to Silver Ranch, years and years and years ago? You know, back in the Paleozoic Age!" "Quite so," agreed Helen. "I have a photographic remembrance of that creature--ugh! And how he burst our tires!" _"He,_ forsooth! What a way to speak of a cow!" "It wasn't a cow; it was a steer," declared Helen confidently. Ruth retired from the observation platform where her chums were ensconced, allowing them to argue the matter to a finish. It was true that the girl of the Red Mill was very busy most of her waking hours on the train. They all took a recess at Chicago, however, and it was there a second incident occurred that showed Dakota Joe Fenbrook had not forgotten his threat to "get even" with Ruth Fielding and the moving picture producer with whom she was associated. The special car was sidetracked just outside of Chicago and the whole party motored into the city in various automobiles and on various errands. The Hammonds had relatives to visit. Ruth and her three girl companions had telegraphed ahead for reservations at one of the big hotels, and they proposed to spend the two days and nights Mr. Hammond had arranged for in seeing the sights and attending two particular theatrical performances. "And I declare!" cried Helen, as they rolled on through one of the suburbs of the city, "there is one of the sights, sure enough. See that billboard, girls?" "Oh!" cried Wonota, who possessed quite as sharp eyes as anybody in the party. "We can't escape that man," sighed Jennie, as she read in towering letters the announcement of "Dakota Joe's Wild West and Frontier Round-Up." "I am sorry the show is here in Chicago," added Ruth with serious mien. "I am still limping. Next time that awful man will manage to lame me completely." "You ought to have a guard. Tell the police--do!" exclaimed Jennie Stone. "Tell the police _what?"_ demanded Ruth, with scorn. "We can't prove anything." "I know it was Joe in that car that ran you down, Miss Fielding," declared Wonota, with anxiety. "Yes. But nobody else saw him--to recognize him, I mean. We cannot base a complaint upon such little foundation. Nor would it be well, perhaps, to get Dakota Joe into the courts. He is a very vindictive man--he must be----" "He is very bad man!" repeated Wonota vehemently. "Yes. That is just it. Why stir up his passions to a greater degree, then?" "Of course, Ruthie would want to turn 'the other cheek,'" scoffed Jennie. "I am not going around with a chip on my shoulder, looking for somebody to knock it off," laughed the girl of the Red Mill. "I just want Joe to leave us alone--that's all." Wonota shook her head and seemed unconvinced of the wisdom of this. She was not a pacifist. She knew, too, the heart of the showman, and perhaps she feared him more than she was willing to tell her new friends. The four girls made their headquarters at the hotel, and then set forth at once to shop and to look. As the hours of that first day passed Wonota was vastly excited over the new sights. For once she lost that stoic calmness which was her racial trait. The big stores and the tall buildings here in the mid-western city seemed to impress her even more than had those in New York. There was reason for that. She was, while in New York, so much taken up with the part she was playing in "Brighteyes" that she could think of little else. She saw many things in the stores she wished to buy. Ruth had advanced Wonota some money on her contract with the Alectrion Film Corporation. But when it came right down to the point of buying the things that girls like and long for--little trinkets and articles of adornment--the Indian girl hesitated. "Buy it if it pleases you," Ruth said, rather wondering at the firmness with which Wonota drew back from selecting and paying for something that cost less than a dollar. "No, Miss Fielding. Wonota does not need that. Chief Totantora may be lost to me forever. I should not adorn myself, or think of self-adornment. No! I will save my money until I can go to that Europe where the great chief is held a prisoner." The girls--Helen and Jennie--were both for buying presents for the Indian girl, as she would not use her own money. But Ruth would not allow them to purchase other than the simplest souveniers. "That would spoil it all. Let her deny herself in such a cause--it will not hurt her," the girl of the Red Mill said sensibly. "She has an object in life and should be encouraged to follow out her plan for helping Chief Totantora." "Maybe he is not alive now," said Helen, thoughtfully. "I would not suggest that," Ruth hastened to rejoin. "As long as she can hope, the better for Wonota. And I should not want her to find out that Totantora has died in captivity, before my picture is finished." "Whoo!" breathed Jennie. "You sound sort of selfish, Ruthie Fielding." "For her sake as well as for the sake of the picture," returned the other practically. "I tell you Wonota has got it in her to be a valuable asset to the movies. But I hope nothing will happen to make her fall down on this first piece of work. Like Mr. Hammond, I hope that she will develop into an Indian star of the very first magnitude." CHAPTER XIII DAKOTA JOE MAKES A DEMAND At first Ruth and her friends did not worry about the presence of Fenbrook and his Wild West Show in Chicago. "Just riding past the billboard of the show isn't going to hurt us," chuckled Jennie Stone. It was a fact soon proved, however, that the Westerner had made it his business in some way to keep track of the movements of Wonota and her friends. He made this known to them in a most unexpected way, Mr. Hammond called Ruth up at her hotel. "I must warn you, Miss Fielding" he said, "that I had a very unpleasant meeting with that man, Fenbrook, only an hour ago. He actually had the effrontery to look me up here in Wabash Avenue where I am staying with my family, and practically demanded that I help finance his miserable show because I had taken Wonota from him. He claims now she was his chief attraction, though he would not admit that she was worth a living wage when he had her under contract He was so excited and threatening that I called an officer and had him put out of the house." "Oh!" murmured Ruth. "Then he is in jail? He will not trouble us, then?" "He is not in jail. I made no complaint. Just warned him to keep away from here. But he said something about finding Wonota and making trouble." "I am sure, Mr. Hammond," said Ruth with no little anxiety, "that we had better leave Chicago, then, as soon as possible. And if he comes here to the hotel I will try to have him arrested and kept by the police. I am afraid of him. "I do not believe he will do anything very desperate--" "I am not so sure," Ruth interrupted. "Wonota is confident it was he who ran me down in New York. I am afraid of him," she repeated. "Well, I will arrange for the shortening of our stay here. Mr. Hooley will 'phone you the time we will leave--probably to-morrow morning very early." Ruth said nothing to the other three girls--why trouble them with a mere possibility?--and they went to the theatre that evening and enjoyed the play immensely. But getting out of the taxicab at the hotel door near midnight, Wonota, who was the first to step out, suddenly crowded back into Ruth Fielding's arms as the latter attempted to follow her to the sidewalk. "What is the matter, Wonota?" the girl of the Red Mill asked. "There he is!" murmured the Indian girl, drawing herself up. "There who is?" was Ruth's demand. Then she saw the object of Wonota's anxiety, Dakota Joe stood under the portico of the hotel entrance. "He's waiting for us!" hissed Ruth. "Stop, girls! Don't get out." Helen and Jennie, over the heads of the others, saw the man. Jennie was irrepressible of course. "What do you expect us to do? Ride around all night in this taxi?" "Call a policeman!" cried Helen, under her breath. "Come back in here, Wonota," commanded Ruth, making up her mind with her usual assurance. "Say nothing, girls." Then to the driver Ruth observed: "Isn't there a side entrance to this hotel?" "Yes, ma'am. Round on the other street." "Take us around to that door. We see somebody waiting here whom we do not wish to speak with." "All right, ma'am," agreed the taxicab driver. In two minutes they were whisked around to the other door, and entered the hotel thereby. As they passed through the lobby to the elevators one of the clerks came to Ruth. "A man has been asking for you, Miss Fielding" he said. "He--he seems a peculiar individual--" Ruth described Dakota Joe Fenbrook and the clerk admitted that he was the man. "A rather rude person," he said. "So rude that we do not wish to see him," Ruth told the clerk. "Please keep him away from us. He is annoying, and if he attempts to interfere with me, I will call a policeman." "Oh, we could allow nothing like that," the clerk hastened to say. "No disturbance would be countenanced by the management of the hotel," and he shook his head. "We will keep him away from you, Miss Fielding." "Thank you," said Ruth, and followed her friends into the elevator. She felt that they were free of Dakota Joe until morning at least She assured Wonota that she need not worry. "That bad man may hurt you. I am not afraid," declared the Indian girl. "If I only had him out on the Osage Reservation, I would know what to do to with him." But she did not explain what treatment she would accord Dokota Joe if she were at home. It was only seven o'clock when Jim Hooley called on the telephone and told Ruth that, following instructions from Mr. Hammond, he had gathered the company together and that the special car standing in the railroad yard outside Chicago would be picked up by the nine-thirty western bound Continental. The girls had scarcely time to dress and drive to the point of departure. There was some "scrabbling," as Jennie expressed it, to dress, get their possessions together, and get away from the hotel. "Didn't see Dakota Joe anywhere about, did you?" Helen asked, as their taxi-cab-left the hotel entrance. "For goodness' sake! he would not have hung about the hotel all night, would he?" demanded Jennie. "Mr. Hammond seems to be afraid of the man" pursued Helen. "Or we would not be running away like this." Ruth smiled. "I guess," she said, "that Mr. Hammond is hurrying us on for a different reason. You must remember that he has this company on salary and that the longer we delay on the way to the Hubbell Ranch the more money it is costing him while the company is idle." It was proved, however, that the picture producer had a good reason for wishing to get out of Dakota Joe's neighborhood. When the four girls in the taxicab rolled up to the gate of the railroad yard and got out with their bags, Dakota Joe himself popped out of hiding. With him a broad-hatted man in a blue suit. "Hey!" ejaculated the showman, standing directly in Ruth's path. "I got you now where I want you. That Hammond man won't help me, and I told him the trouble I'm in jest because he got that Injun gal away from me. I see her! That's the gal--" "What do you want of me, Mr. Fenbrook?" demanded Ruth, bravely, and gesturing Wonota to remain behind her. "I have no idea why you should hound me in this way." "I ain't houndin' you." "I should like to know what you call it then!" the girl of the Red Mill demanded indignantly. She was quick to grasp the chance of engaging Fenbrook in an argument that would enable Wonota and the two other girls to slip out of the other door of the taxicab and reach the yard gate. She flashed a look over her shoulder that Helen Cameron understood. She and Jennie and Wonota alighted from the other side of the cab. "I got an officer here," stammered Dakota Joe. "He's a marshal. That Injun gal's got to be taken before the United States District Court. She's got to show cause why she shouldn't come back to my show and fill out the time of her contract." "She finished her contract with you, and you know it, Fenbrook," declared Ruth, turning to pay the driver of the cab. "I say she didn't!" cried Dakota Joe. "Officer! You serve that warrant--Hey! where's that Wonota gone to?" The Indian girl and Ruth's friends had disappeared. Dakota Joe lunged for the gate. But since the beginning of the war this particular railroad yard had been closed to the public. A man stood at the gate who barred the entrance of the showman. "You don't come in here, brother," said the railroad man. "Not unless you've got a pass or a permit." "Hey!" shouted Dakota Joe, calling the marshal. "Show this guy your warrant." "Don't show me nothin'," rejoined the railroad employee. He let Ruth slip through and whispered: "Your party's aboard your car. There's a switcher coupled on. She'll scoot you all down the yard to the main line. Get aboard." Ruth slipped through the gate, while the guard stood in a position to prevent the two men from approaching it. The girl heard the gate close behind her. It was evident that Mr. Hammond had been apprised of Dakota Joe's attempt to bring the Indian girl into court. Of course, the judge would deny his appeal; but a court session would delay the party's journey westward. Ruth saw the other girls ahead of her, and she ran to the car. Mr. Hammond himself was on the platform to welcome them. "That fellow is a most awful nuisance. I had to make an arrangement with the railroad company to get us out of here at once. Luckily I have a friend high up among the officials of the company. Come aboard, Miss Ruth. Everybody else is here and we are about to start." CHAPTER XIV THE HUBBELL RANCH "You see, Miss Ruth," Mr. Hammond told the girl of the Red Mill as the special car rolled out of the railroad yard, "this Dakota Joe has become a very annoying individual. We had to fairly run away from him." "I do not understand," Ruth said. "I think he should be shown his place--and that place I believe is the police station." "It would be rather difficult to get him into that for any length of time. And in any case," and the picture producer smiled, it would cost more than it would be worth. He really has done nothing for which he can be punished--" "I don't know. He might have had me killed that time his auto ran me down," interrupted Ruth, indignantly. "But the trouble is, we cannot prove that," Mr. Hammond hastened to repeat. "I will see that you are fully protected from him hereafter." Mr. Hammond did not realize what a large undertaking that was to be. But he meant it at the time. "The man is in trouble--no doubt of it," went on the producer reflectively. "He has had a bad season, and his winter prospects are not bright. I gave him an hour of my time yesterday before I advised you that we would better get away from Chicago." "But what does he expect of you, Mr. Hammond?" asked Ruth in surprise. "He claims we are the cause of his unhappy business difficulties. His show in on the verge of disintegrating. He wanted me to back him with several thousand dollars. Of course, that is impossible." "Why!" cried Ruth, "I would not risk a cent with such a man." "I suppose not. And I felt no urge to comply with his request. He was really so rough about it, and became so ugly, that I had to have him shown out of the house." "Goodness! I am glad we are going far away from him." "Yes, he is not a nice neighbor," agreed Mr. Hammond. "I hope Wonota will repay us for all the bother we have had with Dakota Joe." "It seems too bad. Of course, it is not Wonota's fault," said Ruth. "But if we had not come across her--if I had not met her, I mean--you would not have been annoyed in this way, Mr. Hammond." "Take it the other way around, Miss Ruth," returned her friend, with a quizzical smile. "We should be very glad that you did meet Wonota. Considering what that mad bull would have done to you if she had not swerved him by a rifle shot, a little bother like this is a small price to pay." "Oh--well!" "In addition," said Mr. Hammond briskly, "look what we may make out of the Indian girl. She may coin us a mint of money, Ruth Fielding." "Perhaps," smiled Ruth. But she was not so eager for money. The thing that fascinated her imagination was the possibility that they might make of Wonota, the Osage maiden, a great and famous movie star. Ruth desired very much to have a part in that work. She knew, because Mr. Hammond had told her, as well as Wonota herself, that the Osage Indians as a tribe were the wealthiest people under the guardianship of the American Government. Their oil leases were fast bringing the tribe a great fortune. But Wonota, being under age, had no share in this wealth. At this time the income of the tribe was between four and five thousand dollars a day--and the tribe was not large. "But Wonota can have none of that," explained the Indian maid. "It is apportioned to the families, and Totantora, the head of my family, is somewhere in that Europe where the war is. I can get no share of the money. It is not allowed." So, with the incentive of getting money for her search, Wonota was desirous of pleasing her white friends in every particular. Besides, ambition had budded in the girl's heart. She wanted to be a screen actress. "If your 'Brighteyes,' Miss Fielding, is ever shown at Three Rivers Station or Pawhuska, where the Agency is, I know every member of the tribe will go to see the film. When some of the young men of our tribe acted in a round-up picture when I was a little girl, even the old men and great-grandmothers traveled a hundred miles to see the film run off. It was like an exodus, for some of them were two days and nights on the way" "The Osage Indians are not behind the times, then?" laughed Ruth. "They are movie fans?" "They realize that their own day has departed. The buffalo and elk have gone. Even the prairie chickens are seen but seldom. Almost no game is found upon our plains, and not much back in the hills. Many of our young men till the soil. Some have been to the Carlisle School and have taken up professions or are teachers. The Osage people are no longer warlike. But some of our young men volunteered for this white man's war." "I know that," sad Ruth warmly. "I saw some of them over there in France--at least, some Indian volunteers. Captain Cameron worked in the Intelligence Service with some of them. That is the spy service, you know. The Indians were just as good scouts in France and Belgium as they were on their own plains." "We are always the same. It is only white men who change," declared Wonota with confidence. "The redman is never two-faced or two-tongued." "Well," grumbled Jennie, afterward, "what answer was there to make to that? She has her own opinion of Lo, the poor Indian, and it would be impossible to shake it." "Who wants to shake it?" demanded Helen. "Maybe she is right, at that!" The thing about Wonota that "gave the fidgets" to Jennie and Helen was the fact that she could sit for mile after mile, while the train rocked over the rails, beading moccasins and other wearing apparel, and with scarcely a glance out of the car window. Towns, villages, rivers, plains, woods and hills, swept by in green and brown panorama, and seemed to interest Wonota not at all. It was only when the train, after they changed at Denver, began to climb into the Rockies that the Indian maid grew interested. The Osage Indians had always been a plains' tribe. The rugged and white-capped heights interested Wonota because they were strange to her. Here, too, were primeval forests visible from the windows of the car. Hemlock and spruce in black masses clothed the mountainsides, while bare-limbed groves of other wood filled the valleys and the sweeps of the hills. Years before Ruth and her two chums had been through this country in going to "Silver Ranch," but the charm of its mysterious gorges, its tottering cliffs, its deep canyons where the dashing waters flowed, and the generally rugged aspect of all nature, did not fail now to awe them. Wonota was not alone in gazing, enthralled, at the landscape which was here revealed. Two days of this journey amid the mountains, and the train slowed down at Clearwater, where the special car was sidetracked. Although the station was some distance from the "location" Mr. Hammond's representative had selected for the taking of the outdoor pictures, the company was to use the car as its headquarters. There were several automobiles and a herd of riding ponies at hand for the use of the company. Here, too, Mr. Hammond and his companions were met by the remainder of the performers selected to play parts in "Brighteyes." There were about twenty riders--cowpunchers and the like; "stunt riders," for the most part. In addition there were more than a score of Indians--some pure blood like Wonota, but many of them halfbreeds, and all used to the moving picture work, down to the very toddlers clinging to their mothers' blankets. The Osage princess was inclined to look scornfully at this hybrid crew at first. Finally, however, she found them to be very decent sort of folk, although none of them were of her tribe. Ruth and Helen and Jennie met several riders who had worked for Mr. Hammond when he had made Ruth's former Western picture which is described in "Ruth Fielding in the Saddle," and the gallant Westerners were ready to devote themselves to the entertainment of the girls from the East. There was only one day of planning and making ready for the picture, in which Helen and Jennie could be "beaued" about by the cow-punchers. Ruth was engaged with Mr. Hammond, Jim Hooley, and the camera man and their assistants. Everyone was called for work on the ensuing morning and the automobiles and the cavalcade of pony-riders started for the Hubbell Ranch. Wonota rode in costume and upon a pony that was quite the equal of her own West Wind. This pet she had shipped from the Red Mill to her home in Oklahoma before going to New York. The principal characters had made up at the car and went out in costume, too, They had to travel about ten miles to the first location. The Hubbell Ranch grazed some steers; but It was a horse ranch in particular. The country was rugged and offered not very good pasturage for cattle. But the stockman, Arad Hubbell, was one of the largest shippers of horses and mules in the state. It was because of the many half-broken horses and mules to be had on the ranch that Mr. Hammond had decided to make "Brighteyes" here. The first scenes of the prologue--including the Indian scare--were to be taken in the open country near the ranch buildings. Naturally the buildings were not included in any of the pictures. A train of ten emigrant wagons, drawn by mules, made an imposing showing as it followed the dusty cattle trail. The train wound in and out of coulees, through romantic-looking ravines, and finally out upon the flat grass-country where the Indians came first into view of the supposedly frightened pilgrims. Helen and Jennie, as well as Ruth herself, in the gingham and sunbonnets of the far West of that earlier day, added to the crowd of emigrants riding in the wagons. When the Indians were supposed to appear the excitement of the players was very realistic indeed, and this included the mules! The stock was all fresh, and the excitement of the human performers spread to it. The wagons raced over the rough trail in a way that shook up severely the girls riding in them. "Oh--oo!" squealed Jennie Stone, clinging to Ruth and Helen. "What _are_ they trying to do? I'll be one m-a-ass of bruises!" "Stop, William!" commanded Ruth, trying to make the driver of their wagon hear her. "This is too--too realistic." The man did not seem to hear her at all. Ruth scrambled up and staggered toward the front, although Mr. Hooley had instructed the girls to remain at the rear of the wagons so that they could be seen from the place where the cameras were stationed. "Stop!" cried Ruth again. "You will tip us over--or something." There was good reason why William did not obey. His six mules had broken away from his control entirely. A man must be a master driver to hold the reins over three span of mules; and William was as good as any man in the outfit. But as he got his team into a gallop the leaders took fright at the charging Indians on pony-back, and tried to leave the trail. William was alone on the driver's seat. He put all his strength into an attempt to drag the leaders back into the trail and--the rein broke! Under ordinary circumstances this accident would not have been of much moment. But to have pulled the other mules around, and so throw the runaways, would have spoiled the picture. William was too old a movie worker to do that. When Ruth stumbled to the front of the swaying wagon and seized his shoulder he cast rather an embarrassed glance back at her. "Stop them! Stop!" the girl commanded. "I'd like mighty well to do it, Miss Fielding," said William, wagging his head, "but these dratted mules have got their heads and--they--ain't---no notion o' stoppin' this side of the ranch corrals." Ruth understood him. She stared straight ahead with a gaze that became almost stony. This leading wagon was heading for the break of a ravine into which the trail plunged at a sharp angle. If the mules were swerved at the curve the heavy wagon would surely overturn. In twenty seconds the catastrophe would happen! CHAPTER XV PURSUING DANGER When a mule is once going, it is just as stubborn about stopping as it is about being started if it feels balky. The leading span attached to the covered wagon in which Ruth and her two chums, Helen Cameron and Jennie Stone, rode had now communicated their own fright to the four other animals. All six were utterly unmanageable. "Do tell him to stop, Ruth!" shrieked Jennie Stone from the rear of the wagon. The next moment she shot into the air as the wheels on one side bounced over an outcropping boulder. She came down clawing at Helen to save herself from flying out of the end of the wagon. "Oh! This is too much!" shouted Helen, quite as frightened as her companion. "I mean to get out! Don't a-a-ask me to--to act in moving pictures again. I never will!" "Talk about rough stuff!" groaned Jennie. "This is the limit." Neither of them realized the danger that threatened. Of the three girls only Ruth knew what was just ahead. The maddened mules were dragging the emigrant wagon for a pitch into the ravine that boded nothing less than disaster for all. In the band of Indians riding for the string of covered wagons Wonota had been numbered. She could ride a barebacked pony as well as any buck in the party. She had removed her skirt and rode in the guise of a young brave. The pinto pony she bestrode was speedy, and the Osage maid managed him perfectly. Long before the train of wagons and the pursuing band of Indians got into the focus of the cameras, Wonota, as well as her companions, saw that the six mules drawing the head wagon were out of control. The dash of the frightened animals added considerable to the realism of the picture, as they swept past Jim Hooley and his camera men; but the director was quite aware that disaster threatened William's outfit. "Crank it up! Crank it!" he commanded the camera men. "It looks as if we were going to get something bigger than we expected." Mr. Hammond stood behind him. He saw the three white girls in the rear of the wagon. It was he who shouted: "That runaway must be stopped! It's Miss Fielding and her friends in that wagon. Stop them!" "Great Scott, Boss! how you going to stop those mules?" Jim Hooley demanded. But Wonota did not ask anybody as to the method of stopping the runaway. She was perfectly fearless--of either horses or mules. She lashed her pinto ahead of the rest of the Indian band, cut across a curve of the trail, and bore down on the runaway wagon. "That confounded girl is spoiling the shot!" yelled Hooley. "Never mind! Never mind!" returned Mr. Hammond. "She is going to do something. There!" And Wonota certainly did do something. Aiming her pinto across the noses of the lead-mules, she swerved them off the trail before they reached that sharp turn at the break of the rough hill. The broken rein made it impossible for the driver to swerve the leaders that way; but Wonota turned the trick. William stood up, despite the bounding wagon, his foot on the brake, yanking with all his might at the jaws of the other four mules. All six swung in a wide circle. But William admitted that it was the Indian girl who started the crazed mules into this path. The wheels dipped and bounced, threatening each moment to capsize the wagon. But the catastrophe did not occur. The other Indians rode down upon the head of the string of wagons madly, with excited whoops. For once the whole crowd forgot that they were making a picture. And that very forgetfulness on the part of the actors made the picture a great success The finish was not quite as Ruth had written the story, or as Hooley had planned to take it. But it was better! "It's a peach! It's a peach! The shot was perfect!" the director cried, smiting Mr. Hammond on the back in his excitement. "What do you know about that, Boss? Can't we let her stand as the camera has it?" "I believe it is a good shot," agreed Mr. Hammond. "We'll try it out to-night in the car." One end of the special car was arranged as a projection room. "If the Indians did not hide the wagon too much, that dash of the girl was certainly spectacular." "It was a peach," again declared the director. "And nobody will ever see that she is a girl instead of a man. We got one good shot, here, Mr. Hammond, whether anything else comes out right or not." The girls who had taken the parts of emigrant women in the runaway wagon were not quite so enthusiastic over the success of the event, not even when the director sent his congratulations to them. All three were determined that if a "repeat" was demanded, they would refuse to play the parts again. "I don't want to ride in anything like that wagon again," declared Ruth. "It was awful." "Enough is enough," agreed Helen. "Another moment, and we would have been out on our heads." "I'm black and blue--or will be--from collar to shoes. _What_ a jouncing we did get! Girls, do you suppose that fellow with the shaggy ears did it on purpose?" "Whom do you mean--William or one of the mules?" asked Helen. "I am sure William was helpless," said Ruth. "He was just as much scared as we were. But Wonota was just splendid!" "I am willing to pass her a vote of thanks," groaned Jennie. "But we can't expect her to be always on hand to save us from disaster. You don't catch me in any such jam again." "Oh, nothing like this is likely to happen to us again," Ruth said. "We're just as safe taking this picture as we would be at home--at the Red Mill, for instance." "I don't know about that," grumbled Helen. "I feel that more trouble is hanging over us. I feel it in my bones." "You'd better get a new set of bones," said Ruth cheerfully. "Yours seem to be worse, even, than poor Aunt Alvira's." "Nell believes that life is just one thing after another," chuckled Jennie Stone. "Having struck a streak of bad luck, it _must_ keep up." "You wait and see," proclaimed Helen Cameron, decisively nodding her head. "That's the easiest thing in the world to do--_wait_," gibed Ruth. "No, it isn't, either. It's the hardest thing to do," declared Jennie, and Ruth thought she could detect a shade of sadness in the light tone the plump girl adopted. "And especially when--as Nell predicts--we are waiting for some awful disaster. Huh--" and the girl shuddered as realistically as perfect health and unshaken nerves and good nature would permit--"are we to pass our lives under the shadow of impending peril?" It did seem, however, as though Helen had come under the mantle of some seeress of old. Jennie flatly declared that "Nell must be a descendant of the Witch of Endor." The company managed to make several scenes that day without further disaster. Although in taking a close-up of the charging Indian chief one of the camera men was knocked down by the rearing pony the chief rode, and a perfectly good two hundred dollar camera was smashed beyond hope of repair. "It's begun," said Helen, ruefully. "You see!" "If you have brought a hoodoo into this outfit, woe be it to you!" cried Ruth. "It is not me," proclaimed her chum. "But I tell you _something_ is going to happen." They worked so late that it was night before the company took the trail for Clearwater Station. There was no moon, and the stars were veiled by a haze that perhaps foreboded a storm. This coming storm probably was what caused the excitement in a horse herd that they passed when half way to the railroad line. Or it might have been because the motor-cars, of which there were four, were strange to the half-wild horses that the bunch became frightened. "There's something doing with them critters, boys!" William, who was riding ahead, called back to the other pony riders, who were rear guard to the automobiles. "Keep yer eyes peeled!" His advice was scarcely necessary. The thunder of horse-hoofs on the turf was not to be mistaken. Through the darkness the stampeding animals swept down upon the party. "Git, you fellers!" yelled another rider. "And keep a-goin'! Jest split the wind for the station!" The horsemen swept past the jouncing motor-cars. Some of the women in the cars screamed. Helen cried: "What did I tell you!" "Don't--_dare_--tell us anything more!" jerked out Jennie. Through the murk the girls saw the heads and flaunted manes of the coming horses. Just what harm they might do to the motor-cars, which could not be driven rapidly on this rough trail, Ruth and her two chums did not know. But the threat of the wild ponies' approach was not to be ignored. CHAPTER XVI NEWS AND A THREAT A stampede of mad cattle is like the charge of a blind and insane monster. River, nor ravine, nor any other obstruction can halt the mad rush of the horned beasts. They pile right into it, and only if it is too steep or too high do they split and go around. A stampede of horses is different in that the equine brain appreciates danger more clearly than that of the sullen steer. Behind a cattle stampede is often left an aftermath of dead and crippled beasts. But horses are more canny. A wild horse seldom breaks a leg or suffers other injury. It is not often that the picked skeleton of a horse is found in the hills. This herd belonging to the Hubbell ranch charged through the night directly across the trail along which the moving picture company was riding. Those on horseback could probably escape; but the motor-cars could not be driven very rapidly over the rough road. The girls screamed as the cars bumped and jounced. Out of the darkness appeared the up-reared heads and tossing manes of the ponies. There were possibly three hundred in the herd, and they ran _en masse,_ snorting and neighing, mad with that fear of the unknown which is always at the root of every stampede. The automobile in which Ruth Fielding and her two friends, Helen and Jennie, were seated was the last of the string. It seemed as though it could not possibly escape the stampede of half-wild ponies, even if the other cars did. "Get down in the car, girls!" shouted Ruth, suiting her action to her word. "Don't try to jump or stand up. Stoop!" There was good reason for her command. The plunging horses seemed almost upon the car. Indeed one leader--a big black stallion,--snorting and blowing, jumped over the rear of the car, clearing it completely, and bounded away upon the other side of the trail. He was ahead of the main stampede, however. All that found the motor-car in the path could not perform his feat. Some would be sure to plunge into the car where Ruth and Helen and Jennie crouched. Suddenly there rode into view, coming from the head of the string of cars, a wild rider, plying whip and heel to maddened pinto pony. "Wonota! Go back! You'll be killed!" shrieked Ruth. And then she added: "The picture will be ruined if you are hurt." Even had the Indian girl heard Ruth's cry she would have given it small attention. Wonota was less fearful of the charging ponies than were the punchers and professional riders working for Mr. Hammond. At least, she was the first to visualize the danger threatening the girls in the motor-car, and she did not wait to be told what to do. Up ahead the men were shouting and telling each other that Miss Fielding was in danger. But Wonota went at the charging horses without question. She forced her snorting pinto directly between the motor-car and the stampede. She lashed the foremost horses across their faces with her quirt. She wheeled her mount and kept on beside the motor-car as its driver tried to speed up along the trail. The mad herd seemed intent on keeping with the motor-train. Wonota gave the pinto his head and lent her entire attention to striking at the first horses in the stampede. Her quirt brought squeals of pain from more than one of the charging animals. She fell in behind the car at last, and the scattering members of the stampede swept by. Back charged several of the pony riders, but too late to give any aid. The chauffeur of Ruth's car slackened his dangerous pace and yelled: "It's all over, you fellers! We might have been trod into the ground for all of you. It takes this Injun gal to turn the trick. I take off my hat to Wonota." "I guess we all take off our hats to her!" cried Helen, sitting up again. "She saved us--that is what she did!" "Good girl, Wonota!" Ruth exclaimed, as the snorting pinto brought its rider up beside the motor-car again. "It was little to do," the Indian girl responded modestly. "After all you have done for me, Miss Fielding. And I am not afraid of horses." "Them horses was something to be afraid of--believe me!" ejaculated one of the men. "The gal's a peach of a rider at that." Here Helen suddenly demanded to know where Jennie was. "I do believe she's burrowed right through the bottom of this tonneau!" "Haven't either!" came in the muffled voice of the fleshy girl, and she began to rise up from under enveloping robes. "Take your foot off my arm, Nell. You're trampling me awfully. I thought it was one of those dreadful horses!" "Well--I--like--that!" gasped Helen. "I didn't," Jennie groaned, finally coming to the surface--like a porpoise, Ruth gigglingly suggested, to breathe! "I was sure one of those awful creatures was stamping on me. If I haven't suffered _this_ day! Such spots as were not already black and blue, are now properly bruised. I shall be a sight." "Poor Heavy!" said Ruth. "You always have the hard part. But, thank goodness, we escaped in safety!" "Do let's go to a hotel somewhere and stay a week to recuperate," begged the fleshy girl, as they rode on toward the railroad town. "One day of movie making calls for a week of rest--believe me!" "You and Helen can remain at the car--" "Not me!" cried Helen Cameron. "I do not wish to be in the picture again, but I want to see it made." After they arrived at the special car, where a piping hot supper was ready for them, the girls forgot the shock of their adventure. Jennie, however, groaned whenever she moved. "'Tis too bad that fat girl got so bunged up," observed one of the punchers to Helen Cameron. "I see she's a-sufferin'." "Miss Stone's avoirdupois is forever making her trouble," laughed Helen, rather wickedly. "Huh?" demanded the man. "Alfy Dupoy? Who's that? Her feller?" "Oh, dear me, no!" gasped Helen. "_His_ name is Henri Marchand. I shall have to tell her that." "Needn't mind," returned the man. "I can't be blamed for misunderstanding half what you Easterners say. You got me locoed right from the start." The joke had to be told when the three friends retired that night, and it was perhaps fortunate that Jennie Stone possessed an equable disposition. "I am the butt of everybody's joke," she said, complacently. "That is what makes me so popular. You see, you skinny girls are scarcely noticed. It is me the men-folk give their attention to." "Isn't it nice to be so perfectly satisfied with one's self?" observed Helen, scornfully. "Come on, Ruthie! Let's sleep on that." There were other topics to excite the friends in the morning, even before the company got away for the "location." Mail which had followed them across the continent was brought up from the post-office to the special car. Helen and Ruth were both delighted to receive letters from Captain Tom. In the one to Ruth the young man acknowledged the receipt of her letter bearing on the matter of Chief Totantora. He said that news of the captured Wild West performers had drifted through the lines long before the armistice, and that he had now set in motion an inquiry which might yield some important news of the missing Osage chieftain--if he was yet alive--before many weeks. As for his own return, Tom could not then state anything with certainty. * * * * * "Nobody seems to know," he wrote. "It is all on the knees of the gods--and a badgered War Department. But perhaps I shall be with you, dear Ruth, before long." * * * * * Ruth did not show her letter to her girl friends. Jennie had received no news from Henri, and this disaster troubled her more than her bruised flesh. She went around with a sober face for at least an hour--which was a long time for Jennie Stone to be morose. William, the driver who had handled the emigrant wagon the day before, came along as the men were saddling the ponies for the ride out to the ranch. He had an open letter in his hand that he had evidently just received. "Say!" he drawled, "didn't I hear something about you taking this Injun gal away from Dakota Joe's show? Ain't that so, Miss Fielding?" "Her contract with that man ran out and Mr. Hammond hired her," Ruth explained. "And that left the show flat in Chicago?" pursued William. "It was in Chicago the last we saw of it," agreed Ruth. "But Wonota had left Dakota Joe's employ long before that--while the show was in New England." "Wal, I don't know how that is," said William. "I got a letter from a friend of mine that's been ridin' with Dakota Joe. He says the show's done busted and Joe lays it to his losing this Injun gal. Joe's a mighty mean man. He threatens to come out here and bust up this whole company," and William grinned. "You want to tell Mr. Hammond that," said Ruth, shortly. "I did," chuckled William. "But he don't seem impressed none. However, Miss Fielding, I want to say that Dakota Joe has done some mighty mean tricks in his day. Everybody knows him around here--yes, ma'am! If he comes here, better keep your eyes open." CHAPTER XVII THE PROLOGUE IS FINISHED "We must do something very nice for Wonota," Helen Cameron said seriously. "She has twice within a few hours come to our succor. I feel that we might all three have been seriously injured had she not turned the mules yesterday, and frightened off those mad horses on the trail last evening." "'Seriously injured,' forsooth!" grumbled Jennie Stone. "What do you mean? Didn't I show you my bruises? I was seriously injured as it was! But I admit I feel grateful--heartily grateful--to our Indian princess. I might have suffered broken bones in addition to bruised flesh." "We could not reward her," Ruth Fielding said decidedly. "I would not hurt her feelings for the world." "We can do something nice for her, without labeling it a reward, I should hope," Helen Cameron replied. "I know what I would like to do." "What is that?" asked Jennie, quickly. "You remember when they dressed Wonota up in that evening frock there in New York? To take the ballroom picture, I mean?" "Indeed, yes!" cried Jennie Stone. And she looked too sweet for anything." "She is a pretty girl," agreed Ruth. "I saw her preening before the mirror," said Helen, smiling. "That she is an Indian girl doesn't make her different from the other daughters of Eve." "Somebody has said that the fashion-chasing women must be daughters of Lilith," put in Jennie. "Never mind. Wonota likes pretty frocks. You could see that easily enough. And although some of the Osage girls may follow the fashions in the mail order catalogs, I believe Wonota has been brought up very simply. 'Old-fashioned,' you may say." "Fancy!" responded Jennie. "An old-fashioned' Indian." "I think Helen is right," said Ruth, quietly. "Wonota would like to have pretty clothes, I am sure." "Then," said Helen, with more animation, "let us chip in--all three of us--and purchase the very nicest kind of an outfit for Wonota--a real party dress and 'all the fixin's,' girls! What say?" "I vote 'Aye!'" agreed Jennie. "The thought is worthy of you, Helen," said Ruth proudly. "You always do have the nicest ideas. And I am sure it will please Wonota to be dressed as were some of the girls we saw in the audiences at the theatres we took her to." "But!" ejaculated Jennie Stone, "we can't possibly get that sort of clothes out of a mail-order catalog." "I know just what we can do, Jennie. There is your very own dressmaker--that Madame Joné you took me to." "Oh! Sure! Mame Jones, you mean!" cried the fleshy girl with enthusiasm. "Aunt Kate has known Mame since she worked as an apprentice with some Fifth Avenue firm. Now Madame Joné goes to Paris--when there is no war on--twice a year. She will do anything I ask her to." "That is exactly what I mean," Helen said. "It must be somebody who will take an interest in Wonota. Send your Madame Joné a photograph of Wonota--" "Several of them," exclaimed Ruth, interested as well, although personally she did not care so much for style as her chums. "Let the dressmaker get a complete idea of what Wonota looks like." "And the necessary measurements," Helen said. "Give her _carte blanche_ as to goods and cost--" "Would that be wise?" interposed the more cautious Ruth. "Leave it to me!" exclaimed Jennie Stone with confidence. "We shall have a dandy outfit, but Mame Jones will not either overcharge us or make Wonota's frock and lingerie too _outré_." "It win be fine!" declared Helen. "I believe it will," agreed the girl of the Red Mill. "It will be nothing less than a knock-out," crowed Jennie, slangily. The three friends had plenty of topics of conversation besides new frocks for Ruth's Indian star. The work of making the scenes of the prologue of "Brighteyes" went on apace, and although they all escaped acting in any of the scenes, they watched most of them from the sidelines. Mr. Hooley had found a bright little girl (although she had no Indian blood in her veins) to play the part of the sick child in the Indian wigwam. These shots were taken in a big hay barn near the special car standing at Clearwater, and with the aid of the electric plant that had been set up here the "interiors" were very promising. Several other "sets" were built in this make-shift studio, for all the scenes were not out-of-door pictures. The prologue scenes, however, aside from the interior of the chief's lodge, were made upon the open plain on the Hubbell Ranch not more than ten miles from the Clearwater station. Two weeks were occupied in this part of the work, for outside scenes are not shot as rapidly as those in a well equipped studio. When these were done the company moved much farther into the hills. They were to make the remaining scenes of "Brighteyes" in the wilderness, far from any human habitation more civilized than a timber camp. Benbow Camp lay well up behind Hubbell Ranch, yet in a well sheltered valley where scarcely a threat of winter had yet appeared. A big crew of lumbermen was at work on the site, and many of these men Mr. Hammond used as extras in the scenes indicated in Ruth's script. Ruth had now gained so much experience in the shooting of outdoor scenes that her descriptions in this story of "Brighteyes," the Indian maid, were easily visualized by the director. Besides, she stood practically at Jim Hooley's elbow when the story was being filmed. So, with the author working with the director, the picture was almost sure to be a success. At least, the hopes of all--including those of Mr. Hammond, who had already put much money into the venture--began to rise like the quicksilver in a thermometer on a hot day. The small river on which locations had been arranged for was both a boisterous and a picturesque stream. There were swift rapids ("white water" the woodsmen called it) with outthrust boulders and many snags and shallows where a canoe had to be very carefully handled. Several scenes as Ruth had written them were of the Indian girl in a canoe. Wonota handled a paddle with the best of the rivermen at Benbow Camp. There was no failure to be feared as to the picture's requirements regarding the Indian star, at least. Having seen the scenes of the prologue shot and got the company on location at Benbow Camp, Mr. Hammond went back to the railroad to get into communication with the East. He had other business to attend to besides the activities of this one company. Scenes along the bank and at an Indian camp set up in a very beautiful spot were shot while preparations for one of the big scenes on the stream itself were being made. The text called for a freshet on the river, in which the Indian maid is caught in her canoe. The disturbed water and the trash being borne down by the current was an effect arranged by Jim Hooley's workmen. The timbermen working for the Benbow Company helped. A boom of logs was chained across the river at a narrow gorge. This held back for two nights and a day the heavy cultch floating down stream, and piled up a good deal of water, too, for the boom soon became a regular dam. Below the dam thus made the level of the stream dropped perceptibly. "I am going to put Wonota in her canoe into the stream above the boom," Hooley explained. "When the boom is cut the whole mass will shoot down ahead of the girl. But the effect, as it comes past the spot where the cameras are being cranked, will be as though Wonota was in the very midst of the freshet. She handles her paddle so well that I do not think she will be in any danger." "But you will safeguard her, won't you, Mr. Hooley?" asked Ruth, who was always more or less nervous when these "stunt pictures" were being taken. "There will be two canoes--and two good paddlers in each--on either side of Wonota's craft, but out of the camera focus of course. Then, we will line up a lot of the boys along the shore on either side. If she gets a ducking she won't mind. She understands. That Indian girl has some pluck, all right," concluded the director with much satisfaction. "Yes, Wonota's courageous," agreed Ruth quietly. Arrangements were made for the next morning. Ruth went with Mr. Hooley to the bunkhouse to hear him instruct the timbermen hired from the Benbow Company and who were much interested in this "movie stuff." The girl of the Red Mill had already made some acquaintances among the rough but kindly fellows. She stepped into the long, shed-like bunkhouse to speak to one of her acquaintances, and there, at the end of the plank table, partaking of a late supper that the cook had just served him, was no other than Dakota Joe Fenbrook, the erstwhile proprietor of the Wild West and Frontier Round-Up. CHAPTER XVIII AN ACCIDENT THREATENING Probably the ex-showman was not as surprised to see Ruth Fielding as she was to see him. But he was the first, nevertheless, to speak. "Ho! so it's you, is it?" he growled, scowling at the girl of the Red Mill. "Reckon you didn't expect to see me." "I certainly did not," returned Ruth tartly. "What are you doing at Benbow Camp, Mr. Fenbrook?" "I reckon you'd be glad to hear that I walked here," sneered the showman, and filled his cheek with a mighty mouthful. He wolfed this down in an instant, and added, with a wide grin: "But I didn't. I saved my horse an' outfit from the smash, and enough loose change to bring me West--no thanks to you." "I am sorry to hear you have failed in business, Mr. Fenbrook," Ruth said composedly. "But I am sorrier to see that you consider me in a measure to blame for your misfortune." "Oh, don't I, though!" snarled Dakota Joe. "I know who to thank for my bust-up--you and that Hammond man. Yes, sir-ree!" "You are quite wrong," Ruth said, calmly. "But nothing I can say will convince you, I presume." "You can't soft-sawder me, if that's what you mean," and Dakota Joe absorbed another mighty mouthful. Ruth could not fail to wonder if he ever chewed his food. He seemed to swallow it as though he were a boa-constrictor. "I know," said Dakota Joe, having swallowed the mouthful and washed it down with half a pannikin of coffee, "that you two takin' that Injun gal away from me was the beginning of my finish. Yes, sir-ree! I could ha' pulled through and made money in Chicago and St. Louis, and all along as I worked West this winter. But no, you fixed me for fair." "Wonota had a perfect right to break with you, Mr. Fenbrook," Ruth said decidedly, and with some warmth. "You did not treat her kindly, and you paid her very little money." "She got more money than she'd ever saw before. Them Injuns ain't used to much money. It's jest as bad for 'em as hootch. Yes, sir-ree!" "She was worth more than you gave her. And she certainly was worthy of better treatment. But that is all over. Mr. Hammond has her tied up with a hard and fast contract. Let her alone, Mr. Fenbrook." "Aw, don't you fret," growled the man. "I ain't come out here to trouble Wonota none. The little spitfire! She'd shoot me just as like's not if she took the notion. Them redskins ain't to be trusted--none of 'em. I know 'em only too well." Ruth went out of the shack almost before the man had ceased speaking. She did not want anything further to do with him. She was exceedingly sorry that Dakota Joe had appeared at Benbow Camp just when the moving picture company was getting to work on the important scenes of "Brighteyes." Besides, she felt a trifle anxious because Mr. Hammond himself did not chance to be here under the present circumstances. He might be better able to handle Dakota Joe if the ruffian made trouble. She said nothing to Jim Hooley about Dakota Joe. She did not wish to bother the director in any case. She had come to appreciate Hooley as, in a sense, a creative genius who should have his mind perfectly free of all other subjects--especially of annoying topics of thought--if he was to turn out a thoroughly good picture. Hooley fairly lived in the picture while the scenes were being shot. He must not be troubled by the knowledge of the possibility of Dakota Joe's being at Benbow Camp for some ulterior purpose. Ruth told the girls about the man's appearance when she returned to the shacks where the members of the moving picture company were spending the night. And she warned Wonota in particular, and in private. "He is as angry with us as he can be," the girl of the Red Mill told the Osage maiden. "I think, if I were you, Wonota, I would beware of him." "Beware of Dakota Joe?" repeated Wonota. "Yes." "I would beware of him? I would shoot him?" said the Osage girl with suddenly flashing eyes. "That is what you mean?" Ruth laughed in spite of her anxiety. "Beware" was plainly a word outside the Indian girl's vocabulary. "Don't talk like a little savage," she admonished Wonota, more severely than usual. "Of course you are not to shoot the man. You are just to see that he does you no harm--watch out for him when he is in your vicinity." "Oh! I'll watch Dakota Joe all right," promised Wonota with emphasis. "Don't you worry about that, Miss Fielding. I'll watch him." To Ruth's mind it seemed that the ex-showman, in his anger, was likely to try to punish the Indian girl for leaving his show, or to do some harm to the picture-making so as to injure Mr. Hammond. He had already (or so Ruth believed) endeavored to hurt Ruth herself when she was all but run over in New York. Ruth did not expect a second attack upon herself. The next morning--the really "great day" of the picture taking--all at the camp were aroused by daybreak. There was not a soul--to the very cook of the timber-camp outfit--who was not interested in the matter. The freshet Jim Hooley had planned had to be handled in just the right way and everything connected with it must be done in the nick of time. Wonota in her Indian canoe--a carefully selected one and decorated in Indian fashion--was embarked on the sullen stream above the timber-boom. The holding back of the water and the driftwood had formed an angry stretch of river which under ordinary circumstances Ruth and the other girls who had accompanied her West thought they would have feared to venture upon. The Indian girl, however, seemed to consider the circumstances not at all threatening. With her on the river, but instructed to keep on either side and well out of the focus of the cameras, were two expert rivermen, each in a canoe. These men were on the alert to assist Wonota if, when the dam was broken, she should get into any difficulty. Below the dam the men were arranged at important points, so that if the logs and drift threatened to pile up after the boom was cut, they could jump in with their pike-poles and keep the drift moving. On one shore the cameras were placed, and Jim Hooley, with his megaphone, stood on a prominent rock. Across from the director's station Ruth found a spot at the foot of a sheer bank to the brow of which a great pile of logs had been rolled, ready for the real freshet in the spring when the log-drives would start. She had a good view of all that went on across the river, and up the stream. Jennie suggested that she and Helen accompany Ruth and watch the taking of the picture from that vantage point, a proposal to which Helen readily agreed. But Ruth evaded this suggestion of her two friends, for she wanted to keep her whole mind on her work, and when Helen and Jennie were with her she found it impossible to keep from listening to their merry chatter, nor could she keep herself from being drawn into it. The upshot was that, after some discussion by the three girls, Ruth set off alone for her station under the brow of the steep river bank. About ten o'clock, in mid-forenoon, Hooley was satisfied that everything was ready to shoot the picture. One of the foremen of Benbow Camp--the best ax wielder of the crew--ran out on the boom to a point near the middle of the frothing stream and began cutting the key-log. It was a ticklish piece of work; but these timbermen were used to such jobs. The gash in the log showed wider and wider. Where Ruth stood she cocked her head to listen to the strokes of the axman. It seemed to her that there was a particularly strange echo, flattened but keen, as though reverberating from the bank of the river high above her head. "Now, what can that be?" she thought, and once looked up the slope to the heap of logs which were held in place by chocks on the very verge of the steep descent. If those logs should break away, Ruth realized that she was right in the path of their descent. It would not be easy for her to escape, dry-footed, In either direction, for the bank of the river, both up, and down stream, was rough. But, of course, that chopping sound was made by the man cutting the boom. Surely nobody was using an ax up there on the pile of logs. She glanced back to the man teetering on the boom log. The gap in it was wide and white. He had cut on the down-river side. Already the pressure from up stream was forcing the gash open, wider and wider---- There came a yell from across the river. Somebody there had seen what was threatening over Ruth's head. Then Jim Hooley cast his glance that way and yelled through his megaphone: "Jump, Miss Fielding! Quick! Jump into the river!" But at that moment the man on the boom started for the shore, running frantically for safety. The key log split with a raucous sound. The water and drift-stuff, in a mounting wave, poured through the gap, and the noise of it deafened Ruth Fielding to all other sounds. She did not even glance back and above again at the peril which menaced her from the top of the steep bank. CHAPTER XIX IN DEADLY PERIL "This stunt business," as Director Hooley called the taking of such pictures as this, is always admittedly a gamble. After much time and hundreds of dollars have been spent in getting ready to shoot a scene, some little thing may go wrong and spoil the whole thing. There was nothing the matter with the director's plans on this occasion; every detail of the "freshet" had been made ready for with exactness and with prodigious regard to detail. The foreman had cut the key log almost through and the force of the water and débris behind the boom had broken it. The man barely escaped disaster by reason of agile legs and sharp caulks on his boots. The backed-up waters burst through. Up stream, amid the turmoil and murk of the agitated flood, rode Wonota in her canoe, directly into the focus of the great cameras. To keep her canoe head-on with the flood, and to keep it from being overturned, was no small matter. It required all the Indian girl's skill to steer clear of snags and floating logs. Besides, she must remember to register as she shot down the stream a certain emotion which would reveal to the audience her condition of mind, as told in the story. Wonota did her part. She was rods above the breaking dam and she could not see, because of an overhanging tree on Ruth's side of the stream, any of that peril which suddenly threatened the white girl. Wonota was as unconscious of what imperiled Ruth as the latter was at first unknowing of the coming catastrophe. It was Jim Hooley whom the incident startled and alarmed more than anybody else. He committed an unpardonable sin--unpardonable for a director! He forgot, when everything was ready, to order the starting of the camera. Instead he put his megaphone to his lips and shouted across to Ruth Fielding--who was not supposed to be in the picture at all: "Jump, Miss Fielding! Quick! Jump into the river!" And Ruth did not hear him, loudly as his voice boomed across the flood! She was deafened by the thunder of the waters and the crashing of the logs in mid-flood. Her eyes, now that she was sure the foreman was safe on the other bank, were fixed upon the bow of Wonota's canoe, just coming into sight behind the ware of foaming water and upreared, charging timbers. It was a great sight--a wonderful sight. No real freshet could have been more awful to behold. Mr. Hooley's feat was a masterstroke! But behind and above Ruth was a scene of disaster that held those on the opposite bank speechless--after Hooley's first mighty shout of warning. At least, all but the camera men were so transfixed by the thing that was happening above the unconscious Ruth. Trained to their work, the camera men had been ready to crank their machines when Hooley grabbed up his megaphone. The boom had burst, the flood poured down, and the Indian maid's canoe came into the range of their lenses. It was the most natural thing in the world that they should begin cranking--and this they did! Alone among all those on the far bank of the stream, the camera men were blind to Ruth's danger. "She'll be killed!" shrieked Jennie Stone, while Helen Cameron ran to the water's edge, stretching forth her arms to Ruth as though she would seize her from across the stream. The next moment the water flooded up around Helen's ankles. The stream was rising, and had Jennie not dragged her back, Helen would have been knee-deep in the water--perhaps have been injured herself by one of the flying logs. Ruth was out of reach of the logs in the stream, although they charged down with mighty clamor, their ends at times shooting a dozen feet into the air, the bark stripping in ragged lengths, displaying angry gashes along their flanks. It was from that great heap of logs above, on the brink of the steep bank, that Ruth was in danger. A fringe of low brush had hidden the foot of the logpile up there. This hedge had also hidden from the observation of the party across the stream the villains who must have deliberately knocked out the chocks which held the high pile of timbers from skidding down the slope. Mr. Hooley had seen the logs start. Squeezed out by the weight of the pile, the lower logs, stripped of bark and squealing like living creatures started over the brink. They rolled, faster and faster, down upon the unwarned Ruth Fielding. And behind the leaders poured the whole pile, gathering speed as the avalanche made headway! The turmoil of the river and the crashing logs would have smothered the sound of the avalanche until it was upon the girl of the Red Mill. No doubt of that. But providentially Ruth flashed a glance across the stream. She saw the party there all screaming at her and waving their arms madly. Jennie was just dragging Helen back from the rising flood of the turbulent river. Ruth saw by their actions that they were trying to draw her attention to something behind her. She swung about and looked up the almost sheer bluff. Ruth Fielding was not lacking in quick comprehension. A single glance at the descending avalanche of logs was sufficient to make her understand the peril. She knew that she could not clear the hurtling timbers by running either up stream or down. The way was too rough. As well as Jim Hooley, she knew that escape was only possible by leaping into the river. And that chance was rather uncertain. Ruth was dressed for the rough outdoor life she was living. She wore high, laced boots, a short skirt, knickerbockers, a blouse, and a broad-brimmed hat. When she turned to face the turbulent stream the rocking timbers coming down with the released water almost filled the pool before the endangered girl. Had she worn caulks on the soles of her boots, as did the foreman who had cut the boom, and been practised as he was in "running the logs," Ruth would have stood a better chance of escaping the plunging avalanche. As it was, she was not wholly helpless. She had picked up a peavey one of the timbermen had left on this bank and was using is as a staff as she watched the "freshet" start. Warned now of the danger she was in, the girl of the Red Mill seized this staff firmly in both hands and poised herself to leap from the boulder to which she had stepped. Only a moment did she delay--just long enough to select the most promising log in the smother of foam and water before her. Then she leaped outward, striking down with the pike-staff and sinking its sharp point in the log to which she jumped. Behind her the timbers poured down the bluff, landed on their splintering ends on the rocks, and then--many of them--pitched their long lengths into the angry river. The spray flew yards high. It curtained, indeed, all that occurred for the next few moments upon this side of the stream. However much the scene, arranged by Jim Hooley might need the attention of the moving picture makers, here was a greater and more dangerous happening, in which Ruth Fielding was the leading participant! CHAPTER XX GOOD NEWS Tragedy was very dose indeed at that moment to the girl of the Red Mill. Many adventures had touched Ruth nearly; but nothing more perilous had threatened her than this. She balanced herself on the rushing log with the help of the peavey. She was more than ordinarily sure-footed. But if the log she rode chanced to be hit by one of the falling timbers loosened from their station on top of the bluff--that would be the end of the incident, and the end of the girl as well! Perhaps it was well that Helen and Jennie could no longer see their chum. The curtain of spray thrown up by the plunging logs from above hid the whole scene for several minutes. Then out of the turmoil on the river shot the log on which Ruth stood, appearing marvelously to her friends on the other bank. "Ruth! Ruth Fielding!" shrieked Helen, so shrilly that her voice really could be heard. "Are you alive?" Ruth waved one hand. She held her balance better now. She shot a glance behind and saw Wonota in the canoe coming down the rapids amid the snags and drifting débris--a wonderful picture! Jim Hooley, almost overcome by the shock and fright, suddenly beheld his two camera men cranking steadily--as unruffled as though all this uproar and excitement was only the usual turmoil of the studio! "Bully, boys!" the director shouted. "Keep at it!" Then through the megaphone: "Eyes on the camera, Wonota! Your lover is in the water--you must save him! Nobody else can reach him There! He's going down again! Bend forward--look at him--at the camera! That's it! When he appears again that log is going to hit him if you do not swerve the canoe in between the log and him--There! With your paddle! Shoot the canoe in now!" He swerved the megaphone to the men waiting on the bank: "Look out for Miss Fielding, some of you fellows. The rest of you stand ready to grab Wonota when that canoe goes over." Again to the Indian girl: "Now, Wonota! Pitch the paddle away. Lean over--grab at his head. There it is!" The Indian girl did as instructed, leaning so far that the canoe tipped. Mr. Hooley raised his hand. He snapped his fingers. "There! Enough!" he shouted, and the cameras stopped as the canoe canted the Indian girl headfirst into the stream. The rest of that scene would be taken in quiet water. While the man waded in to help Wonota, Ruth reached the bank and sprang off her log before she was butted off. Helen and Jennie ran to her, and such a hullabaloo as there was for a few minutes! Jim Hooley came striding down to the three Eastern girls, flushed and with scowling brow. "I want to know who did that?" he shouted. "No thanks to anybody but my camera men that the whole scene wasn't a fizzle. And what would Mr. Hammond have said? Who were those men, Miss Fielding?" "What men?" asked Ruth in wonder. "Up there on the other bank? Those that knocked the chocks out from under that heap of logs? You don't suppose that avalanche of timber started all by itself?" "I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Hooley," declared Ruth Fielding. "And surely," Helen added quickly, "you do not suppose that it was her fault? She might have been killed." "I got a glimpse of a man dodging out of the way just as that pile of logs started. I saw the flash of the sun on his ax," and the director was very much in earnest. It was Jennie who put into words the thought that had come both to Ruth and Helen as well: "Where is that awful Dakota Joe? He was here last night. He has tried to harm our Ruthie before. I do believe he did it!" "Who's that?" demanded the director. "The man who had Wonota in his show?" "Yes, Mr. Hooley. He was here last night. I spoke with him up in the bunk-house while you were telling the boys about this scene," Ruth said gravely. "The unhung villain!" exclaimed the director. "He tried to ruin our shot." Jennie stared at him with open mouth as well as eyes. "Well!" she gasped after a minute. "That is what you might call being wrapped up in one's business, sure enough! Ruined your shot, indeed! How about ruining a perfectly good girl named Ruth Fielding?" "Oh, I beg Miss Fielding's pardon," stammered the director. "You must remember that taking such a scene as this costs the corporation a good deal of money. Miss Fielding's danger, I must say, threw me quite off my balance. If I didn't have two of the keenest camera men in the business all this," and he gestured toward the turbulent river, "would have gone for nothing." "I can thank Mr. Hooley for what he tried to do for me," smiled Ruth. "I saw his gestures if I could not hear his voice. That was my salvation. But I believe it must have been Dakota Joe who started that avalanche of logs down upon me." "I'll have the scoundrel looked for," promised Hooley, turning to go upstream again. "But don't tell these rough men why you want Dakota Joe," advised the girl of the Red Mill. "No?" "You know how they are--even some of the fellows working for the picture company. They are pretty rough themselves. I do not want murder done because of my narrow escape." The other girls cried out at this, but Mr. Hooley nodded understandingly. "I get you, Miss Fielding. But I'll make it so he can't try any capers around here again. No, sir!" The girls were left to discuss the awful peril that had threatened, and come so near to over-coming, Ruth. Helen was particularly excited about it. "I do think, Ruth, that we should start right for home. This is altogether too savage a country. To think of that rascal _daring_ to do such a thing! For of course it was Dakota Joe who started those logs to rolling." "I can imagine nobody else doing it," confessed her chum. "Then I think you should start East at once," repeated Helen. "Don't you think so, Jennie?" "I'd hire a guard," said the plump girl. "This country certainly is not safe for our Ruth." "Neither was New York, it seemed," rejoined Ruth, with a whimsical smile. "Of course we are not sure--" "We are sure you came near losing your life," interrupted Helen. "Quite so. I was in danger. But if it was Joe, he has run away, of course. He will not be likely to linger about here after making the attempt." And to this opinion everybody else who knew about it agreed. A search was made by some of the men for Dakota Joe. It was said he had left for another logging camp far to the north before daybreak that very morning. Nobody had seen him since that early hour. "Just the same, he hung around long enough to start those logs to rolling. And I am not sure but that he had help," Jim Hooley said, talking the matter over later, after Mr. Hammond had arrived from the railroad and had been told about the incident, "He is a dangerous fellow, that Fenbrook." "He has made himself a nuisance," agreed Mr. Hammond. "Tell William and the other boys to keep their eyes open for him. The moment he appears again--if he does appear--let them grab him. I will get a warrant sworn out at Clearwater for his arrest. We will put him in jail until our picture is finished, at least." They did not believe at the time that Ruth was in any further peril from Dakota Joe. As for the girls, they were particularly excited just then by some news Mr. Hammond had brought with him from the post-office. Letters from Tom Cameron! He was coming home! Indeed, he would have started before Ruth and Helen received the messages he wrote. And in Ruth's letter he promised a great surprise. What that surprise was the girl of the Red Mill could not imagine. "Doesn't he say anything about a surprise for me?" demanded Jennie Stone. "He doesn't say a word about you in my letter, Heavy," said Helen wickedly. "Why, Jennie, he doesn't know you are with us here in the West," Ruth said soothingly. "I don't care," sputtered the fat girl. "He must know about my Henri. And not a word have I heard from or about him in a month. If the war is over, surely Henri must be as free as Tom Cameron." "I suppose some of the soldiers have to stay along the Rhine, Jennie, dear," replied Ruth. "Maybe Henri is one of those guarding the frontier." "He is holding the German hordes back, single-handed, from _la belle_ France," put in Helen, smiling. "Oh, cat's foot!" snapped Jennie. "The Germans are just as glad to stop fighting as we are. They certainly don't need Henri in the army any longer. I am going to write to his mother!" CHAPTER XXI A BULL AND A BEAR Wonota had known nothing of what was supposed to have been a deliberate attempt to injure Ruth Fielding until some hours after the occurrence. She had not much to say about it, but, like the three white girls, she was sure the guilty man was Dakota Joe. As William had said, Fenbrook was a "mighty mean man," and the Osage maid knew that to be a fact. She nodded her head gravely as she commented upon the incident that might have ended so seriously. "That Dakota Joe is bad. Chief Totantora would have sent him to the spirit land long since, had he been here. There are white men, Miss Fielding, who are much worse than any redman." "I will grant you that," sighed Ruth. "Badness is not a matter of blood, I guess. This Fenbrook has no feeling or decency. He is dangerous." "I should have shot him," declared the Osage girl confidently. "I am afraid I have done wrong in not doing so before." "How can you talk so recklessly!" exclaimed Ruth, and she was really troubled. "Shooting Dakota Joe would make you quite as bad as he is. No, no! That is not the way to feel about it." But Wonota could not understand this logic. And yet, Wonota in other ways was not at all reckless or ferocious. She possessed a fund of sympathy, and was kindly disposed toward everybody When one of the cook's helpers cut his foot with an ax, she aided in the rough surgery furnished by the camp boss, and afterwards nursed the invalid while he was confined to his bunk and could not even hop about. All the men liked her, and after a time they did not speak carelessly of her as "that Injun gal." She seemed to be of a different caliber from the other Indians engaged in making the picture. At least, she was more intelligent. The girls from the East did not lose their personal interest in Wonota in the least degree. But of course while the various scenes were being made even Ruth did not give all her attention to either the Indian maiden or to the shooting of the picture. The great freshet scene, when developed and tried out in the projection room at Clearwater, proved to be a very striking film indeed. If "Brighteyes" was to rise to the level of that one scene, every reel of the picture must be photographed with great care. While the director and Mr. Hammond and the company in general worked over some of the lumber-camp scenes, retaking or arranging for the shots over and over again, Ruth rode with her two chums on many a picturesque trail around Benbow Camp, Hubbell Ranch and the Clearwater station of the railroad. They were quite sure that Dakota Joe Fenbrook had left this part of the country--and left in a hurry. If he learned that his attempt on Ruth Fielding's life was not successful, he must have learned it some time after the occurrence. Just where the "bad man" had gone after leaving Benbow on the run, nobody seemed to know. Ruth and Helen and Jennie were in the saddle almost every day. They found much to interest them on the various trails they followed. They even discovered and visited several pioneer families--"nesters" in the language of the cowpunchers and stockmen--who welcomed the Eastern girls with vast curiosity. "And how some of these folks can live in such Wild places, and in such perfectly barren cabins, I do not see," groaned Helen Cameron after a visit to one settler's family near a wild canyon to the west of Benbow Camp. "That woman and those girls! Not a decent garment to their backs, and the men so rough and uncouth. I would not stay there on a bet--not for the best man who ever breathed." "That woman's husband isn't the best man who ever breathed," said Jennie, grimly. "But perhaps he is the best man she ever knew. And, anyway, having as the boys say 'got stuck on him,' now she is plainly 'stuck with him.' In other words she has made her own bed and must lie in it." "Why should people be punished for their ignorance?" complained Helen. "Nature's way," said Ruth confidently. "Civilization is slowly changing that--or trying to. But nature's law is, after all, rather harsh to us." "If I was one of those girls we saw back there," Helen continued, "I would run away." "Run where?" asked Ruth slyly. "With a movie company? Or a Wild West Show?" "Either. Anything would be better than that hut and the savagery of their present lives." "They don't mind it so much," admitted Jennie. "I asked one of them. She was looking forward to a dance next week. She said they had three of four through the year--and they seemed to be reckoned as great treats, but all a girl could expect." "And think how much we demand," said Ruth thoughtfully. "Welladay! Maybe we have too much--too much of the good things of the earth." "Bah!" exclaimed Helen, with disgust. "One can't get too much of the good things. No, ma'am! Take all you can----" "And give nothing?" suggested Ruth, shaking her head. "Nobody can say with truth that you are selfish, Ruthie Fielding," put in Jennie. "In fact, you are always giving, and never taking." Ruth laughed at this. "You are wrong," she said. "The more you give the more you get. At least, I find it so. And we are getting right now, on this trip to the great Northwest, much more than we are giving. I feel as though I would be condemned if I did not do something for these hard-working people who are doing their part in developing this country--the settlers, and even the timbermen." "You want to be a lady Santa Claus to that bunch of roughnecks at Benbow Camp, do you?" laughed Jennie. "Well, I would like to help somebody besides Wonota. What do you hear from your New York dressmaker about Wonota's new outfit, Jennie?" "It will be shipped right out here to Clearwater before long," announced the plump girl, with new satisfaction. "Won't Wonota be surprised?" "And delighted!" added Helen, showing satisfaction too. At that very moment they rode out of a patch of wood which had hidden from the girls' eyes a piece of lowland fringed by a grove of northern cottonwood trees. On the air was borne a deep bellow--a sound that none of the three had noted before. "What is that?" demanded Helen, startled and half drawing in her snorting pony. "Oh, listen!" cried Jennie. "Hear the poor cow." Ruth was inclined to doubt. "When you hear a 'cow' bellowing in this country, look out. It may be a wild steer or a very ugly bull. Let us go on cautiously." All three of the ponies showed signs of trepidation, and this fact added to Ruth's easily aroused anxiety. "Have a care," she said to Helen and Jennie. "I believe something is going on here that spells danger--for us at least." "It's down in the swamp. See the way the ponies look," agreed Jennie. They quickly came to a break in the cottonwood grove on the edge of the morass. Instantly the ponies halted, snorting again. Ruth's tried to rear and turn, but she was a good horsewoman. "Oh, look!" squealed Helen. "A bear!" "Oh, look!" echoed Jennie, quite as excited. "A bull!" "Well, I declare!" exclaimed Ruth, her hands full for the moment with the actions of her mount. "One would think you were looking at a picture of Wall Street--with your bulls and your bears I Let me see--do!" CHAPTER XXII IN THE CANYON Ruth wheeled her mount the next moment and headed it again in the right direction. She saw at last what had caused her two companions such wonder. In a deep hole near the edge of the morass was a huge Hereford bull. Most of the cattle in that country were Herefords. The animal had without doubt become foundered in the swamp hole; but that was by no means the worst that had happened to him. While held more than belly-deep in the sticky mud he had been attacked by the only kind of bear in all the Rockies that, unless under great provocation, attacks anything bigger than woodmice. A big black bear had flung itself upon the back of the bellowing, struggling bull and was tearing and biting the poor creature's head and neck--actually eating the bull by piecemeal! "Oh, horrors!" gasped Helen, sickened by the sight of the blood and the ferocity of the bear. "Is that a dreadful grizzly? How terrible!" "It's eating the poor bull alive!" Jennie cried. Ruth had never ridden out from camp since Dakota Joe's last appearance without carrying a light rifle in her saddle scabbard. She rode a regular stockman's saddle and liked the ease and comfort of it. Now she seized her weapon and cocked It. "That is not a grizzly, girls!" she exclaimed. "The grizzly is ordinarily a tame animal beside this fellow. The blackbear is the meat-eater--and the man-killer, too. I learned all about that in our first trip out here to the West." "Quick! Do something for that poor steer!" begged Helen. "Never mind lecturing about it." But Ruth had been wasting no time while she talked. She first had to get her pony to stand She knew it was not gun-shy. It was only the scent and sight of the bear that excited it. Once the pony's four feet were firmly set, the girl of the Red Mill, who was no bad shot, raised her rifle and sighted down the barrel at the little snarling eyes of Bruin behind his open, red jaws. The bear crouched on the bull's back and actually roared at the girls who had come to disturb him at his savage feast. Ruth's trigger-finger was firm. It was an automatic rifle, and although it fired a small ball, the girl had drawn a good bead on the bear's most vulnerable point--the base of his wicked brain! The several bullets poured into that spot, severing the vertebrae and almost, indeed, tearing the head from the brute's shoulders! "Oh, Ruth! You've done for him!" cried Helen, with delight. "But the poor bull!" murmured Jennie. "See! He can't get out. He's done for." "I am afraid they are both done for," returned Ruth. "Take this gun, Jennie. Let me see if I can rope the bull and help him out." She swung the puncher's lariat she carried hung from her saddle-bow with much expertness. She had practised lariat throwing on her previous trips to the West. But although she was able to encircle the bull's bleeding head with the noose of the rope, to drag the creature out of the morass was impossible. He was sunk in the mire too deeply, and he was too far gone now to help himself. The bear had rolled off the back of the bull and after a few faint struggles ceased to live. But Bruin's presence made it very difficult for the girls to force their ponies closer to the dying bull. Therefore, after all, Ruth had to abandon her lariat, tying the end of it to a tree and by this means keeping the bull from sinking out of sight after she had put a merciful bullet into him. As they rode near the Hubbell Ranch they stopped and told of their adventure at the swamp, and a party of the boys rode out and saved both bear and bull meat from the coyotes or from cougars that sometimes came down from the hills. The three girls had not been idly riding about the country during these several days which had been punctuated, as it were, with the adventure of the bull and the bear. That very day they had found the canyon which Mr. Hammond and the director had been hoping to find and use in filming some of the most thrilling scenes of "Brighteyes." As Ruth was the writer of the scenario it was natural that she should be quite capable of choosing the location. The lovely and sheltered canyon offered all that was needed for the taking of the scenes indicated. The girls went back the next day, taking Mr. Hammond with them. This time they merely glanced at the spot where the bear and the bull had died, and they did not visit the family of nesters at all. The shadowy mouth of the canyon, its sides running up steeply into the hills, was long in sight before the little cavalcade reached it. From the mouth of it Mr. Hammond could not judge if Ruth's selection of locality was a wise one. Certain natural attributes were necessary to fit the needs of the story she had written. When, after they had ridden a couple of miles up the canyon, he saw the cliff path and the lip of the overhanging rock on which the hero of the story and _Brighteyes_' Indian lover were to struggle, he proclaimed himself satisfied. "You've got it, I do believe," the producer declared. "This will delight Jim Hooley, I am sure. We can stake out a net down here under that rock so if either or both the boys fall, they will land all right. It will be some stunt picture, and no mistake!" He wanted to look around the place, however, before riding back, and the girls dismounted too. The bottom of the canyon was a smooth lawn--the grass still green. For although the tang of winter was now in the air even at noon, the weather had been remarkably pleasant. Only on the distant heights had the snow fallen, and not much there. There was a silvery stream wandering through the meadow over which the girls walked. By one pool was a shallow bit of beach, and Ruth, coming upon this alone, suddenly cried out: "Oh, Helen! Jennie! I am a Miss Crusoe. Come here and see the unmistakable mark of my Man Friday." "What do you mean, you ridiculous thing?" drawled Jennie. "You cannot be a Crusoe. You are not dressed in skins." "Well, I like that!" rejoined Ruth, raising her eyebrows in apparent surprise, "I should think I was covered with skin. Why not? Am I different from the remainder of humanity?" Of course they laughed with her as they came to view her discovery upon the sand. It was the mark of a human foot. "And no savage, I'll be bound," said Helen. "That is the mark of a mighty brogan. A white man's foot-covering, no less. See! There is another footprint." "He certainly was going away from here," Jennie Stone observed. "Who do you suppose he is?" "I wonder if his eyes are blue and if he has a moustache?" queried Helen, languishingly. "Bet he has whiskers and chews tobacco. I known these Western men. Bah!" "Jennie takes all the romance out of it," said Ruth, laughing. "Now I don't care to meet my Man Friday at all." They ate a picnic lunch before they rode out of the lovely canyon. Mr. Hammond was always good company, and he exerted himself to be interesting to the three girls on this occasion. "My!" Helen remarked to Jennie, "Ruth does make the nicest friends, doesn't she? See how much fun--how many good times--we have had through her acquaintanceship with Mr. Hammond." Jennie agreed. But her attention was attracted just then to something entirely different. She was staring up the cliff path that Mr. Hammond had praised as being just the natural landmark needed for the scene the company wished to picture. "Did you see what I saw?" drawled the plump girl. "Or am I thinking too, too much about mankind?" "What is the matter with you?" demanded Helen. "I didn't see any man." "Not up that rocky way--there! A brown coat and a gray hat. Did you see?" "Ruth's Man Friday!" ejaculated Helen. "I shouldn't wonder. But we can't prove it because we haven't the size of yonder gentleman's boot. Humph I he is running away from us, all right." "Maybe he never saw us," suggested Helen. They called to Ruth and told her of the glimpse they had had of the stranger. "And what did he run away for, do you suppose?" demanded Jennie. "I am sure you need not ask me," said Ruth. "What did he look like?" "I did not see his face," said Jennie. She repeated what she had already said to Helen about the stranger's gray hat and brown coat. Ruth looked somewhat troubled and made no further comment Of course, the coat and hat were probably like the coat and hat of numberless other men in the West. But the last time Ruth had seen Dakota Joe Fenbrook, that individual had been wearing a broad-brimmed gray sombrero and a brown duck coat. CHAPTER XXIII REALITY Ruth Fielding was not a coward. She had already talked so much about Dakota Joe that she was a little ashamed to bring up the subject again. So she made no comment upon the man in the brown coat and gray hat that Jennie Stone declared she had seen climbing the path up the canyon wall. Mr. Hammond was not annoyed by it. His mind was fixed upon the scenes that could be filmed in the canyon. Like Jim Hooley, the director, his thought was almost altogether taken up with the making of Ruth's "Brighteyes." The work of making the picture was almost concluded. Wonota, the Indian maid, had lost none of her interest in the tasks set her; but she expressed herself to Ruth as being glad that there was little more to do. "I do not like some things I have to do," she confessed. "It is so hard to look, as Mr. Hooley tells me to, at that hero of yours, Miss Fielding, as though I admired him." "Mr. Grand? You do not like him?" "I could never love him," said the Indian girl with confidence. "He is too silly. Even when we are about to engage in one of the most thrilling scenes, he looks first in the handglass to see if his hair is parted right." Ruth could not fail to be amused. But she said cautiously: "But think how he would look to the audience if his hair was tousled when it was supposed to be well brushed." "Ah, it is not a manly task," said Wonota, with disgust. "And the Indian man who is the villain--Tut! He is only half Indian. And he tries to look both as though he admired me and hated the white man. It makes his eyes go this way!" and Wonota crossed her eyes until Ruth had to cry out. "Don't!" she begged, "Suppose you suffered that deformity?" "But he doesn't--that Jack Onehorse. Your Brighteyes, I am sure, would have felt no pity for such an Indian." "You don't have to feel pity for him," laughed Ruth. "You know, you shoot him in the end, Wonota." "Most certainly," agreed Wonota, closing her lips firmly. "He deserves shooting." The calm way in which the Indian girl spoke of this taking off of the Indian lover who became the villain in the end of the moving picture, rather shocked the young author. "But," said Jennie, "Wonota it only a single generation removed from arrant savagery. She calls a spade a spade. You shouldn't blame her. It is civilization--which is after all a sort of make-believe--that causes us white folk to refer to a spade as an agricultural implement." But Ruth would not laugh. She had become so much interested in Wonota by this time that she wished her to improve her opportunities and learn the ways--the better ways, at least--of white people. Mr. Hammond naturally looked at the commercial end of Wonota's improvement. Nor did Ruth overlook the chance the Osage maid had of becoming a money-earning star in the moving picture firmament. But she desired to help the girl to something better than mere money. Wonota responded to a marked degree to Ruth's efforts. She was naturally refined. The Indian is not by nature coarse and crude. He is merely different from the whites. Wonota seemed to select for herself, when she had the opportunity, the better things obtainable--the better customs of the whites rather than the ruder ones. Meanwhile the work of preparing for the scenes of "Brighteyes" to be shot in the canyon went on. The day came when all the company were informed that the morrow would see the work begun. At daybreak, after a hasty breakfast, the motors and vans and the cavalcade of riders left the Clearwater station for a week--and that the last week of their stay--up in the lovely canyon Ruth and her two girl chums had found. "I do declare!" exclaimed the gay Jennie (even the lack of letters from Henri Marchand could not quench her spirits for long), "this bunch of tourists does look like an old-time emigrant train. We might be following the Santa Fe Trail, all so merrily." "Only there were no motor-cars in those old days," remarked Ruth. "Nor portable stoves," put in Helen with a smile. "And I am quite sure," suggested Mr. Hammond, who heard this, "that no moving picture cameras went along with the old Santa Fe Trailers." "Yet," said Ruth thoughtfully, "the country about here, at any rate, is just about as wild as it was in those old days. And perhaps some of the people are quite as savage as they were in the old days. Oh, dear!" "Who are you worrying about? William?" asked Helen slyly. "He did sound savage this morning when he was harnessing those mules to the big wagon." But her chum did not reply to this pleasantry. She really had something on her mind which bothered her. But she did not explain the cause of her anxiety to the others, even after the arrival of the party in the canyon. It looked like a great Gypsy camp when the party was settled on the sward beside the mountain stream. Mr. Hooley had not seen the location before, and he was somewhat critical of some points. But finally he admitted that, unless the place had been built for their need, they could not really expect to find a location better fitted. "And thank goodness!" Ruth sighed, when the camera points were severally decided upon, "after these shots are taken we can head East for good." "Why, Ruthie! I thought we were having a dandy time," exclaimed Helen. "Have you lost your old love for the wild and open places?" "I certainly will be glad to see a porcelain bathtub again," yawned Jennie, breaking in. "I don't really feel as though a sponge-down in an icy cold brook with a tarpaulin around one for a bath-house is altogether the height of luxury." "It is out here," laughed Helen. "I do not mind the inconveniences so much," said Ruth reflectively. "The old Red Mill farmhouse was not very conveniently arranged--above stairs, at least--until I had it built over at my own expense, greatly to Uncle Jabez's opposition. It is not the roughing it. That is good for us I verily believe. But I have a depressing feeling that before the picture is done something may happen." "I should expect it would!" cried Helen, not at all disturbed by the prophecy. Once Helen had prophesied disaster, and it had come. But she forgot that now. "I expect something to happen--every day, most likely. But of course it will be a pleasant and exciting something. Yes, indeedy!" Neither of her friends, after all, realized that Ruth Fielding was actually in fear. She was very anxious every waking moment. That strange man whom the girls had spied here in the canyon might be a perfectly harmless person. And then again-- Two days were occupied in placing the paraphernalia and training the actors in their parts. They all got a working knowledge of what was expected of them when the picture was being photographed, and the principals learned their lines. For nowadays almost as much care is given to what is said by actors before the camera as by those having speaking parts upon the stage. The big scene--the really big scene in the drama--was set upon that overhanging lip of rock that Ruth had spied when first she, with Helen and Jennie, had ridden up the trail. On that overhanging shelf occurred the struggle between the white lover of _Brighteyes_ and the Indian who had trailed him and the girl to this wild spot. Mr. Grand, in spite of Wonota's scorn of him, was a handsome man and made as fine an appearance in the out-of-door garments the part called for as he did in the dress-suit to which he was so much addicted. The Indian who played the part of the villain was an excellent actor and had appeared many times on the silver sheet. He was earnest in his desire to please the director, but he failed sometimes to "keep in the picture" when he was not actually dominating a scene. Because of this failing in John Onehorse, Mr. Hooley sent Ruth to the top of the rock to watch and advise Onehorse as the scene proceeded. She was quite able by this time to act as assistant director. Indeed, it was Ruth's ambition to direct a picture of her own in the near future. She sometimes had ideas that conflicted with those of Mr. Hammond and his directors, and she wished to try her own way to get certain results. Now, however, she was to follow Mr. Hooley's instructions exactly. The arrangement of the cameras were such, both from below and at the level of the scene to be shot, that Ruth had to stand upon a narrow shelf quite out of sight of the actors on the overhanging rock, and hidden as well from most of the people below. This, to make sure that she was out of the line of the camera. Behind her the narrow and broken trail led to the top of the canyon wall. It was up this trail that Jennie and Helen had seen the "Man Friday" disappear on the occasion of their first visit to the place. Patiently, over and over again, Mr. Hooley had the principal characters try the scene. Below, Wonota, as the heroine, was to run into the camera field at a certain point in the struggle of the two men on the lip of rock. To time the Indian girl's entrance was no small task. But at last the characters seemed to be about letter perfect. "Look out now! We're going to shoot it!" shouted Jim Hooley through his megaphone. "Miss Fielding! Keep your eye on Onehorse. Keep him up to the mark while he waits for Mr. Grand's speech. Now! Ready?" It was at just this moment that Ruth felt something--something hard and painful--pressing between her shoulder-blades. She shot a glance over her shoulder to see the ugly face of Dakota Joe Fenbrook peering out at her between the walls of a narrow crack in the face of the cliff. The thing he pressed against her was a long stick, and, with a grin of menace, he drove that stick more firmly against Ruth's body! "Ready? Camera! Go!" shouted Mr. Hooley, and the scene was on. Ruth, with a stifled cry, realized that she was being pushed to the edge of the steep path. There was a drop of twenty feet and more, and where she stood there was no net to break the fall! If Fenbrook pushed her over the brink of the path Ruth knew very well that the outcome would be even too realistic for a moving picture. CHAPTER XXIV WONOTA'S SURPRISE Ruth Fielding might have cried out. But at that moment the attention of everyone was so given to the taking of the important scene that perhaps nobody would have understood her cry--what it meant. Behind her Dakota Joe stretched forward, pushing the stick into the small of her back and urging her closer to the brink. The spot on which she stood was so narrow that it was impossible for her to escape without turning her body, and the bad man knew very well that the pressure of the stick kept her from doing that very thing! The cameras were being cranked steadily, and Mr. Hooley shouted his orders as needed. Fortunately for the success of the scene, Onehorse did not need the admonitions of Ruth to "keep in the picture." The point came where he made his leap for the shoulders of the white man, and it was timed exactly. The two came to the brink of the rock in perfect accord with the appearance of Wonota on the ground below. The Indian girl came, gun in hand, as though just from the chase. As she ran into the field of the camera Hooley shouted his advice and she obeyed his words to the letter. Until---- She raised her eyes, quite as she was told. But she looked beyond Grand and Onehorse struggling on the rock. It was to another figure she looked--that of Ruth being forced over the verge of the narrow path. The girl of the Red Mill was half crouched, striving to push back against the thrust of the stick in Dakota Joe's hands. The upper part of Fenbrook's body was plainly visible from Wonota's station at the foot of the cliff, and his wicked face could be mistaken for no other. "Now! The gun!" shouted Mr. Hooley. "Wonota! Come alive!" The Indian girl obeyed--as far as springing into action went. The gun she held went to her shoulder, but its muzzle did not point at the actors above her. Instead, the threatening weapon pointed directly at the head of the villain who was forcing Ruth off her insecure footing on the narrow path. "What are you doing, Wonota? Wonota!" shouted Mr. Hooley, who could not see Ruth at all. The Indian girl made no reply. She drew bead upon the head of Dakota Joe, and his glaring eyes were transfixed by the appearance of the gaping muzzle of Wonota's gun. He dropped the stick with which he had forced Ruth to the edge of the path. She fell sideways, dizzy and faint, clinging to the rough rock with both hands. As it was, she came near rolling over the declivity after all. But it was Dakota Joe, in his sudden panic, who came to disaster. He had always been afraid of Wonota. She was a dead shot, and he believed that she would not shrink from killing him. Now it appeared that the Indian girl held his life in her hands. The muzzle of her weapon looked to Dakota Joe at that moment as big as the mouth of a cannon! He could see her brown finger curled upon the trigger. Each split second threatened the discharge of the gun. With a stifled cry he tried to leap out of the crack and along the path down which he had come so secretly. But he stumbled. His riding boots were not fit for climbing on such a rugged shelf. Stumbling again, he threw out one hand to find nothing more stable to clutch than the empty air! "Wonota!" shouted Hooley again. "Stop!" He raised his hand, stopping the cameras. And at that moment there hurtled over the edge of the path a figure that, whirling and screaming, fell all the distance to the bottom of the canyon. Helen and Jennie, for a breathless instant, thought it must be Ruth, for they knew where she had been hidden. But the voice that roared fear and imprecations was not at all like Ruth Fielding's! "Who's that?" shouted Mr. Hammond, likewise excited. "He's spoiled that shot, I am sure." Ruth sat up on the shelf and looked over. "Oh!" she cried. "Is he killed?" "He ought to be, if he isn't," growled Mr. Hooley. "What did you do that for, Wonota?" The Indian girl advanced upon the man writhing on the ground. Dakota Joe saw her coming and set up another frightened yell. "Don't let her shoot me! Don't let her!" he begged. "Shut up!" commanded Mr. Hammond. "The gun only has blanks in it. We don't use loaded cartridges in this business. Why! hanged if it isn't Fenbrook." "Now you have busted me up!" groaned the ex-showman. "I got a broken leg. And I believe my arm's broken too. And that gal done it." As Jennie said later, however, he could scarcely "get away with that." Ruth came down and told what the rascal had tried to do to her. For a little while it looked as though some of the rougher fellows might do the dastardly Joe bodily harm other than that caused by his fall. But Mr. Hammond hurried him in a motor-car to Clearwater, and there, before the moving picture company returned, he was tried and sent to the State penitentiary. The great scene had to be taken over again--a costly and nerve-racking experience. Like Ruth herself, Helen and Jennie were glad now when the work was finished and they could head for the railroad. "Guess you were right, Ruthie," agreed Jennie. "Something did happen. As Aunt Alvirah would have said, you must have felt it in your bones." "I feel it in my body, anyway," admitted Ruth. "I got dreadfully bruised when I fell on that path. My side is all black and blue." The misadventures of the occasion were soon forgotten however, especially when the girls reached Clearwater and found a box waiting for them at the express office. Unsuspicious Wonota was called into the stateroom in the special car, and there her white friends displayed to her delighted gaze the "trousseau," as Jennie insisted upon calling the pretty frock and other articles sent on by Madame Joné. "For _me_?" asked Wonota, for once showing every indication of delight without being ordered to do so by the director. "All for me? Oh, it is too much! How my father, Chief Totantora, would stare could he see me in those beautiful things. Wonota's white sisters are doing too much for her. There is no way by which she can repay their kindness." "Say!" said Jennie bluntly, "if you want to pay Ruth Fielding, you just go ahead and become a real movie star--a real Indian star, Wonota. I can see well enough that then she will get big returns on her investment. And in any case, we are all delighted that you are pleased with our present." CHAPTER XXV OTHER SURPRISES It was not merely a matter of packing up and starting for the East. It would be a week still before the party would separate--some of the Westerners starting for California and the great moving picture studios there, while Ruth and her friends with Mr. Hammond and his personal staff would go eastward. It had been arranged that Wonota should return to the Osage Agency for a short time. Meanwhile Ruth had promised to try to do another scenario in which the young Indian girl would have an important part. Mr. Hammond was enthusiastic, having seen some of the principal scenes of "Brighteyes" projected. He declared to Ruth: "She is going to be what our friend the camera man calls 'a knock-out.' There is a charm about Wonota--a wistfulness and naturalness--that I believe will catch the movie fans. Maybe, Miss Fielding, we are on the verge of making one of the few really big hits in the game." "I think she is quite worthy of training, Mr. Hammond," agreed the girl of the Red Mill. "When I get to work on the new picture I shall want Wonota with me. Can it be arranged?" "Surely. Her contract takes that into consideration. Unless her father appears on the scene, for the next two years Wonota is to be as much under your instruction as though she were an apprentice," and he laughed. Mention of Chief Totantora did not warn Ruth of any pending event. The thing which happened was quite unexpected as far as she was concerned. The westbound train halted at Clearwater one afternoon, while the three white girls were sitting on the rear platform of their car busy with certain necessary needlework--for there were no maids in the party. Ruth idly raised her eyes to see who got off the train, for the station was in plain view. "There are two soldiers," she said. "Look! Boys coming home from 'over there,' I do believe. See! They have their trench helmets slung behind them with their other duffle. Why----" She halted. Helen had looked up lazily, but it was Jennie who first exclaimed in rejoinder to Ruth's observation: "Dear me, it surely isn't my Henri!" "No," said Ruth slowly, but still staring, "there is no horizon blue uniform in sight." "Don't remind us of such possibilities," complained Helen Cameron with a deep sigh. "If Tom--" "It _is_!" gasped Ruth, under her breath, and suddenly the other girls looked at her to observe an almost beatific expression spread over the features of the girl of the Red Mill. "Ruthie!" cried Helen, and jumped up from her seat. "My aunt!" murmured Jennie, and stared as hard as she could along the beaten path toward the station. The two figures in uniform strode toward the special car. One straight and youthful figure came ahead, while the other soldier, as though in a subservient position, followed in the first one's footsteps. Wonota was coming across the street toward the railroad. She, too, saw the pair of uniformed men. For an instant the Indian girl halted. Then she bounded toward the pair, her light feet fairly spurning the ground. "My father! Chief Totantora!" the white girls heard her cry. The leading soldier halted, swung about to look at her, and said something to his companion. Not until this order was given him did the second man even look in the direction of the flying Indian maid. Ruth and her friends then saw that he was a man past middle age, that his face was that of an Indian, and that his expression was quite as stoical as the countenances of Indians are usually presumed to be. But Wonota had learned of late to give way to her feelings. No white girl could have flung herself into the arms of her long-lost parent with more abandon than did Wonota. And that not-withstanding the costume she wore--the very pretty one sent West from the Fifth Avenue modiste's shop! Perhaps the change in his lovely daughter shocked Totantora at first, He seemed not at all sure that this was really his Wonota. Nor did he put his arms about her as a white father would have done. But he patted her shoulder, and then her cheek, and in earnest gutturals he conversed a long time with the Indian maid. Meanwhile the three white girls had their own special surprise. The white soldier, who was plainly an officer, advanced toward the special car. His bronzed and smiling face was not to be mistaken even at that distance. Helen suddenly cried: "Hold me, somebody! I know I'm going to faint! That's Tommy-boy." Ruth, however, gave no sign of fainting. She dashed off the steps of the car and ran several yards to meet the handsome soldier. Then she halted, blushing to think of the appearance she made. Suppose members of the company should see her? "Well, Ruth," cried the broadly smiling Tom, "is that the way you greet your best chum's brother? Say! You girls ought to be kinder than this to us. Why! when we paraded in New York an old lady ran right out into the street and kissed me." "And how many pretty girls did the same, Captain Tom?" Ruth wanted to know sedately. "Nobody as pretty as you, Ruth," he whispered, seizing both her hands and kissing her just as his sister and Jennie reached the spot. He let Helen--and even Jennie---kiss him also. "You know how it is, Tommy," the latter explained. "If I can't kiss my own soldier, why shouldn't I practise on you?" "No reason at all, Jennie," he declared. "But let me tell the good news. By the time you get back to New York a certain major in the French forces expects to be relieved and to be on his way to the States again. He tells me that you are soon going to become a French citizeness, _ma cherie."_ It was a very gay party that sat for the remainder of that afternoon on the observation platform of the special car. There was so much to say on both sides. "So the appearance of Wonota's father was the great surprise you had in store for us, Tom?" Ruth said at one point. "That's it. And some story that old fellow can tell his daughter--if he warms up enough to do it. These Indians certainly are funny people. He seems to have taken a shine to me and follows me around a good deal as though he were my servant. Yet I understand that he belongs to the very rich Osage tribe, and is really one of the big men of it." "Quite true," Ruth said. The story of Totantora's adventures in Germany was a thrilling one. But only by hearsay had Tom got the details. The Indians and other performers put in confinement by the Germans when the war began, had all suffered more or less. Twice Chief Totantora had escaped and tried to make his way out of the country. Each time he had been caught, and more severely treated. The third time he had succeeded in breaking through into neutral territory. Even there, in a strange land, amid unfamiliar customs and people talking an unknown language, he had made his way alone and without help till he had reached the American lines. Perhaps one less stoical, with less endurance, than an Indian, and an Indian, like Chief Totantora, trained in an earlier, hardier day, could not have done it. But Wonota's father did succeed, and after he reached the American lines he became attached in some indefinite capacity to Captain Tom Cameron's regiment. "When I first saw the poor old chap he was little more than a skeleton. But the life Indians lead certainly makes them tough and enduring. He stood starvation and confinement better than the white men. Some of the ex-show people died in that influenza epidemic the second year of the war. But old Totantora was pretty husky, in spite of having all the appearance of a professional living skeleton," explained Tom. Whether Totantora told Wonota the details of his imprisonment or not, the white girls never knew. Wonota, too, was inclined to be very secretive. But she was supremely happy. She was to have a recess from work, and when the special car started East with Ruth and her chums, Wonota and her father accompanied them to Kansas City. Then the Osages went south to the reservation. Totantora had heard all about his daughter's work in the moving picture before the party separated, and he put his mark on Mr. Hammond's contract binding himself to allow the girl to go on as already agreed. Totantora had possibly some old-fashioned Indian ideas about the treatment of squaws; but he knew the value of money. The sums Wonota had already been paid were very satisfactory to the chief of the Osages. In Ruth's mind, the money part of the contract was the smallest part. She desired greatly to see Wonota develop and grow in her chosen profession. To see the Indian maid become a popular screen star was going to delight the girl of the Red Mill, and she was frank in saying so. "See here," Tom Cameron said when they were alone together. "I can see very well, Ruthie, that you are even more enamored of your profession than you were before I left for Europe. How long is this going to last?" "How long is what going to last?" she asked him, her frank gaze finding his. "You know what I mean," said the young man boyishly. "Gee, Ruth! the war is over. You know what I want. And I feel as though I deserved some consideration after what I have been through." She smiled, but still looked at him levelly. "Well, how about it?" he demanded. "Do you think we know our own minds? Altogether, I mean?" asked the girl. "You are in a dreadfully unsettled state. I can see that, Tom. And I have only just begun with Wonota. I could not stop now." "I don't ask you to stop a single, solitary thing!" he cried with sudden heat. "I expect to get to work myself--at something. I feel a lot of energy boiling up in me," and he laughed. "But, say, Ruth, I want to know just what I am going to work for? Is it all right with you? Haven't found anybody else you like better than your old chum, have you?" Ruth laughed, too. Yet she was serious when she gave him both her hands. "I am very sure, Tom, dear, that that could never be. You will always be the best beloved of all boys----" "Great Scott, Ruth!" he interrupted. "When do you think I am going to be a man?" THE END THE RUTH FIELDING SERIES By ALICE B. EMERSON _12mo. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ Ruth Fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. Her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. Ruth Fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. 1. RUTH FIELDING OF THE RED MILL 2. RUTH FIELDING AT BRIARWOOD HALL 3. RUTH FIELDING AT SNOW CAMP 4. RUTH FIELDING AT LIGHTHOUSE POINT 5. RUTH FIELDING AT SILVER RANCH 6. RUTH FIELDING ON CLIFF ISLAND 7. RUTH FIELDING AT SUNRISE FARM 8. RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES 9. RUTH FIELDING IN MOVING PICTURES 10. RUTH FIELDING DOWN IN DIXIE 11. RUTH FIELDING AT COLLEGE 12. RUTH FIELDING IN THE SADDLE 13. RUTH FIELDING IN THE RED CROSS 14. RUTH FIELDING AT THE WAR FRONT 15. RUTH FIELDING HOMEWARD BOUND 16. RUTH FIELDING DOWN EAST 17. RUTH FIELDING IN THE GREAT NORTHWEST 18. RUTH FIELDING ON THE ST. LAWRENCE 19. RUTH FIELDING TREASURE HUNTING 20. RUTH FIELDING IN THE FAR NORTH 21. RUTH FIELDING AT GOLDEN PASS 22. RUTH FIELDING IN ALASKA 23. RUTH FIELDING AND HER GREAT SCENARIO 24. RUTH FIELDING AT CAMERON HALL 25. RUTH FIELDING CLEARING HER NAME CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE LINGER-NOT SERIES By AGNES MILLER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors. Price per volume, 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ _This new series of girls' books is in a new, style of story writing. The interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. Incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted._ [Illustration] 1. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE MYSTERY HOUSE _or The Story of Nine Adventurous Girls_ How the Linger-Not girls met and formed their club seems commonplace, but this writer makes it fascinating, and how they made their club serve a great purpose continues the interest to the end, and introduces a new type of girlhood. 2. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE VALLEY FEUD _or the Great West Point Chain_ The Linger-Not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures that turned out happily for all, and made the valley better because of their visit. 3. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THEIR GOLDEN QUEST _or The Log of the Ocean Monarch_ For a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the California gold-rush, seems unnatural until the reader sees how it happened, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance, forms a fine story. 4. THE LINGER-NOTS AND THE WHISPERING CHARM _or The Secret from Old Alaska_ Whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the Far North or occupied with quiet home duties, the Linger-Not girls could work unitedly to solve a colorful mystery in a way that interpreted American freedom to a sad young stranger, and brought happiness to her and to themselves. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BARTON BOOKS FOR GIRLS By MAY HOLLIS BARTON _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ _May Hollis Barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. Her style is somewhat of a reminder of that of Louisa M. Alcott, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. Clean tales that all the girls will enjoy reading._ [Illustration] 1. THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTRY _or Laura Mayford's City Experiences_ 2. THREE GIRL CHUMS AT LAUREL HALL _or The Mystery of the School by the Lake_ 3. NELL GRAYSON'S RANCHING DAYS _or A City Girl in the Great West_ 4. FOUR LITTLE WOMEN OF ROXBY _or The Queer Old Lady Who Lost Her Way_ 5. PLAIN JANE AND PRETTY BETTY _or The Girl Who Won Out_ 6. LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE _or The Old Bachelor's Ward_ 7. HAZEL HOOD'S STRANGE DISCOVERY _or The Old Scientist's Treasure Box_ 8. TWO GIRLS AND A MYSTERY _or The Old House in the Glen_ 9. THE GIRLS OF LIGHTHOUSE ISLAND _or The Strange Sea Chest_ 10. KATE MARTIN'S PROBLEM _or Facing the Wide World_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GIRL SCOUT SERIES By LILIAN GARIS _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _The highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organisations of America form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume._ 1. THE GIRL SCOUT PIONEERS _or Winning the First B.C._ A story of the True Tred Troop in a Pennsylvania town. Two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. The story is correct in scout detail. 2. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT BELLAIRE _or Maid Marys Awakening_ The story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. How she was discovered by the Bellaire Troop and came into her own as "Maid Mary" makes a fascinating story. 3. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT SEA CREST _or the Wig Wag Rescue_ Luna Land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and Kitty Scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the Girl Scouts come. 4. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP COMALONG _or Peg of Tamarack Hills_ The girls of Bobolink Troop spend their summer on the shores of Lake Hocomo. Their discovery of Peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. 5. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT ROCKY LEDGE _or Nora's Real Vacation_ Nora Blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. Her dislike for the rugged life of Girl Scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little Lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BETTY GORDON SERIES BY ALICE B. EMERSON _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ [Illustration: ] 1. BETTY GORDON AT BRAMBLE FARM _or The Mystery of a Nobody_ At twelve Betty is left an orphan. 2. BETTY GORDON IN WASHINGTON _or Strange Adventures in a Great City_ Betty goes to the National Capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. 3. BETTY GORDON IN THE LAND OF OIL _or The Farm That Was Worth a Fortune_ From Washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. A splendid picture of the oil field operations of today. 4. BETTY GORDON AT BOARDING SCHOOL _or The Treasure of Indian Chasm_ Seeking treasures of Indian Chasm makes interesting reading. 5. BETTY GORDON AT MOUNTAIN CAMP _or The Mystery of Ida Bellethorne_ At Mountain Camp Betty found herself in the midst of a mystery. 6. BETTY GORDON AT OCEAN PARK _or School Chums on the Boardwalk_ A glorious outing that Betty and her chums never forgot. 7. BETTY GORDON AND HER SCHOOL CHUMS _or Bringing the Rebels to Terms_ Rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies. 8. BETTY GORDON AT RAINBOW RANCH _or Cowboy Joe's Secret_ Betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. 9. BETTY GORDON IN MEXICAN WILDS _or The Secret of the Mountains_ Betty receives a fake telegram and finds both Bob and herself held for ransom in a mountain cave. 10. BETTY GORDON AND THE LOST PEARLS _or A Mystery of The Seaside_ Betty and her chums go to the ocean shore for a vacation and Betty becomes involved in the disappearance of a string of pearls. 11. BETTY GORDON ON THE CAMPUS _or The Secret of the Trunk Room_ An up-to-date college story with a strange mystery that is bound to fascinate any girl reader. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY. Publishers New York. BILLIE BRADLEY SERIES BY JANET D. WHEELER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ [Illustration] 1. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER INHERITANCE _or The Queer Homestead at Cherry Corners_ Billie Bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. How Billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. 2. BILLIE BRADLEY AT THREE-TOWERS HALL _or Leading a Needed Rebellion_ Three-Towers Hall was a boarding school for girls. For a short time after Billie arrived there all went well. But then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! 3. BILLIE BRADLEY ON LIGHTHOUSE ISLAND _or The Mystery of the Wreck_ One of Billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on Lighthouse Island, near the coast. The school girls made up a party and visited the Island. There was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. 4. BILLIE BRADLEY AND HER CLASSMATES _or The Secret of the Locked Tower_ Billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who had broken through the ice. There is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. 5. BILLIE BRADLEY AT TWIN LAKES _or Jolly Schoolgirls Afloat and Ashore_ A tale of outdoor adventure in which Billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. They visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. 6. BILLIE BRADLEY AT TREASURE COVE _or The Old Sailor's Secret_ A lively story of school girl doings. How Billie heard of the treasure and how she and her chums went in quest of the same is told in a peculiarly absorbing manner. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York 
29764	----	KID SCANLAN BY H. C. WITWER AUTHOR OF THE LEATHER PUSHERS, FIGHTING BLOOD, ETC. GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1920, BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) DEDICATED TO ALLAN HENRY WITWER MY SIX-YEAR-OLD DESCENDANT WHO WEEPS BITTERLY WHEN I READ MY YARNS ALOUD TO HIS PATIENT MOTHER H. C. W. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. LAY OFF MACDUFF II. EAST LYNCH III. PLEASURE ISLAND IV. LEND ME YOUR EARS V. "EXIT, LAUGHING" VI. THE UNHAPPY MEDIUM VII. LIFE IS REEL! VIII. HOSPITAL STUFF KID SCANLAN CHAPTER I LAY OFF, MACDUFF! Brains is great things to have, and many's the time I've wished I had a set of 'em in _my_ head instead of just plain bone! Still they's a lot of guys which has gone through life like a yegg goes through a safe, and taken everything out of it that wasn't nailed, with nothin' in their head but hair! A college professor gets five thousand a year, a good lightweight will grab that much a fight. A school teacher drags down fifteen a week, and the guy that looks after the boilers in the school buildin' gets thirty! Sweet cookie! So don't get discouraged if the pride of the family gets throwed out of school because he thinks twice two is eighteen and geography is played with nets. The chances is very bright that young Stupid will be holdin' the steerin' wheel of his own Easy Eight when the other guys, which won all the trick medals for ground and lofty learnin', will be wonderin' why a good bookkeeper never gets more than twenty-five a week. And then, if he feels he's _got_ to have brains around him, now that he's grabbed the other half of the team--money--he can go downtown and buy all the brains he wants for eighteen dollars a week! So if you're as shy on brains as a bald-headed man is of dandruff, and what's more, you _know_ it, cheer up! Because you can bet the gas-bill money that you got somethin' just as good. Some trick concealed about you that'll keep you out of the bread line. The thing to do is to take an inventory of yourself and find it! Look good--it's there somewheres! Kid Scanlan's was hangin' from his left shoulder, and it made him enough dimes in five years to step out of the crowd and watch the others scramble from the sidelines. It was just an ordinary arm, size 36, model A, lot 768, same as we all have--but inside of it the Kid had a wallop that would make a six-inch shell look like a lover's caress! Inside of his head the Kid had nothin'! Scanlan went through the welterweight division about like the Marines went through Belleau Wood, and, finally, the only thing that stood between him and the title was a guy called One-Punch Ross--the champion. They agreed to fight until nature stopped the quarrel, at Goldfield, Nev. They's two things I'll never forget as long as I pay the premiums on my insurance policy, and they are the first and second rounds of that fight. That's as far as the thing went, just two short frames, but more real scrappin' was had in them few minutes than Europe will see if Ireland busts loose! Except that they was more principals, the battle of the Marne would have looked like a chorus men's frolic alongside of the Ross-Scanlan mêlée. They went at each other like peeved wildcats and the bell at the end of the first round only seemed to annoy 'em--they had to be jimmied apart. Ross opened the second round by knockin' Scanlan through the ropes into the ten-dollar boxes, but the Kid was back and in there tryin' again before the referee could find the body to start a count. After beatin' the champ from pillar to post and hittin' him with everything but the bucket, the Kid rocks him to sleep with a left swing to the jaw, just before the gong. The crowd went crazy. I went in the hole for five thousand bucks and the Kid went in the movies! I had been handlin' Ross before that battle, but after it I wouldn't have buried him! This guy was a ex-champion then, and I don't want no ex-nothin' around _me_--unless it's a bill. Right after that scrap, Scanlan sent for me and made me a proposition to look after his affairs for the followin' three years, and the only time I lost in acceptin' it was caused by the ink runnin' out of my fountain pen when I was signin' the contract. In them days I had a rep for bein' able to get the money for my athletes that would make Shylock look like a free spender. Every time one of _my_ boys performed for the edification of the mob, we got a elegant deposit before we put a pen to the articles and we got the balance of the dough before we pulled on a glove. I never left nothin' to chance or the other guy. That's what beat Napoleon and all them birds! Of course, they was several people here and there throughout the country which was more popular than I was on that account, but which would _you_ rather, have, three cheers or three bucks? Well, that's the way _I_ figured! About a month after Scanlan become my only visible means of support, I signed him up for ten rounds with a bird which said, "What d'ye want, hey?" when you called him Hurricane Harris, and the next day a guy comes in to see me in the little trick office I had staked myself to on Broadway. When he rapped on the door I got up on a chair and took a flash at him over the transom and seein' he looked like ready money, I let him come in. He claims his name is Edward R. Potts and that so far he's president of the Maudlin Moving Picture Company. "I am here," he says, "to offer you a chance to make twenty thousand dollars. Do you want it?" "Who _give_ you the horse?" I asks him, playin' safe. "I got to know where this tip come from!" "Horse?" he mutters, lookin' surprised. "I know nothing of horses!" "Well," I tells him, "I ain't exactly a liveryman myself, but before I put any of Kid Scanlan's hard-earned money on one of them equines, I got to know more about the race than you've spilled so far! What did the trainer say?" He was a fat, middle-aged hick that would soon be old, and he wears half a pair of glasses over one eye. He aims the thing at me and smiles. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you're talking about!" he says. "But I fancy it's a pun of some sort! Very well, then, what _did_ the trainer say?" I walked over and laid my arm on his shoulder. "Are you endeavorin' to spoof me?" I asks him sternly. "Or have you got me confused with Abe Levy, the vaudeville agent? Either way you're losin' time! I don't care for your stuff myself, and if that's your act, I wouldn't give you a week-end at a movie house!" He takes off the trick eye-glass and begins to clean it with a handkerchief. "My dear fellow!" he says. "It is plain that you do not understand the nature of my proposal. I wish to engage the services of Kid Scanlan, the present incumbent of the welterweight title. We want to make a five-reel feature, based on his rise to the championship. I am prepared to offer you first class transportation to our mammoth studios at Film City, Cal.; and twenty thousand dollars when the picture is completed! What do you say?" "Have a cigar!" I says, when I get my breath. I throwed a handful of 'em in his lap and give the water cooler a play. "No, thanks!" he says, layin' 'em on the desk. "I never smoke." "Well," I tells him, "I ain't got a thing to drink in the place, you gotta be careful here, y'know! But to get back to the movie thing, what does the Kid have to do for the twenty thousand fish?" He takes a long piece of paper from his pocket and lays it down in front of me. It looked like a chattel mortgage on Mexico, and what paragraphs didn't commence with "to wit," started off with "do hereby." "All that Mr. Scanlan has to do," he explains, "will be told him by our director at the studios, who will produce the picture. His name is Mr. Salvatore Genaro. Kindly sign where the cross is marked!" "Wait!" I says. "We can't take a railroad ride like that for twenty thousand, we got to have twenty-five and--" "All right!" he butts in. "Sign only on the first line!" "Thirty thousand, I meant to say!" I tells him, "because--" "Certainly," he cuts me off, handin' over his fountain pen. "Don't use initials, sign your full name!" I signed it. "How do I know we get this money?" I asks him. "Aha!" he answers. "How do we know that the dawn will come? My company is worth a million dollars, old chap, and that contract you have is as good as the money! Be at my office at two this afternoon and I will give you the tickets. _Adios_ until then!" And he blows out of the office. I closed down the desk, went outside and climbed into my Foolish Four. In an hour I was up to the trainin' camp near Rye where Kid Scanlan was preparin' for his collision with Hurricane Harris. Scanlan is trainin' for the quarrel by playin' seven up with the room clerk from the Beach Hotel, and when I bust in the door he takes a look, throws the cards on the floor and makes a pass at his little pal so's I'll think he's a new sparrin' partner. I pulled him off and dragged him to one side. "How would you like to go in the movies?" I says. "Nothin' doin'!" the Kid tells me. "They make my eyes sore!" "I don't mean watch 'em!" I explains. "I mean act in 'em! We're goin' out to the well known Coast this afternoon and you're gonna be a movie hero for five reels and thirty thousand bucks!" "We don't fight Harris?" asks the Kid. "No!" I says. "What d'ye mean _fight_! Leave that stuff for the roughnecks, we're actors now!" We got out to Film City at the end of the week and while there wasn't no brass band to meet us at the station, there was a sad-lookin' guy with one of them buckboard things and what at one time was probably a horse. I never seen such a gloomy lookin' layout in my life; they reminded me of a rainy Sunday in Philadelphia. The driver comes up to us and, after takin' a long and searchin' look, says, "Which one of you fellers is the pugeylist?" "Pugilist?" I says. "What d'ye mean pugilist? We're the new leadin' men for the stock company here. Pugilist! Ha! Ha! How John Drew will laugh when I tell him that!" He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and reads it. "I'm lookin' for Kid Scanlan and Johnny Green," he announces. "One of 'em's supposed to be the welterweight champion, but I doubt it! I never seen him fight!" "Well," I says, "you got a good chance to try for the title, bo, if you ain't more respectful! I'm Mr. Green and that's Kid Scanlan, the champ!" He looks at the Kid and kinda sneers. "All right!" he says. "Git aboard and I'll take you out to Mr. Genaro. I'll tell you now, though, that if you ain't what you claim, you got to walk back!" He takes a side glance at the Kid. "Champ, eh?" he mutters. We climb in the buckboard and this guy turns to me and points the whip at the Kid. "He don't look like no pugeylist to me," he goes on, like he's lookin' for a argument, "let alone a champion! Still looks is deceivin' at that. Take a crab, for instance--you'd never think from lookin' at it that you could eat it, would you? No! Git up!" Git _up_ was right, because the animal this guy had suspended between the shafts had laid right down on the ground outside the station, whilst he was talkin' to us. The noble beast got gamely to its feet at the word from Gloomy Gus, give a little shiver that rattled the harness and then turned around to see what its master had drawed from the train that mornin'. It took a good eyeful and kinda curled up its lip and sneered at us, showin' its yellow teeth in a sarcastical grin. "Hold fast!" remarks Gloomy Gus. "It's rough country here and this horse is about to do a piece of runnin'!" He takes off his belt and whales that equine over what would a been the back on a regular horse. "Step along!" he asks it. Well, if they had that ride at Coney Island, they'd have made a fortune with it in one summer, because as soon as Old Dobbin realized he'd been hit, he started for South Africa and tried to make it in six jumps! He folded his long skinny ears back of his neck somewheres and just simply give himself over to runnin'. We went up hills and down vales that would have broke an automobile's heart, we took corners on one leg and creeks in a jump and when I seen the Pacific Ocean loomin' up in the offing I begin to pray that the thing couldn't swim! Gloomy Gus leans over and yells in my ear, "Some horse, eh?" "Is that what it is?" I hollers back. "Well, he's tryin' all right. He's what you could call a runnin' fool!" We shot past somethin' that was just a black blur for a minute and then disappeared back in the dust. "What was that?" I yells. "Montana!" screams Gloomy Gus, "and--" "Ha! Ha!" roars the Kid, openin' his mouth for the first time. "That's goin' a few! Let me know when we pass Oregon, I got a friend there!" "Montana Bill!" explains Gloomy Gus, frownin' at the Kid. "That's the only place you can get licker within five miles of Film City!" He looks at the Kid again and mutters half to himself, "Champion, eh!" Then he yanks in the reins and we slow down to about a runaway's pace right near what looks to be a World's Fair with a big wall around it and an iron gate in the middle. We shot up to the entrance and the horse calls it a day and stops, puffin' and blowin' like a fat piano-mover. "Film City!" hollers Gloomy Gus. "Git out here and walk in. Mr. Genaro's office is right back of the African Desert!" I thanked him for bringin' us in alive. He didn't say nothin' to me, but as he was passin' in the gates I seen him lookin' after the Kid and shakin' his head. "Champion, hey!" he mumbles. This Film City place would have made delerium tremens lay down and quit. There was Indians, cowboys, cannibals, chorus girls, Japs, sheriffs, train robbers, and--well, it looked like the place where they assemble dime novels. A guy goes racin' past us on a horse with a lot of maniacs, yellin' and shootin', tearin' after him and on the other side a gang of laborers in tin hats and short skirts is havin' a battle royal with swords. Three feet from where we're standin' a house is burnin' down and two guys is sluggin' each other on the roof. We walk along a little further and run into a private conversation. Some guy in a new dress suit is makin' love to a dame, while another fellow stands in front of them and says at the top of his voice, "Remember now, you're madly in love with her, but father detests the sight of your face. Ready--hey, camera--all right--wait a minute, wait a minute, don't wrestle with her, embrace her, will you, _em_brace her!" Kid Scanlan takes this all in with his eyes poppin' out of his head and his mouth as open as a stuss game. "Some joint, eh?" he says to me. "This is what I call a _regular_ cabaret! See if we can get a table near the front!" A lot of swell-lookin' dames comes in--well, of course it _was_ some warm out there, but even at that they was takin' an awful chance on gettin' pneumonia, and files out of a house on the left and starts to dance and I had to drag the Kid away bodily. We duck through a side street, and every time we turn around some guy with a camera yells for us to get out of the way, but finally we wind up at Mr. Genaro's office. He ain't in, but a guy that was tells us Genaro's makin' a picture of Richard the Third, over behind the Street Scene in Tokio. We breezed over there and we found him. Genaro is in the middle of what looks like the chorus of a burlesque show, only the men is wearin' tights instead of the women. I picked him out right away because he was the first guy I had seen in the place in citizen's clothes, outside of the guys with the kodaks. He was little and fat, lookin' more like a human plum puddin' than anything else. When we had worked our way through the mob, we saw that he was shakin' his fist at 'em and bawlin' 'em out. "Are you Mr. Genaro?" I asks him. "Joosta wait, joosta wait!" he hollers over his shoulder without even lookin' around. "I'm a ver' busy joosta now! Writa me the letta!" "Where d'ye get that stuff?" I yells back, gettin' sore. "D'ye know who we are?" I seen the rest of them gigglin', and Genaro dances around and throws up his hands. "Aha!" he screams, pullin' at his hair. "You maka me crazy! What's a mat--what you want? Queek, don't make me wait!" The Kid growls at him and whispers in my ear, "Will I bounce him?" "Not yet!" I tells him. "I'm Mr. Green," I says to Genaro, "and this is Kid Scanlan, welterweight champion of the world, and if you pull any more of that joosta wait stuff, you'll be able to say you fought him!" He drops his hands and smiles. "Excuse, please!" he says. "I maka mistake!" he grabs hold of his head again and groans, "Gotta bunch bonehead here this morning," he goes on, noddin' to 'em. "Driva me crazy! Shakespeare he see these feller play Reechard, he joomp out of he'sa grave!" He swings around at them all of a sudden and makes a face at 'em, "Broadaway star, eh?" he snarls. "Bah! You maka me seek! Go away for one, two hour. I senda for you--you all what you calla the bunk!" On the level I thought he was gonna bite 'em! The merry villagers scatter, and Genaro turns around to us and wipes his face with a red silk handkerchief. "You knowa the piece?" he asks us. "Reechard the Third, Shakespeare?" "Not quite!" I says. "What is he--a local scrapper?" The Kid butts in and shoves me away. "Don't mind this guy," he says to Genaro. "He's nothin' but a igrant roughneck! _I_ got you right away. I remember in this Richard the Third thing--they's a big battle in the last act and Dick tells a gunman by the name of MacDuff to lay off him or he'll knock him for a goal!" "Not lay off!" says Genaro, smiling "Lay on! Lay on, MacDuff!" "Yeh?" inquires the Kid. "I thought it was lay off. I only seen the frolic once. I took off a member of Dick's gang at the Grand Oprey house, when I was broke in Trenton." "Nex' week we start _your_ picture," says Genaro to the Kid. "Mr. Van Aylstyne he'sa write scenario now. This gonna be great for you--magnificent! He'sa give you everything! Firsta reel you fall off a cliff!" "Who, me?" hollers the Kid, "Si!" smiles Genaro. "Bada man wanna feex you, so you no fighta the champ! You getta the beeg idea?" "What's next?" asks the Kid, frownin'. "Ah!" pipes Genaro, rollin' his eyes at the sky. "We giva you the whole picture! Second reel you get run over by train--fasta mail! You see? So you no fighta the champ!" The Kid looks at me and grabs my arm. "This guy's a maniac!" he hollers. "Did you get that railroad thing? He--" Genaro goes right on like he don't hear him. "Thirda reel!" he says. "Thirda reel you get hit by two automobiles, this bada feller try to feex you so you no fighta the champ!" "Wait!" I butts in. "You must--" "But fiftha reel--aaah!" Genaro don't pay no attention to me, but kisses his hand at a tree. "Fiftha reel," he says, "she'sa great! Get everybody excite! You get throw from sheep in ocean, fella shoot at you when you try sweem, bada fella come along in motorboat, he'sa run you down! Then you swim five, six, seven mile to land and there dozen feller beat you with club--so you no fighta the champ!" The Kid has sunk down on a chair and he's fannin' himself. His face was the color of skim milk. "What you think?" asks Genaro. "She's a maka fine picture, what?" "Great!" I says. "If that guy that wants to fix the Kid so he no fighta the champ loses out, they can't say he wasn't tryin' anyhow! Why don't you throw in another reel, showin' the lions devourin' the Kid--so he no fighta the champ?" "That's a good!" Genaro shakes his head. "I spika to Van Aylstyne!" He took us up to his office and when we get inside the door they's a dame sittin' there which would make Venus look like a small-town soubrette. She looked like these other movie queens would like to! Whilst we're givin' her the up and down, she smiles at the Kid and he immediately drops his hat on the floor and knocks over a inkwell. "Miss Vincent," says Genaro, "this Mr. Kid Scanlan. He'sa work with you nex' week. This Mr. Green, hisa fr'en'." We shake hands all around and the Kid elbows me to one side. "Where are you goin' this afternoon?" he asks the dame. "Anywheres?" Genaro raps on the desk. "Joosta one minoote!" he calls out. "Mr. Kid Scanlan, I would like--" "Joosta wait!" pipes the Kid. "Writa me the letta! I'm ver' busy joosta now!" He puts one hand on the mantelpiece and drapes himself in front of the dame. "And you haven't been here long, eh?" he says. Genaro frowns for a minute and then he grins and winks at me. "Miss Vincent!" he butts in. "You show Mr. Kid Scanlan all around this afternoon, what? Explain him everything about nex' week we maka his picture. What you think, no?" "Yes!" pipes the Kid grabbin' his hat. "I never been nowheres. Lets go!" The dame smiles some more, and, well, Scanlan must have been born with a horseshoe in each hand because she takes his arm and they blow. Just as they were goin' out the door, in comes Gloomy Gus which brought us up from the station. He looks at the Kid and this dame goin' out and he sneers after 'em. "Champion!" he mutters, curlin' his lip. "Huh!" The next mornin' we meet this guy Van Aylstyne who doped out the stuff so the Kid "no fighta the champ!" He's a tall, slim, gentle-lookin' bird, all dressed in white like a Queen of the May or somethin' and after hearin' him talk I figured my first guess was about right. We also got to know Edmund De Vronde, one of the leadin' men and the shop girls' delight, and him and Van Aylstyne were both members of the same lodge. Whilst we're standin' there talkin' to Genaro, who I found out was the headkeeper or somethin', along comes Miss Vincent in one of them trick autos that has a seat for two thin people and a gasoline tank. Only, you don't sit in 'em, you just stoop, with your knees jammed up against your chin. She drives this thing right up and stops where we're standin'. If she ever looked any better, she'd have fell for herself! "I'm going to Long Beach," she sings out, "and I'm going to hit nothing but the tops of the trees! Come along?" De Vronde, Van Aylstyne and the Kid left their marks at the same time, but you know, my boy was welterweight champ and when that auto buzzed away from there he went with it. "Ugh!" remarks De Vronde. "I loathe those creatures!" He dusts off his sleeve where the Kid had grabbed it to toss him to one side. "The fellow struck me!" he says indignantly. Van Aylstyne picks up his hat which had fell off in the struggle. "Thank Heavens," he tells the other guy, "we will soon be rid of him! I'll have the script ready for Genaro to-morrow! I never saw such a vicious assault!" They walked away, and I turns to Genaro who had stepped aside for a minute. "Say!" I asks him. "Is this De Vronde guy worth anything to you?" "_Sapristi_!" he tells me, makin' a face. "I could keel him! He'sa wan greata big what you call bunk! He'sa no good! He can't act, he can do nothing. Joosta got nice face--that's all!" "Well," I says, "he won't have no nice face, if he don't lay off the Kid! If Scanlan hears him make any cracks about him like he just did now--well, he'll practically ruin him, that's all!" After a while the Kid and Miss Vincent comes back and she hurries away to change her clothes because she's got to work in this Richard the Third thing. The Kid is all covered with dirt and mud and his face is all cut up from the flyin' pebbles and sand. "Say!" he says to me. "That's some dame, believe me! We passed everything on the road from here to Long Beach and on the way back we beat the Sante Fe in by a city block! Come on over and see her work; she's gonna act in that Richard the Third thing!" We breezed over past the African Desert and there's the troupe all gathered around a guy in his shirt sleeves, who's readin' 'em somethin' out of a book. One of the camera guys tells me it's Mr. Duke, Genaro's assistant. "A fine piece of Camembert he is, too!" says this guy. "He put me over on this side to get the battle scene from an angle and tells me to shoot the minute the mêlée starts in case I don't get his signal. One of them dames fainted from the heat a minute ago and the rest of 'em go rushin' around yellin' like a lot of nuts. Naturally I thought the thing went in the picture and I took forty feet of it before he called me off! He's gonna report me now and I'm liable to get the gate when Genaro shows up! I'll _get_ the big stew, though,--watch me!" At this stage of the game, this Mr. Duke waves for us to come over. "Where's Mr. Genaro?" he wants to know. "Search me!" I tells him. "I just left him an hour or so ago and--" He hurls down the book and dances around like he's gonna throw a fit or somethin'. "I been all over the place," he yells, "and I can't find him! I want to get this exterior while the sun is right and there's no Richard or no Genaro!" The Kid, who has been talkin' to Miss Vincent, comes over then and says, "What's all the excitement?" "Who are you?" asks Duke. "We're from New York," I butts in, "and--" "Well, sufferin' cats!" hollers Duke. "Why didn't you say so before? One of you is the man I'm holdin' this picture for!" "Why, Genaro says," I begins, "that next week is--" "Never mind Genaro!" shrieks Duke. "He ain't here now and I'm directing this picture! See that sun commencing to get dim? Which one of you was sent on by Mr. Potts?" "This guy here!" I tells him, pointin' to the Kid. "I'm his manager." "Carries a manager, does he?" snorts Duke. "Well, run him in the dressin' room there and get a costume on him. Hurry up, will you--look at that sun!" We beat it on the run for the place he pointed out, and as we started away I seen him throw out his chest and say to one of the dames, "_That's_ the way those stars should be handled all the time! Fussing over them is a mistake; you must show them at once that no such thing as temperament will be tolerated! Broadway star, eh? Well, you saw how _I_ handled him!" I didn't quite make that stuff, but I felt that somethin' was wrong somewheres. Genaro had told me the Kid's picture wasn't to be made for a week, but we were gettin' thirty thousand for this stunt so I says to the Kid, "Get in there and shed them clothes of yours and I'll beat it over to the hotel and get your ring togs! They're gettin' ready to fix you so you no fighta the champ!" I beat it back to the trick hotel and got the suitcase with the Kid's gloves, shoes and trunks in it and it didn't take me five minutes to get back, but that Duke guy is on my neck the minute he sees me. "Will you hurry up?" he hollers, pullin' a watch on me. "Look at that sun!" "He'll be out in a minute now!" I says. "I got a guy in there helpin' him dress." "He knows this stuff all right, doesn't he?" he asks me. "I understand he's been doing nothing but the one line for years." "Knows it?" I laughs. "He's the world's champion; that's good enough, ain't it?" "That's what they all say!" he sneers. "All I hope is that he ain't no cheap ham! Look at that sun gettin' away from me!" While I'm tryin' to dope out what all these birds in tights and with feathers in their hats has got to do with "How Kid Scanlan Won the Title," Duke grabs my arm. "Drag that fellow out of the dressin' room," he says, "and tell him he enters from the second entrance where those trees are. He goes right through the Tower scene--he knows it by heart, I guess. I'll be right up on that platform there directing and that's where he wants to face--not the camera!" Well, I went into the dressin' room and the Kid is ready. He's got on a pair of eight ounce gloves, red silk trunks and ring shoes. "What do I pull now?" he asks me. "Just walk right out from between them trees," I says, "and they'll tip you off to the rest." We sneaked around the scene from the back and stood behind the tree which Duke had pointed out. A stage hand or somethin' who seemed to be sufferin' from hysterics told us not to let Duke see us till we entered the scene, because it was considered bad luck to walk before the camera first. "Clear!" we hear Duke yellin', and then he blows a whistle. "Hey, move faster there, you extra people, a little ginger! Billy, face center, can't you! Now, Miss Vincent, register fear--that's it, great! All right, Richard!" "That's you!" pipes the stage hand, and on walks the Kid. He stands in the middle of the scene like he done many a time in the newspaper offices back home and strikes a fightin' pose. A couple of women shrieks and runs back of the trees hidin' their faces and Miss Vincent falls in a chair and laughs herself sick. To say the Kid created a sensation would be puttin' it mild--he was a riot! The rest of the bunch howls out loud, holdin' their sides and staggerin' up against each other, and the stage hands rolled around the floor. But the guy that was runnin' the thing, this Duke person, almost faints, and then he gets red in the face and jumps down off the platform. "What do you mean?" he screams at the Kid. "What do you mean by coming out before these ladies and gentlemen in that garb? How dare you? Is that your interpretation of Richard the Third? Have you been drinking or what?" "What's the matter, pal?" asks the Kid, lookin' surprised. "I got to wear _somethin'_, don't I?" Off goes the bunch howlin' again. "If this is a joke, sir," yells Duke, "it will be a mighty costly one for you!" This De Vronde has been standin' on the side lookin' on and the Kid, seein' Miss Vincent, waves a glove at her. She waves back holdin' her side and smiles. "Haw! Haw! Haw!" roars this De Vronde guy. "How droll!" The Kid is over to him in two steps. He's seen that everybody is givin' him the laugh and he realizes he's in wrong somehow, but the thing has him puzzled. "Where d'ye get that 'haw, haw' stuff?" he snarls, stickin' his chin out in front of De Vronde. "Why, you ignorant ass!" sneers De Vronde, out loud, so's Miss Vincent can hear him. "If you had any brains you'd know!" "I don't need no brains!" snaps the Kid, settin' himself. "I got _this_!" And he drops De Vronde with a right hook to the jaw! "Boys!" screams Duke, pointin' to the Kid. "Throw that ruffian out!" A couple of big huskies makes a dash for the Kid, and I figured I might as well get in the thing now as later, so I tripped one as he was goin' past and the Kid bounces the other with a short left. De Vronde jumps up and hits the Kid over the head with a cane, while Miss Vincent screams and hollers "Coward!" Then a bunch of supers comes runnin' in from the back just as the Kid puts De Vronde down for keeps, and in a minute everybody was in there tryin'. Everybody but one guy, and he was turnin' the crank of his camera like he was gettin' paid by the number of revolutions the thing made. While it lasted, it was some fracas, as we say at the studio. It certainly was a scream to see them guys, all dressed up to play the life out of Richard the Third, fallin' all over each other to get out of the way of the Kid's arms and bein' held back by the jam behind 'em. After the Kid has beat most of them up and I have took care of a few myself, a whistle blows and they all fall back--and in rushes Genaro. "Sapristi!" he hollers. "What you mean eh? What you people do with my Reechard?" Duke tries to see him out of his one good eye. "This scoundrel," he pipes, pointin' to the Kid, "came out here to play Richard the Third costumed like that!" Genaro looks from me to the Kid and grabs his head. "What?" he yells. "That feller want to play Reechard? Ho, ho! You maka me laugh! You're crazy lika the heat! That's what you call fighting champion of the world! He'sa Mr. Kid Scanlan. We maka hisa picture nex' week!" Duke gives a yell and falls in a chair. I pulls on my coat and wipes my face with a handkerchief. "Yes," I says, "and they just tried to fix him so he no fighta the champ!" "Zowie!" pipes Duke, sprawled out in the chair, "I thought he was Roberts, the man we wired to come on from Boston! What in the name of Charlie Chaplin will we do now? Potts will be here to-morrow to see this picture and you know what it means, if it isn't made!" The Kid is over talkin' to Miss Vincent and Genaro calls him over. "_Viola_!" he tells him. "You see what you do? You spoil the greata picture, the actor, the everything! To-morrow Mr. Potts he'sa come here. 'Where's a Reechard the Third, Genaro?' he'sa wanna know. I tella him--then, good-by everybody!" "Everything would have been O.K.," says the Kid, pointin' to De Vronde who's got a couple of dames workin' over him with smellin' salts. "Everything would have been O.K. at that, if Stupid over there hadn't gimme the haw, haw!" We go back to the dressing-room and the Kid gets on his clothes. That night, findin' that we was as welcome in Film City as smallpox, we went over to Frisco and saw the town. When we come back the next mornin' and breeze in the gates, the first thing we see is Gloomy Gus that drove us up from the station. "Say!" he sings out. "You fellers are gonna get it good! The boss is here." "Yeh?" says the Kid. "Where's Miss Vincent?" "Talkin' to the boss!" he answers. "I don't believe you're no fighter, either!" "Where was you yesterday?" I asks him. "Mind yer own business!" he snaps. He gives the Kid the up and down. "Champion of the world!" he sneers. "Huh!" "Go 'way!" the Kid warns him. "I got enough work yesterday!" "I think you're a big bluff!" persists the gloomy guy, puttin' up his hands and circlin' around the Kid. "Come on and fight or acknowledge yore master!" He makes a pass at the Kid and the Kid steps inside of it and drops him, just as a big auto comes roarin' past and stops. Out hops friend Potts, the guy that practically give us our start in the movies. In other words, the thirty thousand dollar kid! "Well, well!" he pipes, lookin' at the gloomy guy on the turf and then at us. "What does this mean, sir? Are you trying to annihilate all my employees? Do you know you cost me a small fortune yesterday by ruining that Richard the Third picture?" "I'm sorry, boss," the Kid tells him, proddin' Gloomy Gus carelessly with his foot, "but all your hired men jumped at me at once and a guy has to protect himself, don't he?" "Nonsense!" grunts Potts. "You assaulted Mr. De Vronde and temporarily disabled several of my best people! I had made all arrangements for the release of that Shakespeare picture in two days, and you have put me in a terrible hole!" "Now, listen," I butts in, "I tried to--" "Not a word!" he cuts me off, wavin' his hands. "One of the camera men, another infernal idiot, kept turning the crank while this disgraceful brawl was at its height and I have proof of your villainy on film! I'll use it as a basis to sever my contract with you and--" "Slow up!" I says. "If you lay down on the thirty thousand iron men, I'll pull a suit on you!" Along comes a guy and touches Potts on the arm. "They're waiting for you in the projecting room," he says. "Come with me--both of you!" barks Potts, "and see for yourself the damage you caused!" We followed him around to a little dark room with three or four chairs in it and a sheet on one wall. De Vronde, Miss Vincent, Duke and Genaro are there waitin' for us. Well, they start to show the picture, and everything is all right up to the time the Kid busted into the drama. Now I hadn't seen nothin' out of the way at the time it actually happened, but here in this little room it was a riot when they showed it on the sheet. You could see Scanlan wallop De Vronde and then in another second the massacre is on full blast! On the level, it was the funniest thing I'd seen in a long time. A guy with lockjaw would have to laugh at it. Here was the Kid knockin' 'em cold as fast as they come on, with their little trick hats and the pink silk tights. There was a pile of Shakespeare actors a foot deep all around him as far as you could see. Potts is laughin' louder than anybody in the place, and when they finally shut the thing off he slaps the Kid on the back. "Great!" he hollers. "Wonderful! Who directed that?" "_I_ did!" pipes Duke, throwin' out his chest. "Some picture, eh?" "Joosta one minoote!" says Genaro, wakin' up, "joosta one minoote! It was under my supervision, Mr. Potts! I feexa the--" "Cut that strip of film off!" Potts interrupts, "and take four more reels based on the same idea! Get somebody to write a scenario around a fighter busting into the drama and playing Shakespeare! It's never been done, and if the rest of it is as funny as that it will be a knockout!" "But Reechard!" says Genaro. "What of heem?" "Drop it!" snaps Potts. "Everybody get to work on this and I'll stay here till it's finished!" I looked around and pipe the Kid--over talkin' to Miss Vincent, of course. "Say!" he wants to know. "Do we go to Oakland in that rabbit-chaser of yours this afternoon, Miss Vincent?" "Sir!" butts in De Vronde. "This lady and I are conversing!" "Now listen, Cutey!" smiles the Kid. "You know what happened yesterday, don't you?" De Vronde turns pale and Miss Vincent giggles. "Of course we're going to Oakland!" she laughs. "I'm going to be your leading woman next week in 'How Kid Scanlan Won the Title.'" "Suits me!" says the Kid. "But say, on the level now--I'm there forty-seven ways on that Shakespeare thing, ain't I?" CHAPTER II EAST LYNCH Success has ruined more guys than failure ever will. It's like a Santa Cruz rum milk punch on an empty stomach--there's very few people can stand it. Many a guy that's a regular fellow at a hundred a month, becomes a boob at a hundred a week. What beat Napoleon, Caesar and Nero--failure? No, success! Give the thing the once over some time and you'll see that I'm right. Success is the large evenin' with the boys at the lodge and failure is the mornin' after. As a matter of fact, they're twins. Often you can be a success without knowin' it, so if you been a failure all your life accordin' to your own dope, cheer up. But when you get up to the top where you can look down at all these other guys tryin' to sidestep the banana peels of life and climb up with you, knock off thinkin' what a big guy you are for a minute and give ten minutes to thinkin' what a tough time you had gettin' there. Give five minutes more to ruminatin' on how long the mob remembers a loser and you'll find it the best sixteen minutes you ever spent in your life. In these days when the world is just a great big baby yellin' for a new toy every second, any simp can beat his way to the top. The real stunt is _stayin' there_ after you arrive! Kid Scanlan was a good sample of that. When the Kid was fightin' for bean money and the exercise, he never spent nothin' but the evenin' and very little of that. He didn't know whether booze was a drink or a liniment and the only ladies he was bothered about was his mother. But when he knocked out One-Punch Ross for the title and eased himself into the movies, it was all different. He begin to spend money like a vice-investigating committee, knock around with bartenders and give in to all the strange desires that hits a guy with his health and a bankroll. I stood by and cheered for a while until he crashes in love with this movie queen, Miss Vincent, that got more money a start than the Kid did in a season and more letters from well wishin' males than a newly elected mayor. Then I stepped in and saved the Kid just before he become a total loss. I was standin' by the African Desert one day watchin' them take a picture called "Rapacious Rupert's Revenge," when the Kid comes over and calls me aside. Since he had become a actor he had gave himself up to dressin' in panama hats, Palm Beach suits and white shoes. He reminded me of the handsome young lieutenant in a musical comedy. Every time I seen him in that outfit I expected to hear him burst into some song like, "All hail, the Queen comes thither!" Know what I mean? Well, havin' lured me away under the shade of some palm trees, the Kid tells me he's goin' over to Frisco on a little shoppin' expedition, and he wants me to come with him. I says I can't drink a thing because I have had a terrible headache since the night before when him and me and some camera men went to Montana Bill's and toyed with the illegal brew for a few hours. "That last round," I says, "which I'll always remember because it come to six eighty-five, was what ruined me. The bartender must have gone crazy and put booze in them cocktails, because I've had that headache ever since!" "It ain't the cocktails that give you the headache," the Kid tells me, "it was the check. And you must have had a bun on before that, anyhow, because you paid it! But that's got nothin' to do with this here trip to Frisco. I'm not goin' to stop anywheres for no powders. I'm gonna get somethin' I've needed for a long time!" "What is it," I asks him, "a clean collar?" "I wish you'd save that comedy for some rainy Sunday," he says; "that stuff of yours is about as funny as a broken arm! Since I been out here with these swell actors, I been changin' my clothes so often that I'll bet my body thinks I'm kiddin' it. Stop knockin' and come over to Frisco with me and--" I don't know what else he was goin' to say, because just at that minute a Kansas cyclone on wheels come between us and I come to in a ditch about five feet from where the Kid is tryin' to see can he really stand on his head. When I had picked up enough ambition to get to my feet, I went over and jacked up the Kid. About half a mile up the road the thing which had attacked us is turnin' around. "Run for your life!" I yells to the Kid. "It's comin' back!" Before we could pick our hidin' places, the thing has drawed up in front of us and we see it's one of them trick autos known to the trade as racin' cars. I recognized it right away as belongin' to Miss Vincent. The owner was in the car and beside her was Edmund De Vronde, the shop-girls' delight. The Kid and De Vronde had took to each other from the minute they first met like a ferret does to a rat. It was a case of hate at first sight. So you can figure that this little incident did nothin' to cement the friendship. Miss Vincent leaps out of the thing and comes runnin' over to us. "Good Heavens!" she says. "You're not hurt, are you?" She's lookin' right past me and at the Kid like it made little or no difference whether _I_ was damaged or not. The Kid throws half an acre of California out of his collar and removes a few pebbles and a cigar butt from his ear. "No!" he growls, with a sarcastical smile. "Was they many killed?" She takes out a little trick silk handkerchief and wipes off his face with it. "I meant to step on the foot brake," she explains, "and I must have stepped on the gas by mistake!" "You must have stepped on the dynamite," I butts in, "because it blowed me into the ditch!" The Kid shakes a bucket or so of sand out of his hair and looks over at the car where De Vronde is examin' us through a pair of cheaters and enjoyin' himself scandalously. "I see you got Foolish with you," says the Kid to Miss Vincent. "What's the matter--are you off me now?" She smiles and wipes some mud off the Kid's collar. "Why, no," she tells him. "Genaro is putting on 'The Escapes of Eva' this morning and I'm playing the lead opposite Mr. De Vronde. I happened to pick him up on the road and I'm bringing him in, that's all." "Yeh?" says the Kid, still lookin' over at the car. "What are _you_ laughin' at, Stupid?" he snarls suddenly at De Vronde. De Vronde give a shiver and the glasses fell off in the bottom of the car. While he was stoopin' down to look for 'em, the Kid turns to Miss Vincent. "I only wish he had been drivin' the thing," he says, "because then I'd have some excuse for bouncin' him! On the level, now," he goes on, winkin' at her, "he _was_ drivin' the thing, wasn't he?" "Oh, no!" she answers. "I was at the wheel." The Kid frowns and thinks for a minute. "Well," he says finally, takin' another look at De Vronde, "ain't the brakes or somethin' where he was sittin'?" "No!" she tells him, grabbin' him by the arm. "Please don't lose your head now and start a fuss! I'm awfully sorry this happened, but as long as neither of you were hurt and--" "It didn't do me no _good_, that's a cinch!" butts in the Kid, with a meanin' look at his spoiled scenery. He walks over to the car and glares up at De Vronde. "Hey!" he snarls. "What d'ye mean by bein' in a automobile that runs over me, eh?" De Vronde moves as far over as the seat will let him, and then falls back on prayer. "I must decline to enter any controversy with you," he pipes, after a minute. "You were standing in the right of way and--" The Kid grins and holds up his hand. His face has lighted all up and he's lickin' his lips like he always did in the ring when he seen the other guy was pickin' out a place to fall. He's walked around to where De Vronde had been sittin' and piped a little handle stickin' up. "What's this?" he calls to Miss Vincent, who's climbin' in the other side. "That's just the oil pump," she says. The Kid suddenly reaches up, grabs De Vronde by the arm and jerks him out of the car. "You big stiff!" he roars. "Why didn't you pump that oil, hey? If you had done that, the thing wouldn't have hit us! I knowed it was all your fault--you deliberately laid off that pump, hopin' we'd get killed!" With that he starts an uppercut from the ground, but I yanked him away just as De Vronde murmurs, "Safety first!" and takes a dive. Miss Vincent gets out and gives me a hand with the Kid, and De Vronde sits up and menaces us with his cane. "That isn't a bit nice!" Miss Vincent frowns at the Kid. "That's ruffianly! You never should have struck him!" "I didn't hit him!" yells the Kid. "The big tramp quit! If I had hit him he wouldn't be gettin' up." He starts over again, but I held him until she has climbed into the car with De Vronde and they shoot up the road. Just before they disappeared, De Vronde turns around in the seat and shakes his finger at us. "Only the presence of the lady," he calls, "saves you from my wrath!" "Come on!" says the Kid, grabbin' my arm. "Let's get the next train for Frisco, before I run after that guy and flatten him! Believe me," he goes on, lookin' up the road after the car, "I'll get that bird before the day is over if I have to bust a leg!" And that's just what he did--both! All the way over in the train I tried to work the third degree on the Kid to find out what he was goin' to buy, but there was nothin' doin'. He stalled me off until we pull into the town and then he takes me to a street that was so far from the railroad station I come near castin' a shoe on the way over. About half way down this boulevard there's a garage and the Kid stops in front of it. "Wait here!" he tells me. "And don't let nobody give you no babies to mind. I'll be right out!" He slips inside and I'm lookin' the joint over when a big sign catches my eye. I took one good flash at the thing, and then I starts right in after the Kid. A friend of mine in New York had gone into a place with a sign on it like that one time and made a purchase. Six months later when he come out of the hospital, he claimed the bare smell of gasoline made him faint Here's what it said on that sign, J. MARKOWITZ USED AND NEARLY NEW AUTOS FOR SALE It was kinda dark inside and it takes me a minute to get my bearin's, but finally I see the Kid and a snappy dressed guy standin' in front of what I at first thought was a Pullman sleeper. When I get a close up, though, I find it's only a tourin' car. It was the biggest automobile I ever seen in my life; a sightseein' bus would have looked like a runabout alongside of it. There was one there and it did! The thing hadn't been painted since the _Maine_ was blowed up, and you could see the guy that had been keepin' it was fond of the open air, because there was samples of mud from probably all over the world on it. "You could believe it, you're gettin' it a practically brand new car!" the young feller is tellin' the Kid. "The shoes are in A number one condition--all they need is now vulcanizin', and Oi!--how that car could travel!" "Just a minute!" I butts in. "Before you make this sale, I want to speak to my friend here." Both him and the Kid glares at me, and the Kid pushes me aside. "Lay off!" he says. "I know just what you're gonna say. There's no use of you tryin' to discourage me, because I'm gonna buy a car. Here I am makin' all kinds of money and I might as well be a bum!--no automobile or nothin'. I should have had a car long ago; all the big leaguers own their own tourin' cars. There's no class to you any more, if you don't flit from place to place in your own bus!" "Yeh?" I comes back. "Well, Washington never had no car, but that didn't stop _him_ from gettin' over! I never heard of Columbus gettin' pinched for speedin' and Shakespeare never had no trouble with blowouts. Yet all them birds was looked on as the loud crash in their time. What's the answer to that?" In butts I. Markowitz, shovin' his hat back on his ears. "That brings us right down to the present!" he says. "And I could tell you why none of your friends had oitermobiles. Cars was too expensive in them days--a millionaire even would have to talk it over with his wife before they should buy one. But now, almost they give them away! Materials is cheaper, in Europe the war is over and now competition is--is--more! That's why I'm able to let your friend have this factory pet here for eight hundred dollars. A bargain you ask me? A man never heard a bargain like that!" "Don't worry!" I tells him. "Nobody will ever hear about it from me. If you made him a present of it and throwed in the garage, it would still be expensive!" "Who's buyin' this car?" snarls the Kid. "You or me?" "Not guilty!" I says. "If you got to have a car, why don't you buy a new one?" "This is the same as new!" pipes I. Markowitz. "Speak when you're spoken to, Stupid!" I says. "Don't start nothin' here," the Kid tells me, pullin' me away. "I don't want none of them new cars. They're too stiff and I might go out and hit somebody the first crack out of the box. I want one that's been broke in." "Well," I laughs, "that's what you're gettin', believe me! That there thing has been broke in and out!" I turns to I. Markowitz. "What make is the old boiler?" I asks him. "Boiler he calls it!" he says, throwin' up his hands and lookin' at the ceilin'. "It's an A. G. F. I suppose even you know what an A number one car that is, don't you?" "No!" I answers. "But I know what A. G. F. means." He falls. "What?" he wants to know. "Always Gettin' Fixed!" I tells him. "They make all them used cars. I know a guy had two of them and between 'em they made a fortune for three garages and five lawyers! How old is it?" "Old!" says I. Markowitz, recovering "Who said it was old? Your wife should be as young as that car! It was turned in here last week, only eight short days from the factory. The owner was sudden called he should go out of town and--" "And he went somewheres and got an automobile to make the trip," I cuts him off, "and left this thing here!" "Don't mind him!" says the Kid, gettin' impatient. "Gimme a receipt." He digs down for the roll. While I. Markowitz is countin' the money with lovin' fingers, I went around to one side of the so called auto and looked at the speedometer. One flash at the little trick clock was ample. "Stop!" I yells, glarin' at him. "How long did you say this car had been out of the factory?" "Right away he hollers at me!" says I. Markowitz to the Kid. "A week." "Well," I tells him, "all I got to say is that the bird that had it must have been fleein' the police! He certainly seen a lot of the world, but I can't figure how he slept. He was what you could call a motorin' fool. It says on this speedometer here, 45,687 miles and if that guy did it in a week, I got to hand it to him! I'll bet he's so nutty over speed that he's goin' around now bein' shot out of cannons from place to place, eh?" I. Markowitz gets kinda balled up and blows his nose twice. "That must be the--the--motor number!" he stammers. "Sure!" nods the Kid. "Don't mind him, he's always got the hammer out. Count that change and gimme a receipt." "Wait!" I says. "Gimme one more chance to save you from givin' yourself the work. Have you heard the motor turn over? Does the clutch slip in all right? Do the brakes work? Has the--" "Say!" butts in the Kid. "What d'ye think I been doin'--workin' here at nights? Don't mind him," he tells I. Markowitz, who ain't. "Hurry up with that receipt!" "How is the motor?" I asks that brigand. "Tell me that, will you?" "Convalescent!" he sneers, tuckin' the Kid's bankroll away. "Some motor, eh?" pipes the Kid. "And it's got a one-man top on it besides, ain't it?" he asks I. Markowitz. "Why not?" says he. "Everything new and up to date you would find on this car which only yesterday I could have sold to a feller for a thousand dollars!" After pullin' that, he walks over to the thing and climbs in the back. "An example!" he says. "If you're alone in the car and there's nobody with you, you only should stand up on the seat and pull up the top like this, if it comes up a rain. Then you--" I didn't hear the rest on account of him havin' trouble makin' his voice travel from under the seat, because he reached up and pulled somethin' here and jerked somethin' there--and that one-man top made good! I thought at first the ceilin' of the joint had fell in, and I'll bet I. Markowitz _knowed_ it had, but then I seen it was only the thing that keeps the rain out of the car. Me and the Kid drags him out, and as soon as he gets on his feet and felt to see if he had his watch and so forth, he wipes the dirt out of his eyes and turns on me. "It's a wonder I ain't now dead on account from you?" he snarls. "I suppose you're one of them wise fellers from New Jersey, which they got to be showed everything, heh?" "Missouri!" I says. "Not New Jersey. If I was from New Jersey, I would probably be fightin' with the Kid to let _me_ buy the car!" "It's got a self-commencer on it, too!" yelps the Kid, climbin' into the front seat. "See--lookit!" He presses a button with his foot and a laughin' hyena or somethin' in the hood moans a couple of times and then passes away. "The first time I wouldn't be surprised you should have to crank it," says I. Markowitz. "The motor has been standin' so long--I mean--that is--speakin' of motors, I think that one is maybe a little cold! Once she gets runnin' everything will be A number one!" I goes around the front of the thing and stoops down. "Put her on battery, if there's any on there," I calls to the Kid, "and I'll spin the motor!" I. Markowitz steps over and lays his hand on my arm. His face is as serious as prohibition. "Its only fair I should tell you," he whispers, "that she kicks a little!" I give him a ungrateful look and grabs hold of the crank. After turnin' the thing ninety-four times without gettin' nothin' but a blister on my thumb, I quit. "Nothin' stirrin'," I remarks to I. Markowitz. "Believe me, that's funny!" he tells me, shakin' his head like he had ball bearin's in his neck. "Ain't it?" I says. "Are you positive they's a motor inside there?" He makes a funny little noise in his throat and not knowin' him long, I didn't know what he meant. There's a big husky in overalls walkin' by with plenty of medium oil on his face and a monkey wrench in his hand. I. Markowitz hisses at him, and they exchange jokes in some foreign language for a minute and then the new-comer grabs hold of that crank like the idea was to see if he could upset the car in three twists. He gives it a turn, and I guess the Kid had got to monkeyin' around them little buttons on the steerin' wheel because it went off like a cannon. First, there was a great big bang! And then a cloud of smoke rolls out of the back of the car and the bird that had wound the thing up come to in an oil can, half way across the floor. The Kid fell off the seat and me and I. Markowitz busted the hundred yard record to the front door. "That was a rotten trick, wasn't it?" I asks him when we stopped. "What do you talk tricks?" he pants. "Why," I tells him, "puttin' that dynamite in the hood!" "That wasn't dynamite," he says. "She only backfired a little. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out there was, now, too much air in the carburetor. The only reason I ran out here is because I seen it passin' a friend of mine and--" "I know," I cuts him off. "I seen it too!" We go back to the Kid and his play toy, and he's leanin' up against the side of it rubbin' his shoulder and scowlin'. "What kind of stuff was that, eh?" he growls at I. Markowitz. "I liked to broke my neck!" "'Snothin'!" says he, pattin' the Kid on the back and smilin'. "You could do that with a new car, you could take my word for it. It's all, now, experience!" He looks around. "Herschel!" he hollers. It turns out that Herschel is the guy that had wound the thing up, and he gets out of the oil can and comes over, mutterin' to himself and glarin' at all of us. He takes off the hood and stalls around it with a hammer and a monkey wrench for a minute, still mutterin' away, and you could see he wasn't wishin' us no luck. Finally, he puts the hood on again and walks around to the crank. "As soon as you could hear it buzz," he grunts at the Kid, "you should give her some gas." I stood aside and picked out my exit, and I. Markowitz seen his friend passin' again so he started for the door. The Kid says we're both yellah and climbs gamely back into the seat. Herschel stops mutterin' long enough to give the crank a turn, which same he did. This time there was no shots fired, but the thing begins the darndest racket I ever heard in my life. A boiler factory would have quit cold alongside of that motor and a cavalry charge would have gone unnoticed on the same floor. I asked I. Markowitz what broke, and he says nothin' but that the noise is caused by the motor bein' so powerful, fifty horse power, he claimed. "You can't tell me," I says, backin' away from the thing, "that no fifty horses could make that much noise, not even if they was crazy! The guy that brought that in here must have tied a lot of machine guns together with a fuse and Stupid there set 'em off when he turned the crank!" He runs around to the side where the Kid is and shuts down the gas and I seen half of Frisco lookin' in the door, figurin' the Japs had got started at last, or else somebody was puttin' on a dress rehearsal of the Civil War. "Ain't she a beauty?" screams I. Markowitz to the Kid, barely makin' himself heard over the din. "Give a listen how that motor turns over--not a break or a miss and as smooth like glass! That's hittin' on six, all right!" "I'm glad to hear that," I says. "I'm glad it's only six, because the thing will have to quit pretty soon. There ain't no six nothin's could stand up under that hittin' much longer!" I. Markowitz steps on the runnin' board and holds on with both hands. He had to, because that motor had got the car doin' a muscle dance. "Where d'ye want to go?" he yells to the Kid. "I'll have Herschel take you out so he should show you everything." "Tell him to wash his face instead!" the Kid hollers back. "I don't need nobody to show me nothin' about a car. Come on!" he yells at me. "All aboard for Film City!" "Ha! Ha!" I sneers. "Rave on! I wouldn't get in that thing for Rockefeller's bankroll!" I had to holler at the top of my voice to drown out that motor. "C'mon!" yells the Kid. "Don't be so yellah--you got everybody lookin' at you. She's all right now, and as soon as she gets warmed up she'll be rollin' along in great shape!" "Yes!" I says. "And so will I--in a day coach of the Sante Fe!" Well, he coaxed, threatened and so-forthed me, until finally I took a chance and climbed in beside him. The populace at the doors give three cheers and wished us good luck as we banged and rattled through their midst. We went on down the street, attractin' no more attention than the German army would in London, and every time we turned a new corner people run out of their houses to see was there a parade comin'. We passed several sure enough automobiles and they sneered at us, and one of them little flivvers got so upset by the noise that it blowed out a tire as we went by. Finally, we come to the city line and the Kid says he figures it's about time to see can the thing travel. He monkeys around them strange buttons on the steerin' wheel, pulls a handle here and there and presses a lever with his foot. The minute he did that we got action! That disappearin' cannon in the back went off three times and I bet it blowed up all the buildin's in the block. There was a horse and buggy passin' at the time and the guy that was drivin' it don't know what happened yet, because at the first bang, that horse started for the old country and it must have been Lou Dillon--believe me, it could run! I looked back and watched it. A big cloud of smoke rolls up from the back of the car, and I seen guys runnin' out of stores and wavin' to us with their fists and then a couple of brave and bold motorcycle cops jumps on their fiery steeds and falls in behind. I guess the ex-owner of this bus was on the level at that about doin' them forty-five thousand miles in a week, because this car could have beat a telegram across the country, "when she got warmed up!" as I. Markowitz says. Every one of them six cylinders was in there trying and when they worked together like little pals and forgot whatever private quarrels they had, the result was _speed_, believe me! The Kid was hangin' on to the steerin' wheel and havin' the time of his young life and I was hangin' on to the seat and wishin' I had listened to that insurance agent in New York. We come to the top of a hill and as we start down the other side the prize boob of the county is waterin' the pavement around his real estate. When he hears us, he drops the hose which makes it all wet in front of us. "Hold tight!" screams the Kid to me. "We're gonna do a piece of skiddin'. I forgot to get chains!" Just about then we hit the damp spot and the Kid puts on the brakes. Sweet Cookie! You should have seen that car! It must have got sore at the man with the hose and went crazy, because it made eight complete turns tryin' to get at him and the poor simp was too scared to run. Finally the thing gives it up and shoots down to the bottom of the hill. We hit a log and I hit the one-man top. Then the motor calls it a day and stops dead. The Kid hops out and walks around to the crank. He gives it a couple of turns and it turns right back at him. He grabs it again and it was short with a left hook to the jaw, and then the Kid shakes his head and takes off one side of the hood. He sticks his hand down inside and pulls out a little brown thing that looks like a cup with a cover on it. "No wonder she stopped!" he says, holdin' it up. "Look what I just found in here." I give it the once over. "What d'ye think of that, eh?" he says. "It's a wonder she run at all! I'll bet that boob mechanic left that in there when he started us off at the garage." He throws the thing in a ditch and puts the hood on. "Now," he says, "we're off for Film City!" He grabs hold of the crank and gives it about eleven whirls, but there ain't a thing doin' and while we're stuck there like that, along comes a guy in another car. "Can I help you fellows out?" he hollers. "Yes!" I yells back. "Have you got a rope?" He comes over and looks at the thing. "What seems to be the trouble?" he asks the Kid. "Nothin' in particular," the Kid tells him. "She's a great little car only we can't get her goin'." "Have you got gas?" asks the stranger. "Plenty!" says the Kid. "D'ye think I would try to run a car without gasoline?" "I don't know," says the other guy. "I never seen you before! Is your spark all right?" "A number one!" pipes the Kid. "And she won't run?" he asks. "She won't run!" we both says together. "Hmph!" he snorts, scratchin' his head. He opens the hood and fusses around on both sides for a minute and then he rubs the side of his nose with his finger. He looks like he was up against a tough proposition. "How far have you run this car?" he asks the Kid finally. "All the way from Frisco," answers the Kid. "Like this?" he says, pointin' to the motor. "No!" I cuts in. "It was movin'." "Why you couldn't have gone three feet with this car!" he busts out suddenly. "I never seen nothin' like this before in my life!" "Why don't you go out at nights, then?" growls the Kid, gettin' sore. "Stop knockin' and tell us what's the matter with it." "There ain't nothin' the matter with it," says the other guy with an odd little grin. "Not a thing--_only it ain't got no carburetor in it, that's all_!" If he figured on creatin' a sensation on that remark--and from the way he said it, he did--he lost the bet. The Kid just gives him the baby stare and shrugs his shoulders like it's past him. "No which?" he says. "Carburetor!" explains the native. "The little cup where your gasoline mixes with the air to start the motor." The Kid claps his hands together and yells, "That little crook back in Frisco must have held out on me!" But I had been doin' some thinkin' and I looks the Kid in the eye, "What does this carburetor thing look like?" I asks the other guy. He describes it to me, and when he got all through I gives the Kid another meanin' look and walks over to the ditch. After pawin' around in the mud for a while I found the little cup the Kid had throwed away. "Is this it?" I asks the native. "It is," he says. "What was it doin' over there?" "It must have fell off!" answers the Kid quickly, kickin' at me to keep quiet. Well, this guy finally fixes us up and about an hour later we hit the little road that leads into Film City, without havin' no further mishaps except the noise from that motor. About half a mile from the gates I seen a familiar lookin' guy standin' in the middle of the road and wavin' his hands at us. "Slow up!" I says to the Kid. "Here's Genaro!" The Kid reaches down to the side of his seat and yanks a handle that was stickin' up. It come right off in his hand and we kept right on goin'. "That's funny!" says the Kid, holdin' up the handle and lookin' at it like it's the first one he ever seen. "We should have stopped right away--that's the emergency brake!" He stamps on the floor with his foot a couple of times and shuts off the gas. We drift right on, and, if Genaro had had rheumatism, he would have been killed outright. As it was, he jumped aside just in time and the car comes to a stop of its own free will about twenty feet past him down the road. "What's a mat?" yells Genaro, rushin' up to us. "Why you no stoppa the car when you see me?" "Why don't they stop prohibition?" I hollers back at him. "We must have lost the stopper off this one, we--" But he runs around the other side to where the Kid is sitting examinin' all them handles and buttons. "_Sapristi_!" he yells at the Kid. "Where you go, Meester Kid Scanlan? Everybody she's a look for you--Meester Potts he'sa want you right away! We starta firsta reel of your picture to-day. Everybody she'sa got to wait for you!" "Keep your shirt on!" growls the Kid. "You told me this mornin' I had lots of time, didn't you?" Genaro grabs hold of a tree and does a little dance. "Aha!" he remarks to the sky. "He'sa make me crazee! What you care what I tole you this a morning? Joosta now I want you queek! You maka mucha talk with me while Meester Potts and everybody she'sa wait for you!" "Well," says the Kid. "Get in here and we'll go there right away." Genaro climbs in the back of the car. "Hurry up!" he says, holdin' his ears. "Anything so she'a stop that terrible noise. Hurry up!" "I'll do that little thing!" pipes the Kid--and we was off. I climbed over the seat and in the back with Genaro so's he wouldn't feel lonesome, and, so's if the Kid hit anything, I'd have a little more percentage in my favor. Genaro seems to be sore about something and to make conversation I ask him what's the matter. "Everything she's the matter!" he tells me, while the Kid keeps his foot on the gas and we bump and clatter along the road. "Everything she's the matter! I work all morning on lasta reel of 'The Escapes of Eva.' Got two hundred extra people stand around do nothing. De Vronde, the bigga bunk, he's a play lead with Miss Vincent." He stops and kisses his hand at a tree we was passing "Ah!" he goes on. "She'sa fina girl! Some time maybe I ask her--pardone, I talka too fast! Lasta reel De Vronde he'sa get what you call lynched. They putta rope around he'sa neck and he's a stand under bigga tree. Joosta as they pulla rope to keel him, Miss Vincent," he throws another kiss at a tree. "Ah! sucha fina girl!" he whispers at me rollin' his eyes. "Sometime I--pardone, everytime I forget! Miss Vincent she'sa come along on horse and sava he'sa life--you see?" "I got you!" I tells him. "Then what happens?" "_Sapristi_!" he says. "That's all! What you want for five reels? But thisa morning, Meester Potts he'sa come up and watch. He'sa president of company and knows much about money, but acting--bah! he'sa know nothing! Gotta three year old boy he'sa know more! He'sa standa there and smile and rub he'sa hands together lika barber while we taka lasta reel. Everything she'sa fine till we come to place where De Vronde he'sa get lynch and Miss Vincent--ah!--she'sa come up on horse and sava him. Then Meester Potts he'sa rush over and stoppa the cameras. 'No!' he'sa yell. 'No, by Heaven, I won't stand for that! That's a rotten! You got to get difference ending froma that!'" "What was the matter?" I asks him. "Didn't he want De Vronde saved?" His shoulders does one of them muscle dances. "Ask me!" he says. "I couldn't tella you! He'sa know nothing about art! Joosta money--that's all. He'sa tella me girl saving leading man from lynch lika that is old as he'sa fren' Methuselah! He'sa want something new for finish that picture--bran' new, he'sa holler or no picture! All morning I worka, worka, worka, he'sa maka faces at everything I do!" "Well!" I says. "If you--" I happened to look up just then and I seen the well known gates of Film City about a hundred yards away, and if we was makin' a mile an hour, we was makin' fifty. I leaned over and tapped the Kid on the shoulder. "Don't you think you had better slow up a trifle?" I asks him. "I don't _think_ nothin' about it!" he throws over his shoulder. "I _know_ it! I been tryin' to stop this thing for the last fifteen minutes and there's nothin' doin'!" "Throw her in reverse!" I screams, as them great big iron gates looms up over the front mud guards. "I can't!" he shouts. "The darned thing's stuck in high and I can't budge it!" One of them gates was open and the Kid steers for it, while I closed my eyes and give myself over to prayer. We shot through leavin' one lamp, both mudguards and a runnin' board behind. "Hey!" yells Genaro. "What's a mat? Thisa too fasta for me! Stoppa the car before something she'sa happen!" "Somethin' she'sa gonna happen right now!" I says. "Be seated!" The Kid swings around a corner and everybody in Film City is either lookin', runnin' or yellin' after us. I often wondered what a wide berth meant, and I found out that afternoon. That's what everybody in the place give us when we come through there hittin' on six as I. Markowitz would remark. A guy made up like a Indian chief jumped behind a tree and we only missed him by dumb luck. "Hey!" he yells after us. "Are you fellows crazy? Look out for the Moorish Castle!" I yelled back that we wouldn't miss nothin' of interest, if we could help it and the gas held out, and just then I got a flash at the Moorish Castle. It had been built the day before for a big five reel thriller that Genaro was gonna produce and I understand he was very partial to it. As soon as he sees it he jumps up in the back of the car and slaps the Kid on the shoulders. "Hey, crazee man!" he hollers. "Stoppa the car, I, Genaro, command it! Don't toucha my castle!" his voice goes off in a shriek. "_Sapristi_!--I--" That was all he said just then, because we went through the Moorish Castle like a cyclone through Kansas, and as we come out on the other side the whole thing tumbled down, bringin' with it a couple of Chinese pagodas that had just come from the paint shop. All we lost was half of the radiator and the windshield. The Kid pulls a kind of a sick grin and licks his lips. "Some car, eh?" he says, takin' a fresh grip on the steerin' wheel. I missed Genaro and lookin' back through the dust I seen him draped over a fence with his head touchin' the ground and his feet up in the air. A lot of daredevils was runnin' towards us and yellin' murder. "Where's Genaro?" asks the Kid, as we miss a tree by a half inch. I shivered and told him. "The big quitter!" snarls the Kid. "Left us flat the minute somethin' happened, eh? I always knew that guy was yellah!" We shot across the African Desert and comin' around another turn we bust right into "The Escapes of Eva." There's about two hundred supers dressed like cowboys and Duke, Genaro's assistant, is up on a little platform with the Big Boss Potts, directin' the thing. De Vronde is under a tree with a rope around his neck and another one that don't show in the picture under his arms so's he can be pulled up and it will look like he was bein' lynched. A little ways up the road is Miss Vincent on a horse, ready to make her dash to save De Vronde's life. As all this comes into view, the Kid swings around on me and shoves somethin' big and round in my face. "Now!" he hollers. "We're up against it for real! The steerin' wheel come off!" I pushed open the door on the side and stood on the runnin' board. "Let me know how you make out!" I yells. "I got enough!" With that I jumps. Just as I hit the ground, I hear Duke yellin' through a megaphone. "C'mon, now--gimme action! Hey! Get two of those cameras at an angle. When I say 'Shoot!' you, Nelson, and Hardy pull that rope so De Vronde swings about five feet clear of the ground! Be sure the rope is under his arms, too! Hey, you extra people--a little ginger there! This is a lynching not a spelling bee! Dance around some--yell! That's it. Now, all ready?" He blows the whistle. "Shoot!" he yells, "and gimme all you got!" Well, the Kid did what he could--he blowed the little trick horn on the side of the car about a second before he shot into the mob. Them bloodthirsty outlaws just melted away before him, and them that was slow-witted was picked up and tossed to one side before they knowed what hit 'em. They's a big stone wall at the other side of the tree and that's where the Kid was headed for. Just as he sails under De Vronde, who's hangin' from the rope over his head, the Kid sees the wall, grabs De Vronde by the legs and hangs there, lettin' that crazy, six cylinder A. G. F. proceed without him. De Vronde and the Kid crashes to the ground and the car dashed its brains out against the wall. While great excitement is bein' had by all, Duke jumps from the platform to tell the camera men to cease firin' and a handful of actors runs over to jimmy the Kid and De Vronde apart. I thought this Duke guy was gonna explode, on the level it was two minutes before he could speak. "What d'ye mean, you ivory-headed simp?" he screams at the Kid, finally. "What d'ye mean by that? You've ruined a hundred feet of film, you--" I hear somebody puffin' along beside me as I come runnin' up and I see it's Potts. He's red in the face and mumblin' somethin' to himself as he waddles along. I felt real sorry for the Kid--car and job, both gone! Potts rushes up and grabs Duke by the shoulder. "There!" he yells, pointin' to the Kid. "There stands a man that knows more about the picture game than the whole infernal lot of you! _That's the kind of a finish I've been trying to get for this picture all morning_!" CHAPTER III PLEASURE ISLAND Speakin' of boobs, as people will, did you ever figure what would happen if the production of 'em would suddenly cease? Heh? Where would this or any other country be, if all the voters was wise guys and the suckers was all dead? In the first place, there wouldn't have been no ex-Land of the Rave and Home of the Spree, if Queen Isabella hadn't been boob enough to fall for Columbus's stuff, about would she stake him and his gang of rough and readys to a couple of ferryboats and they'd go out and bring back Chicago. Even old Chris himself was looked on as Kid Stupid, because he claimed the earth was round. The gang he trailed with had it figured as bein' square like their heads. The guy that invented the airship was doped out as a boob until the thing begin to fly, the bird that turned out the first steamboat was called a potterin' old simp and let him alone and he'd kill himself--and that's the way it goes. The sucker is the boy that keeps the wise guys alive. He'll try anything once, and it don't make no difference to him whether it's three-card monte or a new kind of submarine. He's the guy that built all the fancy bridges, the big buildin's, fought and won the wars that the wise guys started, and fixed things generally so that to-day you can push a little trick electric button and get anything from a piece of pie to a divorce. He's the simp that falls for the new minin' company stock, grins when the wise guys explain to him just how many kinds of a sucker he is, and then clips coupons while _they're_ gettin' up early to read the want ads. He's the baby that's done everything that couldn't be did. That's the boob! The boob is the guy that takes all the chances and makes it possible for old Kid World to keep goin' forward instead of standin' still. Any burg that's got a couple of sure enough eighteen-carat boobs in it, known to the trade as suckers, has got a chance. So the next time somebody calls you a big boob, don't get sore--thank him. He's boostin' you! Gimme ten boobs in back of me and I'll take a town, because they'll take a chance. Gimme a hundred wise guys and the town'll take _us_, because them birds will have to stop and figure what's the use of startin' somethin'. Me for the boobs! Kid Scanlan was a boob. He was a great battler, a regular fellow and all like that, but he was a boob just the same. He started fightin' because he was simp enough to take a chance of havin' his features altered, and he won the title through bein' stupid enough to mix it with the welterweight champion. I was the wise guy of the party, always playin' it safe and seein' what made it go, before I'd take a chance. But the Kid got a whole lot further than I ever will. He made a name for himself in the ring and another in the movies and I ain't champion of _nothin'_--I'm just _with_ Scanlan, that's all. I'm gettin' offers from promoters here and there to have him start against some set up for money that was sinful to refuse, but there's nothin' doin'. The Kid has took to bein' an actor like they did to gunpowder in Europe, and not only he won't fight, I can't even get him mad! "I'm off that roughneck stuff!" he tells me. "Nobody ever got nothin' by fightin'. Look what it did to Willard! Besides," he goes on, "what would John Drew and them guys think of me, if it should leak out that I had give in to box fightin' again? Why they'd be off me for life! Nope, let 'em battle in Russia, I'm through!" Fine for a champion, eh? Now here's a guy that went to the top in the one game where you can't luck your way over. Because he was a fightin' fool, the 'Kid had right-crossed his way to the title and now that he was up there, the big stiff wouldn't look at a glove! No! he was a actor now! I'd tell him that Kid Whosthis had flattened Battlin' McGluke the night before and we could get ten thousand to go six rounds with the winner. He'd flick the ash off a gold-tipped cigarette and say, "Yeh?" Then he'd grab me by the shoulder and pour this in my ear. "Did you get me in that Shakespeare picture last week? I hear the guy that writes up shows for the Peoria _Gazette_ claims Mansfield had nothin' on me!" A few months before he would have said somethin' like this, "All right! Wire the club we'll fight him, and if I don't bounce that tramp in two rounds, I'll give my end to them starvin' Armenians!" Now I didn't kick when the Kid falls for Miss Vincent, because I had seen Miss Vincent, and the Kid was only human. I didn't say nothin' when he staked himself to that second-hand auto that like to wrecked California, but when he pulls this actor thing on me and says pugilism, _pugilism_, mind you, ought to be discouraged--I figured it was about time for yours in the faith to step in. The Kid had two ambitions in life, both of which he picked up at Film City. One was to be the greatest movie hero that ever flattened a villain, and the other was to ease himself into the Golden West Club. The Golden West Club was over in Frisco, and as far as the average guy was concerned it could have been in Iceland. It was about as easy to get into that joint as it is to get into Heaven, and it was also the only other place where you couldn't buy your way in. Your name had to be Fortescue-Smith or Van Whosthis, and you had to look it. You had to be partial to tea, wrist watches, dancin', opera, tennis and the like, and to top it all off you had to be a distant relative to a hick called William the Conqueror, who I hear was light heavy-weight champ in days of old. If you checked up all right on them little details, they took a vote on you. If you was lucky, you got a letter in a few weeks later sayin' your application was bein' considered and you might get in, but not to bank on it, because they was havin' trouble connectin' up your grandfather with the rest of the family tree, it bein' said around that he made his money through work. That was the place Kid Scanlan wanted to bust into! One night he gets all dressed up like a horse in one of them soup and fish layouts, and he hires a guy to drive him over to the Golden West Club in that second-hand A. G. F. he had. I will say the Kid went into the thing in a big way, payin' seventy-five bucks for a dress suit and ten more for the whitest shirt I ever seen in my life. He sends in eight berries for a hack-driver's hat and seven for a pair of tan shoes. Then he climbs into his bus and tells the driver, "Let's go!" Before he pulled out, he told me they was so many guys belonged to the thing that he figured he could mix around for a few minutes without anybody gettin' wise that he wasn't a regular member, if he could only breeze past the jobbie on the door. And outside of the shoes, which I thought was a trifle noisy, the Kid sized up like any of the real club members I had seen, except his chest wasn't so narrow and he had an intelligent look. Well, he blowed in about twelve o'clock and come up to the rooms we had at the hotel in Film City. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, takes off this trick silk hat, and, puttin' everything he had on the throw, he pitched it into the bathtub. He slammed that open-faced coat in a corner and in a minute it was followed by them full-dress pants. The gleamin' white shirt skidded under the bed, neck and neck with the shoes. I didn't say a word while he was abusin' them clothes, but I was so happy I felt like cheerin', because they was somethin' in the Kid's face I hadn't seen there since we hit the movies. The last time I had caught him lookin' like that was when One-Punch Ross had dropped him with a left hook, just before the Kid won the title. When the Kid got to his feet that there look was on his face and two seconds later he was welterweight champion of the world and points adjacent. He inserts himself into his pyjamas and then he swings around on me. "How much did they offer us at the Garden for ten rounds with Battlin' Edwards?" he wants to know. I liked to fell out of the bed! "Eight thousand, with a privilege of thirty per cent of the gross," I says, gettin' off of the hay. "Will I wire 'em?" "Yep!" he snaps out. "Tell 'em I'll fight Edwards two weeks after I get through here!" "And when will that be, might I ask?" I says, ringin' for a messenger and tryin' to keep from dancin' a jig. "As soon as them simps finish that picture, 'How Kid Scanlan Won the Title,'" he tells me. "Genaro says he'll start it to-morrow, and as soon as it's through, so am I--here!" I didn't get the answer to all this until the Kid crawls into the hay half a hour later, scowlin' and mutterin' to himself. I took a good look at him and then I says, "Speakin' of clubs and stuff like that, how did you make out at that Golden West joint to-night?" He sits right up in the bed. "Are you tryin' to kid somebody?" he snarls. "I asked you a civil question, you big stiff!" I comes back, "and don't be comin' around here and slippin' _me_ that rough stuff! If you can be a gentleman at your clubs and joints like that, you want to be one here! D'ye get that?" He looks at me for a minute and seein' I'm serious, he growls, "I thought you had heard about it!" Then he props himself up with the pillows and begins, "I went over there to-night and them boobs was havin' a racket of some kind, I guess, because all the automobiles in the West was lined up outside the doors of the club. I tried to horn in the line with that boat of mine and the biggest nigger in the world, dressed up like a band leader, comes over and wants to know if I'm a guest. I told him no, that I was a movie actor and to step one side or he'd break the headlights when I hit him. He claims I can't get in the line without I got a ticket showin' I'm a guest. I got tired of his chatter, so I dropped him with a short left swing and we keep on goin' till we wind up at the front door. This stupid simp I had drivin' my bus is lookin' at the swell dames goin' in, instead of at the emergency brake, and he forgets to stop the thing till we have took off the rear end of a car in front of us and busted my front mudguard again. "While the chiffure of the wreck is moanin' to my guy about it, I ducked out the side and blowed around to the entrance. I figured they was a password of some kind, so I says to the big hick at the gate, 'Ephus Doffus Loffus,' and pushes past him, I guess he was surprised at me bein' a stranger and knowin' the ropes at that, because I seen him lookin' after me when I beat it up the first stairway to the second floor. I got a flash at myself in a mirror as I breeze past, and, if I do say it myself, I was there forty ways. I was simply a knockout in that evenin' dress thing! A swell-lookin' guy pipes me at the top of the stairs and, after givin' me the once over, he taps me on the arm. "'You may bring me a glawss of Appollinaris, my man,' he says, 'and for heaven sake remove those yellow shoes!' "With that he walks away and another guy comes up and whistles at me. When I turn around, he's givin' me the up and down through a glass thing he's got hung over one eye. "'Bring up a box of perfectos at once!' he pipes. 'Come! Look alive now!' "Then I got it! _I_ thought I was knockin' 'em dead and these guys thought I was a waiter! Well, I thinks, I'll show them boobs somethin' before I take the air--I can pull that stuff _myself_! With that I breezes into the next room and there's a hick sittin' at a table, toyin' with a book. He was as near nothin' as anything I ever seen, on the level! He's got a swell dress suit on, but it didn't fit him no better than mine did me and it couldn't have cost no more or he would have killed the tailor. Outside of the shoes, mine bein' classier, we was both made up the same. A guy comes in, looks him over for a minute and then he yawns. 'Bored?' he says. The simp that was sittin' down looks back at him, yawns and says, 'Frightfully.' Then the other guy bows at him and goes out. Some other hick wanders in and says, 'Ah, Van Stuyvessant, bored?' and Stupid says, 'Frightfully' and the other guy blows out. I seen that the coast was clear, so I smoothed my hair, pulled down my vest and throwed my chest out like them other guys did. Then I breezed in and stopped before this guy. He yawns and looks up at me very dignified like he was sittin' in the Night Court and I was up before him for the third time in a week. "'Hey, Stupid!' I says. 'Get me a gin fizz and don't make it too sweet! And for heaven's sakes get rid of that shirt!' "I thought he was goin' to get the apoplexy or somethin', because his face is as red as a four-alarm fire. Then he says, "'Why--what--how dare you, you insolent puppy!' "I leaned on his shoulder and tapped him on the end of the beak with my thumb. "'Lay off that stuff, Simple,' I tells him. 'I'm a guest here and a couple of hicks took me for a waiter. I'm just gettin' even, that's all. If you don't get me that gin fizz like I asked you, I'll knock you for a goal!' "He gets as white as my shirt and presses a little button on the table. A big husky, made up like a Winter Garden chorus man, runs in and Stupid says, 'Eject this ruffian, Simms! And then you will answer to me for allowing him to enter!' "Simms was game, but a poor worker, so I feinted him over in front of his master and then I flattened him with a left and right to the jaw. I took it on the run then and got out the back way!" The Kid stops and heaves a sigh. "And then what?" I encourages him. "And then nothin'!" he says. "That's all! Except I'm off the Golden West Club, the movies and this part of the country! I got enough. Them guys over there to-night gimme the tip-off--I don't belong, that's all! I was a sucker to ever stop fightin' to be a actor, but I got wise in time. You go ahead and sign me right up with anybody but Dempsey, and if Genaro don't start my picture to-morrow, I'll give 'em back their money and you and me will leave the Golden West flat on its back!" Say! I was so happy I couldn't sleep. I just turned over on my side and registered joy all night long! The next mornin' we go to Genaro the first thing, and the Kid puts it up to him right off the bat. Either he starts "How Kid Scanlan Won the Title" or he kisses us good-by. Genaro raves and pulls his hair for awhile, but they ain't no more give to the Kid than they is to marble and finally Genaro says he'll start the picture right away. We find out that another director is usin' the whole camp to put on a trick called "The Fall of Babylon," so we got to go over to an island in the well known Pacific Ocean and take what they call exteriors there. They rounded up Miss Vincent, De Vronde, the cuckoo that wrote the thing, and about a hundred other people and load us all on a yacht belongin' to Potts. We're gonna stay on this trick island till the picture is finished, and we eat and sleep on the yacht. On the trip over, we all go down in what Potts claims is the grand saloon and Van Aylstyne, the hick that wrote the picture, reads it to us. It starts off showin' the Kid workin' in a pickle factory on the East Side in New York. They're only slippin' him five berries a week and out of that he's keepin' his widowed mother and seven of her children. One day he finds a newspaper and all over the front page is a article tellin' about all the money the welterweight champion is makin', so the Kid figures the pickle game is no place for a young feller with his talent, and decides to become welterweight champ. First he tries himself out by slammin' the guy he's workin' for, after catchin' him insultin' the stenographer by askin' her to take a ride in his runabout, when the buyer is already takin' her out in his limousine. When the boss comes back to life, he fires the Kid and our hero goes out and knocks down a few odd brutes here and there for gettin' fresh with innocent chorus girls and the like. Finally, he practically wrecks a swell gamblin' joint where he has gone to rescue his girl, which had been lured there by the handsome stranger from the city. "Well!" says Potts, when Van Aylstyne gets finished. "How does that strike you?" "What I like," pipes Miss Vincent, with a funny little quirk of her lip and a wink at De Vronde. "What I like is its daring originality!" Van Aylstyne stiffens up. "Of course," he says, kinda sore, "if I'm to be criticised by--" "Ain't they no villains or nothin' like that in it?" butts in the Kid, frownin' at him. "Joosta one minoote!" says Genaro. "Don't get excite! That's joosta firsta reel!" He waves his hand at Van Aylstyne, and this guy gives a couple of glares all around and then turns over another page. It seems at this stage of the game, a lot of gunmen get together to stop the Kid from winnin' the title, so they throw him off a cliff. He gets up, dusts off his clothes, registers anger and flattens half a dozen of 'em. A little bit later he gets fastened to a railroad track and the fast mail runs over him. This makes him peeved, and he gets up and wallops a couple of tramps that's passing for luck. Then the villain's gang of rough and readys grabs him again and he is throwed off a ship into the ocean. A guy comes along in a motor boat, and, after shootin' a few times at the Kid without actually killin' him, registers surprise and runs over him. When the Kid comes up there ain't nothin' to wallop, so he swims six miles to the island. The minute he crawls on the beach he faces the camera and registers exhaustion. Then a lot of guys jump out and stab him. He knocks 'em all cold and then he goes on, fights the champ and wins the title. "Is that all there is to it?" asks the Kid, when Van Aylstyne stops for breath and applause. "Practically all," Van Aylstyne tells him. "Of course I'll have to go over it and spice it up a little more--get more action in it here and there, wherever it appears to drag. But we can do this as we go along." "Yes!" says Potts. "You'll have to do that. I want this picture to be the thriller of the year!" He scratches his chin for a minute and looks at Van Aylstyne. "You better ginger it up a bit at that!" he goes on. "It sounds a little tame to me. See if you can't work in a couple of spectacular fires, a sensational runaway with Mr. Scanlan being dragged along the ground, or you might have him do a slide for life from the topmast of the yacht to one of the trees along the shore here." "Wait!" pipes Genaro. "I have joosta the thing! While I listen, I getta thisa granda idea! Meester Scanlan, he'sa can be throw from the airsheep and--" "Lay off, lay off!" butts in the 'Kid. "They's enough action in that thing right now to suit me! Don't put nothin' else in it. I'll be busier than a one-armed paperhanger as it is!" He turns to Van Aylstyne. "Where d'ye get that stuff?" he scowls. "Would _you_ jump off a cliff, hey?" Van Aylstyne throws out his little chest, while the rest of them snickers. "I _write_ it!" he says. "Yeh?" pipes the Kid. "Well, you'll _jump_ it, too, bo, believe me!" "What's a mat?" hollers Genaro. "What's a use hava the fighta now? Wait till we starta the picture, then everybody she'sa fighta! Something she'sa go wrong. _Sapristi_! we feexa her then. Joosta holda tight your horses!" He pats the Kid on the shoulder and slips him a cigar. The rest of the trip to the island took about two hours, durin' which time the Kid and Miss Vincent sat on the top deck, and she give him his daily lesson in how to speak English, eat soup and a lot more of that high society stuff. We finally got to this island place and by three o'clock the next afternoon they was half way through with the first reel. I horned in on the thing myself, takin' off a copper, for which they gimme five bucks even. That night they was big doings on board the yacht. They had music and dancin' and what not galore. Van Aylstyne, Potts, De Vronde and most of the other help was there in the soup and fish and the twenty odd dames that was actin' in the picture was all dressed up to thrill. I never seen so much of this here de collect stuff in my life. I heard a lot of talk around the studios at the camp about "exposures," and, well, I seen what they meant all right that evenin'. It got me so dizzy, never havin' no closeups like that before, that I ducked for my stateroom about nine o'clock when the joy was just beginnin' to be unconfined and I hadn't been up there five minutes, when the Kid comes up and knocks at my door. "I'm goin' to hit the hay," he tells me. "If I gotta fight Battlin' Edwards in two months, I'm gonna start readyin' up now! I been puttin' on fat since I been here, and it's got to come off. I'll get up at five to-morrow and do a gallop around the island, and I just dug up a couple of ex-bartenders among the extry people which will gimme some sparrin' practice every mornin' till they give out!" "Great!" I says. I was hardly able to believe my ears. It sounded like the old Kid Scanlan again! I closed the door, and just as he was turnin' away, I heard the swish of skirts and then I got Miss Vincent's voice. It was low and sweet and kinda soothin' and--well, she was the kind of dame guys kill each other for! Do you get me? "Oh!" she kinda breathes. "Why are you up here all alone?" I heard the Kid's deep breathin'--it was always that way when _she_ spoke to him, and I knowed without seein' 'em that his nails was engravin' fancy work on the palm of his hand. "Why," he says, tryin' to keep his voice steady. "I'm off this tango thing--and the last time I had one of them dress suits on, I was mistook for a waiter!" Y'know there was a funny little catch in the Kid's voice when he pulled that, although he tried to pass it off by coughin'. That boy sure did want to mix with the big leaguers, and, bein' Irish, it come hard to him to miss anything he wanted. Usually he got it! I heard Miss Vincent sneer. "Don't flatter these conceit-drugged travesties on the male sex by caring about anything _they_ say," she tells him. "You have so many things they never will have! Why, you're a big, clean, two-handed man and--" She breaks off and gives a giggle that I would have took Verdun for. "But there!" she goes on. "I--I--guess I'm getting too enthusiastic!" I could almost feel her blush, and I knowed how she looked when she did that thing, so I says, "Good-by, Kid!" "That's all right!" pipes the Kid. "It wasn't these guys here. But I can't go downstairs anyhow, because I gotta start trainin' for Battlin' Edwards." "Oh, bother Battling Edwards!" she says. "I thought you promised me to give up prize fighting!" This was a new one on me, and it cleared up a lot of things I hadn't been able to figure out before! "I gotta take it back," I hear the Kid sayin' in a kinda dead voice. "I pulled a bone play when I did that! I can't give up fightin' no more than you can give up the movies! The only thing I got is a wallop, and that won't get me nowhere in the movies or society, but it got me the title in the ring. I guess I'll stick to my own game!" "Oh, come!" she tells him, kinda impatient. "You have the blues! Shake 'em off--I don't like you when you scowl like that. Come on down and have a dance with me. You'll feel better." "You said somethin'!" answers the Kid. "But I can't--on the level. I gotta train for this guy, or he's liable to bounce me, and, if I lose this quarrel, I'm through! Y'see, this ain't no movie, this is gonna be the real thing! If this guy flattens me, he'll be the champion and you _know_ that bird is gonna be in there tryin' till the last bell!" I peeked through them little wooden cheaters on the window and I seen her kinda stiffen up and register surprise. "I am not accustomed to coaxing people to dance with me, Mr. Scanlan," she says, "and--" "Yes, and I'm not used to havin' dames like _you_ ask me!" butts in the Kid. "But I gotta beat Edwards--and I can't beat him by stayin' up late!" She just breezes past him and down the deck without another word. The Kid kicks a fire bucket that was standin' there into the Pacific Ocean, and from the way he slammed the door of his stateroom I'll bet all them trick beer mugs that Potts had on the wall fell on the floor. Well, the next mornin' we all go over to the island again and the Kid is up at daybreak, trottin' over the hills. He's got four sweaters on, although it's as hot as blazes, and I'm taggin' along in back of him. Then he comes back, changes his clothes and works in the picture till noon, when we knock off for the eats. Miss Vincent passed us once when we was talkin' to Genaro, and she deliberately passed the Kid up! After that it was suicide to give Scanlan a nasty look. Along around two o'clock that afternoon, another yacht shows up a little ways off the island and in a few minutes it stops and five guys and a woman hops in one of them trick launches and put-puts over to us. They get out and come up the string-piece and we get a good flash at them. The male members of the party is all dressed up in blue coats and white pants and from their general get-up I thought they was all gonna form a circle, pick up the ends of their coats and pipe. "What ho, the merry villagers come and we are the daisy maids!" All but one. He was a great big husky, kinda dark skinned and he looked like a assassin with the women, know what I mean? Also, I had seen this bird somewheres before, but I couldn't check him up right off the bat. The girl that was with the troupe was a good looker all right, and you could see she was a big-timer. But she was kinda thin and worn out to the naked eye. And when I got a close-up of her, I seen there was a funny look in her eyes, like she had been double-crossed or somethin'. She looked at everything like she wished it was hers, but there was no chance, d'ye get me? Well, Potts comes a-runnin' to meet 'em and then he comes up and introduces 'em all around. He claims they're from Frisco and friends of his which has come over to see how movin' pictures is made and they might even go so far as to take off a part in one of 'em, just for the devilment of it. Miss Vincent looks hard and close at the dark-skinned guy, like she was tryin' to think where she had seen him before, but Genaro come along just then and I'll bet them newcomers didn't get no encouragement from the way _he_ looked 'em over. De Vronde and Van Aylstyne, though, fell for this bunch so hard they liked to broke their necks. It seems them two hicks found out they all was members of this Golden West Club, and they did everything but shine their shoes from then on. When the Kid blows in and sees 'em, he claims he remembers 'em all as bein' among them present the night he went over to the Club, and he says they had better keep lots of the Golden West between him and them while they was in our midst. The tall dark guy, whose name was somethin' like Brown-Smith, took one flash at Miss Vincent and then everybody else could have been in France for all the notice _he_ give 'em. He took up his stand about two feet away from her, and there he stuck all day long like cement. Anybody could see that this stuff was causin' two people to register worry. They was the Kid and the dame that come over with the troupe. Scanlan watches Brown-Smith makin' his play for Miss Vincent, and he seen that if she wasn't encouragin' him, she wasn't complainin' to the police either, but the Kid keeps quiet and takes it out in makin' them sparrin' ex-bartenders tired of life. The next day I got up early lookin' for the Kid, and as I come through a clearin' in the island I seen three things at once, and if I hadn't ducked behind a tree, they'd have seen me. There's my meal ticket with all his sweaters off, standin' in the middle of the little space, shadow boxin' in front of a tree. The well known sun is shinin' down on his blonde head, and I never noticed before just what a handsome brute the Kid was in action. The muscles in his arms are jumpin' and ripplin' under a skin that a chorus girl would give five years for, and he's as graceful and light on his feet as one of them Russian toe dancers. The other two things I seen was Miss Vincent and the dame that had blowed in with the Golden West boys. The new dame is watchin' the Kid like he was a most pleasin' sight to them tired little eyes of hers. Her mouth is open a little bit and there's a kind of wishin' smile on her lips. Y'know she looked like this was what she wanted ever since she come into the store. Get me? Miss Vincent is doin' a piece of watchin' herself around the tree that's between 'em, only she ain't watchin' the Kid. She's watchin' this new dame, and you can take it from me she was registerin' hate! That classy little nose of hers is quiverin' and she's bitin' hard on her lip. Her body was so stiff and straight that, on the level, I thought she was gonna spring! The Kid finally stops boxin', puts on his sweaters and then he gets a flash at the new dame. She calls somethin' to him and he comes over--then they start back to the yacht together. Miss Vincent ducks and so did I. I didn't want _none_ of them to see me, because this thing was gettin' a little too deep for yours in the faith. They go ahead with another reel of the Kid's picture that morning and Brown-Smith still keeps hangin' around Miss Vincent like a panhandler outside a circus, and when she has to come in the picture herself, he stands on the sidelines beside one of the camera men, with them chorus men friends of his draped around him. The Kid is goin' through a scene where he flattens half a dozen guys that are tryin' to discourage him from fightin' the champ and Brown-Smith is givin' his friends the low down on it. "By Jove!" he sneers, just loud enough so's we can all get an earful. "It nauseates me to see that fellow knocking about those poor devils who have to do that for a living! Fawncy him doing anything like that in real life! Why, he would most likely call for the police if some one slapped his wrist. I know those moving picture heroes!" This troupe of Sweet Williams around him snickers right out loud in public at that, like the big guy was simply a knockout as a comedian. Miss Vincent frowns and the new dame looks kinda worried and nervous, but the Kid just reddens a bit and continues to swat the supers all over the lot. Brown-Smith pulls a few more raw cracks like that, gettin' louder and nastier all the time, and finally he asks Potts to let him take part in the big scene at the end of the reel where the Kid is supposed to bounce everybody in the thing but the camera men. He says it will be great stuff to tell about at the club the first rainy night and a lot of bunk like that--all the time he's watchin' the Kid with that nasty sneer on his face. Potts says all right, and offers to stake him to an old suit of clothes, but he laughs and says he won't need anything, tossin' his coat to one side like the acrobat at the theatre flips away his handkerchief before goin' to work. He rolls up his sleeves and starts limberin' up his arms in front of Miss Vincent, winkin' at her and noddin' to the Kid. She looks kinda worried, but her control is good and she holds fast. She wasn't the only one that looked worried, believe me! I was doin' that thing myself, because this Brown-Smith guy had a good thirty pounds on the Kid, and he was built that way all over, reach, height and everything else. The minute he put up his hands, I seen two things. First, that he knowed somethin' about box fightin' and, second, that he was goin' to try and bounce the Kid for the benefit of Miss Vincent. While they're gettin' things ready for the massacre, the Kid comes over to me and says, "What's the big idea? I know this bird--he's the guy that asked me to bring him a _glawss_ of Appollinaris that night at the Golden West Club. If he fusses around me, I'm gonna maul him!" I knowed _that_ wasn't the reason, because Kid Scanlan could take both a wallop or a joke. The reason was standin' about three feet away talkin' to Genaro and she never looked better. Believe me, she had everything that mornin'! "Looka thisa bigga boob, Miss Vincent!" Genaro is sayin', wavin' his arms around and shakin' his head at Brown-Smith. "He'sa wanna get in my picture so he showa the girls what a bigga fella he is. Meester Potts he's a go crazee if thisa picture she's a no good. He's a joomp at me, he's a holler at me and he letta thisa bigga bunk get in it! Thisa fight, she'sa gotta looka real--not lika the actor, butta _real_! Thisa fella he'sa go in slappa Meester Scanlan on he'sa wrist. Meester Scanlan he'sa no wanna hurt Meester Potts' fren'--you know?--so he'sa slappa heem back! Everybody she'sa laugh at me when they showa that picture. Aha! They maka me crazee!" He runs over to Brown-Smith and grabs his arm. "Please, Meester!" he begs him, with tears in his eyes. "Please, Meester, getta gooda and rough with thisa fella!" he points to the Kid. "Don't be afraid for heem, he's a tougha nut! He's a nevaire geta hurt! Don't maka thisa fight looka like the act. You rusha heem, hitta heem, wrestle heem, choka heem, graba heem, bita heem, kicka heem, anything but keela heem, so thisa picture she looka like reala fight! Pretty soon, I blowa the whistle. He's a hitta you easy--so--you falla down. Maka looka good, don't sitta down, falla down--so!--" Genaro stops and throws himself on the grass and then hops up again. "You watcha that?" he goes on. "Alla right!" He jumps away from the cameras and yells, "Hey, Joe! You stanna over there and shoota this froma the right! Alla right, now everybody! Meester Kid Scanlan, you ready? Gooda! Come now--cameras--ready--shoot!" The Kid meets the rush of the gang like they had practised it together, and he floors one after the other of them with snappy left hooks. Of course he was pullin' his punches and barely touchin' these hicks, but it looked awful good from front. Then Brown-Smith, who had been hangin' around on the outside, rushes in. For a guy who had never tried the thing before, he struck me as bein' real swift at pickin' up the rules, because he faced the cameras at the right angles and pulled a lot of fancy stuff that usually nobody but a sure enough movie actor knows. The Kid sidesteps him and puts a light left to his chin and Brown-Smith comes back with a right swing that would have floored the Kid, if it hadn't been too high. The Kid went back on his heels and a little trickle of claret comes from his lips. Genaro jumps in the air, clappin' his hands. "Magnificenta!" he yells. Miss Vincent is breathin' hard and her hands pressed up tight against her chest. Her face was the color of skimmed milk. Genaro pipes her and grabs a camera man. "Shoota that--queek!" he hollers, pointin' to her. The new dame runs over to me and grabs my arm. "Stop it!" she whispers, excited like. "You must! Albert will kill him! He was amateur heavyweight champion once and--oh!--he wants to beat Mr. Scanlan--he--oh!--" I heard Miss Vincent give a little yelp, and I shove this dame away and, believe me, bo, _I_ come near goin' dead on my feet! _Because there's my champ on the ground, layin' flat on his face and he looked as cold as the North Pole_! I started to dash in, but Genaro grabs me and throws me aside. "Stoppa, fool!" he yells. "Thisa picture she'sa maka me famous!" The rest of the mob is too scared to do anything--they knowed that this was the real thing! The Kid gets up on one knee, and, on the level, the only sound you could hear was his choked breathin' and the steady click of the cameras--yes, and I guess the beatin' of my heart! The Kid is shakin' his head to clear it from that wallop and I yelled to him to stay down and take his time. He gets half way up and slides down again flat and Brown-Smith laughs. Then Miss Vincent suddenly turns, and there's a bucket of ice cold lemonade standin' on a bench beside her. It had been put there for the extry people. This here eighteen-carat, regular fellow dame grabs that bucket and throws the lemonade all over the Kid's head and shoulders! It braced him like a charge of hop--his head jerked up as it hit him and he shook off the drops--and in another second he was on his feet, smilin' the old Scanlan smile and dancin' around this guy who was rushin' in to finish him. He swings for the Kid's jaw and the Kid, movin' his head an inch out of the way, puts a hard right and left to the mouth. Brown-Smith coughed out a tooth that he had no further use for, and starts backin' away, coverin' up like a crab. The Kid laughs over at me and sends this guy's head back like it was on a hinge, with two uppercuts and a right jab. He tries to rush in and grab the Kid, and Scanlan closes his left eye with the prettiest straight left I ever seen. He wasn't tryin' to knock this big stiff out, he was deliberately cuttin' him to pieces in a most cold, workmanlike manner. Miss Vincent is smilin' now and the other dame--is not! Potts's mouth is open about five yards and he looks like he don't know whether to call the police or go back to the box office for a better seat. Then the Kid starts backin' friend Brown-Smith all over the place, shootin' lefts and rights at him so fast that I bet he thought it was rainin' wallops. He begins to register yellah--he gazes around wildly at Genaro and Genaro reaches for the whistle so's Brown-Smith can quit, but Miss Vincent sees him reach for it and she knocks it out of his hand! Genaro looks hard at her and yells to the camera men to keep turnin' the cranks. Potts starts over, stops, shakes his shoulders and turns his back. Then the Kid tips back Brown-Smith's head with a lightnin' right hook and drops him with a left to the jaw. They stopped the cameras and everybody give a hand in bringin' the dashin' Brown-Smith back to the Golden West again. Everybody but me, the Kid and Miss Vincent. The Kid walks over to Potts and stares at him. "Well," he says. "I guess I'm through after that, eh?" Potts slaps him on the back. "Hardly!" he grins. "That was the greatest piece of acting I ever saw before a camera!" Genaro runs up and grabs the Kid's hand. "Wonderful!" he hollers. "Magnificenta! You are what you calla the true artiste, Meester Kid Scanlan! That picture she will be the talka of the country! She'sa maka me famous!" "Yeh?" says the Kid. He turns to me and waves over to where Brown-Smith is recognizin' relatives and close friends. "That guy has an awful good left!" he says. He thinks for a minute. "D'ye know," he goes on, "that hick was _tryin'_, at that!" I see Miss Vincent talkin' to Potts and all of a sudden he throws up his hands and stares over at Brown-Smith. "What?" he hollers. "Impossible!" Then he slaps his hands together and laughs out loud. "Oh!" he says, holdin' his sides. "This is too much! Ha, ha, ha!" "What's the joke?" I asks Miss Vincent. "It's more of a tragedy!" she says, kinda hysterical like she was glad it was all over. "That man is no more Brown-Smith than you are. He's Albert Ellington LaRue, who five years ago was the biggest moving picture leading man in the country! Why, he got hundreds of letters every day from poor, foolish little girls who grew dizzy watching him foil villains in five reels a week. He inherited some money--quite a lot, I believe, and suddenly vanished from the screen, turning up as Brown-Smith here last year. But he simply could not resist the call of his vanity to come back once more as the dashing hero of the film. He had planned to step into this picture, turn the tables in the fight with Mr. Scanlan, who he thought was an actor and not a pugilist, and thus come back to the movies in a blaze of glory! He told me he had two press agents awaiting the word to flash his coup all over the country. He thought it would make a great story!" She stopped and laughed. "It will!" she goes on. "Think of the matinée girls when they see their darling Albert back in the flash once more and being unmercifully beaten by a man thirty pounds lighter and inches smaller than him!" Just then the fair Albert comes limpin' over to Potts. He looked like he'd been battlin' a buzz saw! "Mr. Potts," he says, "if you dare to use that scene in your picture, I will bring suit against your firm. I demand that the film be destroyed at once!" "What you say!" screams Genaro. "Nevaire! She'sa mine, that picture! Away wit' you--you bigga bunk!" He stands before the camera like he's ready and willin' to protect it with his life. "You entered the scene of your own accord, _Mr. LaRue_," remarks Potts, "and I trust you are in earnest about suing us. The publicity will just about save me a hundred thousand in advertising." As soon as he heard that name "LaRue," this guy just kinda caves in and closes up tight. Miss Vincent turns her nose up at him and walks over to the Kid as the other dame comes up and shakes Scanlan's hand. "Thank you!" she says, in that tired voice of hers. "You have done a big thing for me! Now he cannot go into the pictures again, and maybe he'll--he'll stay home with me!" At that Miss Vincent suddenly leans over and kisses her. Can you beat them dames? Albert picks up his hat and straightens his tie. Then he glares from one to the other of us and walks over to Genaro. "I trust," he says, throwin' out his chest. "I trust you realize that if your picture is a success, I, and I alone, am responsible for it. If it hadn't been for the advent of myself, a finished artist, in that fight scene, it would have fallen flat! Good day, sir!" And him and his dame and the white-faced Sweet Williams blows! CHAPTER IV LEND ME YOUR EARS I don't mind a four-flusher if his stuff is good, know what I mean? A guy that makes the world think he's there forty ways when as a matter of fact, he's _shy_ about sixty, deserves credit. Usually, them birds get it too! They know more about credit than the guy that wrote it, and any butcher, grocer, tailor or the like who figures on 'em settlin' the old account has no right to be in business. The only time a four-flusher pays off is when he hits a new town. Then, if the attendance is good, he'll buy four or five evenin' papers right out loud in front of everybody, carelessly displayin' a couple of yellow bills that might be fifties--if they wasn't tens. After that outburst, all he spends is the week end. For the benefit of them which live in towns where the total vote for President sounds like the score of a world series game, I'll explain what a four-flusher is, although they probably got one in their midst, at that. You'll generally find _one_ wherever there's two people--men or women. A four-flusher is a guy who claims he can lick Jack Dempsey in a loud and annoyin' voice, and then runs seven blocks in five minutes flat when some hick in the back room arises to remark that he's willin' to take a beatin' for Jack. A four-flusher is the bird that breezes down Main street in a set of scenery that would make John Drew look like one of the boys in the gas main trenches somewheres in Broadway, and yet couldn't purchase an eraser, if rubber was sellin' at three cents a ton. A four-flusher is a hick that admits bein' a better singer than Caruso, a better ball-player than Ty Cobb, a better real estate judge than Columbus and more of a chance taker than Napoleon. The first time he starts at any one of them things, he's a odds-on favorite for last and finishes ten lengths behind the rest of the field. That's a four-flusher. A guy can be taught paintin', pinochle, politics and prohibition, but a first-class four-flusher is _born_ that way! Takin' 'em as a league, I'm about as fond of them guys as a worm is of a fisherman. The only one I ever fell for was J. Harold Cuthbert, and that bird had somethin' that the others didn't--he was different! I thought I had seen 'em all, but this guy crossed me, his stuff was new! The way I met Harold was almost romantic. He was reclinin' on the ground in a careless manner about ten feet away from the main entrance to Film City, and he looked like the loser in a battle royal where the weapons used had been picked out by a guy who hoped there'd be no survivors. He was gazin' up at what the natives insist is a better grade of sky than anything we got in the East, and he looked like he was tryin' to figure whether they was right or not. About two feet away, lumberman's measure, observin' the wreck and yawning was Francis Xavier Scanlan, known to the trade as Kid Scanlan, welterweight champion of the world and Shantung. I looked around for a director and a camera man, but they was nobody else in sight, so figurin' this couldn't be nothin' more than a dress rehearsal, I stepped over to the Kid. "Who's your friend?" I asks him, noddin' to the sleepin' beauty. "I seen Genaro lookin' for you," says the Kid. "I'll bet you been over to Frisco tryin' to nail that dame at the Busy Bee, ain't you?" "A gambler will never get nowheres," I tells him, "but you're startin' off with a win on that bet!" I points at the model for still life again. "When does that guy get up?" I inquires. The Kid looks down at him for a minute, proddin' him carelessly with his foot. "Weather permittin'," he answers, "he ought to be on his feet in five more minutes, and I'd never have raised a finger to him, if he hadn't come at me first!" "D'ye mean to say you been wallopin' that guy?" I says. "Well, what does it look like?" sneers the Kid. "A man's got a right to protect himself, ain't he?" "He hit you, eh?" I says. "No!" answers the Kid. "He didn't get that far with it, but he claimed he was goin' to, and naturally it was up to me to stop him from gettin' in a brawl. I never seen a gamer guy in my life, either," he goes on, admirin'ly. "He knows he'll catch cold layin' on the ground like that, and yet the minute I stung him he takes a dive and stays down!" By this time our hero has risen to his feet and, while dustin' off his clothes, he looks like he's figurin' whether he ought to claim he'd been doped and ask for a return bout, or call it a day and let it go at that. Except for where the Kid had jabbed him, he wasn't a bad lookin' bird, his best bets bein' a crop of dark, wavy hair and a set of features which any movie leadin' man could give ten thousand bucks for and make it up on the first picture. The suit of clothes he was wearin' had probably put the tailor over, and he also had two yellow gloves and a little trick cane. He walks over to where me and the Kid was standin' and takes off his hat. It was one of them dashin', devilish soft things that has names like Pullman cars--you know, "The Bryn Mawr, $2.50. All Harvard Wears One." Then he points at the Kid with his cane. "I made a serious error," he remarks, "in engaging in a brawl with a thug! I thought you would meet me with a gentleman's weapons and--" "I ain't got a marshmallow on me," butts in the Kid, grinnin', "or I would have done that thing. You come at me without no warnin', didn't you?" "Merciful Heaven, what grammar!" says the other guy. "I didn't come at you, as you say in that quaint English of yours, I thought you could take a joke or--" "Yeh?" interrupts the Kid. "That's what the formerly Kaiser has been tryin' to tell the world, but it ain't goin' into hysterics over his comedy!" "Well," says the other guy, buttonin' up his coat and glarin' at us both, "this is not the end of the incident, you can rest assured of that! The next time we meet I think the result will be different!" "Say!" pipes the Kid. "What d'ye think I'm gonna do--fight a world series with you? If you wanna scrap, I know where you can get all the action you can handle." "And where is that, pray?" asks the other guy. "Russia!" says the Kid. "You must have seen it in the papers." He pats him on the shoulder. "And now, good-by and good luck," he goes on. "I'm sorry I had to bounce you, but--" "Enough of this nonsense!" cuts in the other guy, pullin' out a card and passin' it over to the Kid. "My seconds will wait upon you to-morrow. I choose rapiers!" "You which?" says the Kid, examinin' the card. "I don't make you." "I said that my choice of weapons is rapiers!" explains this guy. "And as a matter of fairness I must tell you that I have never met my equal with a sword!" "Are you tryin' to kid me?" asks Scanlan. "What d'ye mean rapiers?" "Is it possible you have never handled a blade?" exclaims the other guy, like he couldn't have heard it right. "I used to, at that," admits the Kid, "but now I use a fork, except to pat down the potatoes!" "So much the worse for you, then!" frowns the sword-swallower. "But you brought it upon yourself. Remember, to-morrow! And--" he stoops over and hisses, "--rapiers, without buttons!" "Ha, ha!" yells the Kid. "Raypeers without buttons! How are you gonna hold 'em up?" "Your ignorance is pathetic--not funny!" answers the other guy. "I know," says the Kid. "I barely got through Yale!" He lays his arm on this guy's shoulder. "Are you on the level with this fight thing?" he asks him. "I was never more in earnest in my life!" says the knife-thrower. "Or nearer Heaven!" grins the Kid. "All right!" he goes on. "I'm game, if you are, only there's just one question I'd like to ask before the slaughter begins; don't _I_ get no say about the tools we're gonna use?" This guy thinks for a minute and then nods his head. "Very well!" he says. "I'll make the concession--an unheard-of thing in the code. What is your choice?" "Pinochle!" yells the Kid. "I'll stake you to a hundred aces and beat you from here to Denver!" "Ugh!" snorts the other guy--and castin' a sneer at both of us, he passes in the gate. We went in after him, and the Kid tells me how he come to flatten this baby, which, from the card he give us, was J. Harold Cuthbert. The Kid says Harold stopped him outside the portals of Film City and asked him why no auto had met him at the train. Scanlan says he didn't know, but he had seen the mayor and two brass bands goin' down and hadn't Harold met 'em? Harold says he had not and he was gonna file a complaint about it, because he was the greatest movie actor that ever bawled out a director. With that, says the Kid, he reeled off the names of the pictures he had been featured in, and from the list he give out the only thing he wasn't featured in was "Microbes at Play," a educational film tore off by the company last year. The Kid asks him if he ever heard of Kid Scanlan, the shop girls' delight, who was bein' starred in a five-reeler called "Lay Off, MacDuff." Harold throwed out his chest and says he wrote it and practically made Scanlan by directin' it. At that the Kid tells him that he may be a movie star, but he looks like a liar to him. Harold makes a pass at him, and Scanlan hit him to see would he bounce. He didn't, and he was just comin' around when I blowed on the scene. When we got to Genaro's office, Harold was tellin' Eddie Duke the reason he was bunged up was because he had fell off the train comin' out, and Eddie says that was tough and it was time Congress got after them railroads, but the thing he'd like to know was why Harold had come out at all. They had looked up the files and there was nothin' to show who had ordered this guy shipped on. Harold looks over the bunch in the office for a minute, registers "I-am-thinking-deeply," and then snaps his fingers. "Oh!" he says. "I had a letter of introduction from Mr. Potts, but I suppose it's in my gray morning suit which will arrive with my trunks in a day or so. Mr. Potts and myself are old friends," he winks at Genaro confidentially. "I really think my father owns a slew of the company's stock, but then Dad is connected with so many vast enterprises that--" "Joosta wan minoote!" interrupts Genaro, turnin' a cold eye on Harold. "Joosta wan minoote! We're very busy joosta now, sometime nex' week everybody she'sa listen about your father. What we wanna know is what Meester Potts he'sa senda you out here to do?" "Yeh!" says Duke. "That's the idea--what's your act?" "Why, I intend to play romantic leads," pipes Harold, "and I have an idea that--" "Ha, ha!" laughs the Kid. "That's fair enough. All Edison had was a idea, and look at him now!" Harold frowns at him and walks over to Miss Vincent. "How do you do, Miss Vincent," he says, takin' off his hat and presentin' her with a bow. "I knew you at once from your photographs. I have a remarkable memory, inherited from my father. The late J. P. Morgan once said of him, during the course of a gigantic stock deal, that--but enough of personalities. I saw you in the 'Escapades of Eva.'" "Did you like me?" smiles Miss Vincent. "Very much!" Harold tells her. "Although the mediocre support and execrable direction spoiled most of your opportunities. Now if _I_ had directed that picture, you would have been a great deal--" "Joosta wan minoote!" butts in Genaro, gettin' red in the face. "I, Genaro, directed that picture!" Harold looks over at him and lights a cigarette. "Well," he says, flickin' the ash in Genaro's drinkin' glass, "I daresay you did your best! But had _I_ been there when the picture was being produced, I would have suggested a great many things that would have greatly improved it. I remember calling Belasco's attention to a detail one time and Dave said to me--" "Enough!" snaps Genaro, glarin' at him. "You will report to Meester Duke. He'sa tella you what to do. Or maybe," he snorts, "maybe _you_ tella heem!" And he stamps out of the office. "What a quaint little man!" says Harold, sittin' down in Genaro's chair and glancin' with interest over some letters that was on his desk. "How do those chaps ever get into the movies?" "Ow!" whispers Duke. "If the quaint little man had only heard that!" He turns, to Harold. "I don't know where I can place you right away," he says. "How are you on Shakespeare? We're putting on a seven reeler of 'As You Like It' with Betty Vincent as Rosalind. Do you think you could do Orlando?" Harold throws out his chest and sneers. "What a question!" he remarks. "I could eat it up!" "I don't want you to eat it," says Duke, gettin' sore. "If you can play it, I'll be satisfied! You had better go over and register at the hotel now, and, when you come back, we'll go over the thing." Harold gets up, yawns and looks at Miss Vincent. "I'll show you an entirely new interpretation of Rosalind, Miss Vincent," he tells her. "Of course, Shakespeare was clever after a fashion, but _I_--however," he breaks off and holds out his arm. "Would you care to walk about the grounds here a bit, so that I may illustrate some of the salient points in my version?" "No!" cuts in the Kid, before she can answer. "On your way!" he says. "Miss Vincent's got a date with me to find out is it true you can make ninety miles an hour in a 1921 Automatic!" "But--but, my dear sir--" splutters Harold. "I--you--" "Listen, Stupid," says the Kid. "I can't be bouncin' you all day, but if you don't canter along, I'll make you hard to catch!" Miss Vincent smiles and grabs the Kid by the arm. "Let us have no violence!" she says. "You can tell me all about Rosalind when I return, Mr. Cuthbert." "Yeh," adds the Kid. "I'll be willin' to stand for a earful of it myself, then." And they breeze out of the office. "Heavens, what an uncouth ruffian!" pipes Harold, lookin' after 'em. "I wonder Miss Vincent trusts herself in his company." "She's a whole lot safer with him than you'd be, old top!" I says. "And if I was you, I'd lay off that uncouth ruffian stuff around the Kid. Don't keep temptin' him, because he's liable to get sore, and when Scanlan gets mad you want to be in the next county!" "Huh!" sneers Harold. "What does he do, pray?" "Well," I says, "I'll tell you. I don't get that dewpray thing of yours, but the last time the Kid got peeved he won the welterweight title! Is that good enough?" "He had better look to his laurels," remarks Harold, "for if he insults me again, he'll lose them! I'm rather a master of boxing, and at home I won several medals as an amateur heavy--" "I suppose," I butts in, "I suppose you left them medals in one of them gray mornin' suits of yours, eh? You didn't have 'em on when the Kid flattened you, did you?" "I am not fond of vulgar display," he says, "or--" "What are you wearin' that black eye for then?" I asks him. He didn't have none ready for that, and I blew. Well, Harold run true to form. The next afternoon I seen Duke standin' near the African Desert. He was callin' upon Heaven in a voice that could be heard plainly in Cape May, N. J., to ask it if it had ever seen a actor like J. Harold Cuthbert. Not gettin' no answer, he turned his attention to the other place, and when he seen me he put it up to me. "What's the matter with Harold?" I asks him. "I thought he was gonna be a knockout in this Shakespeare stuff." "He was!" says Duke. "The camera men are laughin' yet! Alongside of that big four-flusher, Kid Scanlan would look like Richard Mansfield!" "He's rotten, eh?" I says. "Rotten?" yells Duke. "Why, say--callin' him _rotten_ is givin' him a _boost_! If that big stiff is an actor, I'm mayor of Shantung! He don't know if grease paint is to put on your face or to seal letters with, he's got the same faculty of expression on that soft putty map of his as an ox has, he makes love like a wax dummy and he come out to play 'As You Like It' in a dress suit! It took eight supers to keep him away from in front of the camera, and he played one scene with his face glued up against the lens!" Just then Harold himself eases into view with the Kid taggin' along at his side. Scanlan is excited about somethin' and wavin' his arms, but Harold still has that old sneer on his face, and as they come up, I hear him sayin' this, "My dear fellow, I know more about auction pinochle than Hoyle. At home I am recognized as the champion card player of--" He breaks off, when he sees us, and turns to Duke. "Hello!" he calls over. "Are you ready to admit now that my idea of making feature productions is the right one?" "No!" snarls Duke. "But I'll concede that as an actor you're a crackerjack bartender! D'ye mean to tell me that you got away with that kind of stuff in the studios back East?" "I introduced it!" says Harold, proudly. "As a director for some of the largest film companies in the world, I have put on hundreds of--" "The only thing you ever put on was your hat!" interrupts Duke. "And I bet that give you trouble on account of the size of your head. I suppose you're gonna tell me that you're also a scenario writer, a camera man and the guy that got Nero's permission to film the burnin' of Rome, eh?" "The last is something of an exaggeration," pipes Harold, "but as far as the other things you mentioned are concerned, I must confess that there are few people in the business who have approached me!" "Ain't that rich?" whispers the Kid to me. "You got to hand it to this bird!" "You'd be a wonder as a press agent!" I says to Harold. "Now that's odd you should remark that," he smiles. "For, as a matter of fact, I excel in _that_ field! I did all the press work for--" "Columbus!" yells Duke, wavin' him off. "Good-by!" he goes on. "I got enough! You got a liar lookin' like George Washington!" Harold looks after Duke as he went into the office. "Heavens!" he says. "I can't stand that man with his petty little jealousies! Now when I--" I don't know what the rest of it was, because me and the Kid left him to tell it to the African Desert. Well, Genaro bein' afraid to get in dutch with Potts, which accordin' to Harold was a ex-roommate of his, give this guy a crack at everything from directin' to supin', and Harold hit .000 at 'em all. The only thing he seemed to be any good at was talkin' about himself, and he was champion of the world at that! He was willin' to concede that Wellington beat Napoleon and it was Fulton who doped out the steamboat, but _he_ was the guy that had put over everything else. His favorite word only had one letter in it, and that's the one that comes right after H. No matter what subject would come up anywheres where Harold could get a earful of it, he was the bird that invented it! We went down to Montana Joe's one afternoon to deal prohibition a blow, and the Kid gets talkin' about drinkin' as a art, carelessly lettin' fall the information that, before he had put the Demon Rum down for the count, he had been looked on as a champion at goin' through the rye. He winks at Joe and orders a tumbler of private stock. Harold never bats a eye, but says he's got a roomful of lovin' cups which was give him for emptyin' bottles. Joe sets down a mixin' glass full of booze before the Kid, and Scanlan looks at Harold and asks Joe what was the matter with the shaker. Harold coughs and raps on the bar. "You may let me have a seidel of gin!" he says, sneerin' at the Kid--and we all fainted! He got run out the south gate one afternoon by a enraged scene painter for tellin' the latter that he could shut both eyes, bind one arm, lay flat on his side and paint a better exterior than the two hundred dollar a week decorator, and he started a riot in the developin' room another time by remarkin' that the bunch in there didn't know how to paste up film--adding of course, that _he_ did. He tried to show Van Aylstyne how to write scenarios, and Van Aylstyne threatened to quit cold if Harold wasn't called off, and when he found fault with Genaro's lightin' of a night scene, Genaro chased him all over the place with a practical shotgun. It wouldn't have been so bad, if Harold had come through on _somethin'_. If he had discovered _anything_, he could actually do even half way decent, he would have got away with murder. But no!--That bird was the original No Good Nathan, from Useless, Miss. The fact that he didn't cause no sensation in our midst, worried Harold about as much as the price of electric fans keeps 'em awake in Iceland. There was only one thing Harold was afraid of--and that was lockjaw! Then Potts blows in unexpected one afternoon, and we all stood around to see him and Harold fall on each other's neck. In fact, pretty near everybody in Film City watched the reunion which took place on the edge of the Street Scene in Tokio--it was very affectin'. Potts comes walkin' along with three supers and Eddie Duke carryin' his suitcases, when Harold bumps into the parade at the corner. Genaro had sent him over to Frisco for a lot of props that would be needed in a picture he was puttin' on, and naturally, now that Potts was on hand, he was anxious to have everything O.K. He had give Harold a list in the mornin' that read like a inventory of a machine shop, and here's friend Harold comin' back with nothin' in his hands but his fingers. "The props--where are they?" shrieks Genaro. "Seven hour you have been gone and you come back with nothing! Everything she'sa ready and we musta wait till you come with the props--where are they--queek?" "My dear fellow," says Harold, bowin' to Miss Vincent, "there is no excuse for addressing me before these ladies and gentlemen in that ruffianly manner. I was unable to carry out your--er--orders this morning, having overlooked a trifling detail in the scurry and bustle of catching that ungodly early train." "What!" screams Genaro, doin' a few cabaret steps. "You got nothing? _Sapristi_! What you do--make fun of me? Why you no get those props?" "Calm yourself!" pipes Harold. "I'll tell all. I forgot the list of articles you gave me and--" "Aha--he'sa maka me crazee!" yelps Genaro, pullin' a swell clog step. "Take heem away before I keel heem!" Just then Potts comes by, and we all yell, "Welcome to Film City, Mr. Potts!" Harold hears this and turns pale. He seen we was all watchin' closely for the grand reunion between him and his old college chum Potts. He coughs a couple of times and takes a step forward. That boy was game! "How do you do, Mr. Potts?" he says. "Did you--er--have a pleasant trip?" "Yes," answers Potts, lookin' at him kinda puzzled. "What is your name again? I don't seem to recall it!" And the boss was supposed to be Harold's dear old college chum! "Why--er--why--ha! ha!" pipes Harold, dyin' game. "That's odd! Surely you recall--eh--Cuthbert, my name is, you must remember--eh--why in New York we--eh--" He's about eighty feet up in the air and still soaring with the whole bunch watchin' him and enjoyin' the thing out loud. Potts is lookin' him over like he's a strange fish or somethin'. "I think you're mistaken!" pipes the boss, cuttin' in on Harold, "I never saw you before in my life!" With that he passes on, leavin' Harold flat and with no more friends than China had at the Peace Conference. After that little incident, it was about as pleasant for Harold in Film City as it was for a German in Liverpool durin' the war. Genaro, Duke and everybody else went out of their way to make him sick of the movies, but Harold stuck around and took whatever odd jobs that come his way with the remark that he could do it better than anybody else and that was why they give it to him. I made a mistake when I said everybody rode him--he had three little pals. They was Miss Vincent, the Kid and yours in the faith. Miss Vincent claimed that after all he was only a boy which would grow out of lyin', if give enough time, and it was a outrage the way everybody picked on him. The Kid said we couldn't all be perfect, and Miss Vincent would give him back his presents if he laid off Harold. _My_ excuse for not shootin' Harold was that I liked one thing about him, and that was the way he hung on, no matter how they was breakin' for him. He was no good all over, but he wouldn't _quit_ and any guy that could stand up under punishment like he did is worth a cheer any time--and sometimes a bet! I thought I'd brighten his life by tellin' him how he stood with the three of us. I pictured him goin' down on his knees and thankin' me with tears in his eyes, when I said that we was with him to the bitter end. He must have had rheumatism or a pair of charley horses, because he failed to do any kneelin' where I could see it, and his eyes was as dry as the middle of Maine. Instead of that, he took me for ten bucks and said the news was no surprise to him. He didn't see how Miss Vincent could miss likin' him, because he had been a assassin with the women from birth. As for the Kid, well, it was common talk that Scanlan was afraid of him, and I was nothin' but a sure-thing player which knowed he was a winner and stuck, hopin' I'd cash. Could you tie Harold? Van Aylstyne, the guy that committed the scenarios, went out one night to get some atmosphere for a thriller at Montana Joe's. He got the atmosphere O.K., bringin' most of it back on his breath and the Kid asked him to stick out his tongue so he could see was they any revenue stamps on it. In the mornin' he grabbed a container of ice water and a pen and dashed off a atrocity in five reels based on what atmosphere of Montana Joe's that was still with him. He called the thing "The End of the World!" Potts says the title alone sounded good enough to him to remove the bumpers from his bankroll without lookin' further, addin', in a loud aside, that if the plot wasn't a knockout, Van Aylstyne could change the title to "The End of My Job!" De Vronde, the popular heart-breaker, is given the lead opposite Miss Vincent, and, of course, Kid Scanlan is to be dragged in as a special feature. Harold has hypnotised Genaro into lettin' him take off a "enter with others" in the first reel. Everything was ready to have the cameras pointed at it, when somethin' come along that balled it all up. Her name was Gladys O'Hara. Gladys was no ravin' beauty and I heard her say "ain't it" twice, but she was one of them dames that the first flash you get at 'em you wonder are they still enforcin' the law against mashers! She had a wonderful complexion and although if you looked close you could see she had give nature a helpin' hand, she did the retouchin' so well that you was glad she had. She had one of the latest model, twin-six figures and she dressed with the idea of givin' the natives a treat, even if she was takin' chances on pneumonia. Gladys was the kind of dame that starts the arguments in the newspapers on what is our offices comin' to, look how them stenographers dress! When J. Harold Cuthbert met Gladys, she had got as far as bein' a saleslady in the Busy Bee, Frisco. She could have beat that with her eyes closed, but Gladys kept hers open and, bein' a female wise guy, she knew who to eat lunch with and who to say, "I don't get you!" to--which is a art! As a result, she had never got no further than sellin' shirtwaists and had her first home to break up. She never advanced beyond that counter--up or down! Many a necktie salesman had flashed Gladys and gone right out to buy the tickets, before he even asked her would she look over a show, windin' up by throwin' 'em away and tellin' her what a sweet old woman his mother was and how strong he was for his own gas meter. That was Gladys. She looked like what she wasn't, and she fooled 'em all. All but Harold! I found Gladys very easy to look at myself, and I helped the Sante Fe over a tough year by runnin' over to Frisco to the Busy Bee whenever I could get away. It took me a short month to find out that I had the same chance of winnin' out as I'd have of gettin' elected King of Montenegro by acclamation, because Harold had been there first and got in his deadly work. I was standin' in the next aisle to where Gladys held forth, one afternoon, waitin' for a couple of fatheads to call it a day and move away from the counter, when along comes Harold. As usual, he was all dressed up like a horse, with the even fare back to Film City in them one-way pockets of his. He butts right into the conversation, and I nearly fainted when he passes a box of candy over to Gladys. Then I seen the label on the package, and I revived, because it was one of a dozen that some simp had sent Miss Vincent and in order to please the Kid she had give 'em all away. Harold had brought his all the way over to Frisco on a ticket furnished by the Maudlin Movin' Picture Company, which sent him over for props. Well, Harold gets warmed up and in a minute he's press agentin' himself at the rate of fifty-five words a minute--I clocked him! He tells Gladys he's bein' _starred_ in "The End of the World" and the amount of money they're payin' him would startle Europe, if it ever got out. He claims he made 'em all faint at the rehearsals and offers from other companies is comin' in so fast that he's got a charley horse on his thumb from openin' telegrams. From that he works into the fact that after the picture is made he's gonna run around Europe--that's just the way he said it, "Run around Europe!" Oh, boy!--that bein' the way he usually spent his vacations. When Gladys staggers over to wait on a customer, Harold charges himself up again and when she comes back he's off to a runnin' start. He remarks that his father has just made a killin' in Wall Street that has caused Rockefeller to weep and gnash his teeth and that the last affair his mother give at Newport got four columns on the front page, although the mayor of the town had been shot the same afternoon. Gladys takes this all in with her mouth as open as Kelly pool and her eyes half closed and dreamy like she was dyin' happy. When Harold put on the brakes and eased up, she throwed him a look that I would have walloped Dempsey for. Harold says he must go, because the picture would be ruined if he wasn't there to direct it, and Gladys holds out a tremblin' hand. Then Harold plays his ace--he takes off his hat, bows, kisses that hand and blows. When I seen Gladys deliberately walk back of the wrappin' booth, put her hand to her lips and kiss it herself--I pulled my hat down over my ears and went back to Film City. The next mornin' they begin work on the first reel of "The End of the World," and Harold had a field day at bein' rotten. He got in everybody's way, ruined twenty feet of film by firin' off a cannon at the wrong time and made Genaro hysterical by gettin' caught in a papier mache tower and pullin' it down. Not content with that, he goes back of a interior to try out one of the Kid's cigarettes and by simply flickin' the thing into a can of kerosene he set the Maudlin Movin' Picture Company back about five hundred bucks. They run him out of the picture, and he went, yellin' that it would be a farce without him in it. About four o'clock me and the Kid is trottin' along the road outside of Film City like we did every day so's Scanlan could keep in condition, when we all but fell over Harold. He's sittin' on a rock and gazin' off very sad in the general direction of New York. His dashin', smashin', soft hat was yanked down over his home-breakin' face, and his dimpled chin was buried in his lily white hands. He looked like a guy that has worked twenty-seven years inventin' a new steamboat and then seen it sink the first time he tried it out. The Kid runs over and slaps him on the back just hard enough to make his hat fall off. "Cheer up, Cutey!" pipes Scanlan. "They can't hang a guy for tryin'!" Harold retrieves his hat, smoothes it out carefully and lets loose the gloomiest sigh I ever heard in my life. "Have you a cigarette?" he asks sadly. The Kid pulls out a deck, and Harold takes two, droppin' one in his pocket. "Alas!" he remarks, strikin' a match on my shoe. "Alas!" "When can the body be seen?" asks Scanlan. "And is it a church funeral or will they pull it off at the house?" "This is no time for levity," mutters Harold. "I'm ruined!" "I only got ten bucks with me," the Kid tells him, "but I'll part with--" "Poof!" sneers Harold, wavin' his hands like a head waiter. "Money! I am not in need of that. Why, my father--" He breaks off to take the bill from the Kid's hand and shove it in his pocket. "Rather than offend you!" he explains. "No," he goes on, "this is a more serious matter than money. I--" He flicks away the cigarette, jumps up off the rock and gives us both the up and down. "I am going to take you two into my confidence," he says, "and perhaps you will help me." "Go on!" encourages the Kid. "I'm all worked up--shoot it!" "Well, then," says Harold, with the air of a guy pleadin' guilty to save his old father. "In the first place, my name is not J. Harold Cuthbert!" There was no answer from us, and Harold seemed peeved because we had not collapsed at his confession. "What is it?" I asks, when the silence begin to hurt the ears. "Trout!" pipes Harold, bitterly. "Joe Trout!" "Yeh?" says the Kid. "Well, what's the matter with that? What did you can it for?" "Ha, ha!" hisses Harold, with a "curse you!" giggle. "Where could a man get with a name like _that_?" "In the aquarium!" yells the Kid. "I knew you'd fall!" Harold shakes his head and blows himself to another sigh. "Imagine a moving picture leading man named Trout!" he goes on. "I changed my name as a sacrifice to the movies, for--" "Just a minute!" I butts in. "On the level now, where _did_ you get your movin' picture experience?" "As assistant bookkeeper in a grocery store!" he answers. "Now you have it!" "But you said your father was a big man in Wall Street!" I busts out. "He is!" answers Harold, lookin' over at the Santa Fe. "They don't come any bigger. He's a traffic policeman at the corner of Broadway and Wall Street and stands six foot four in his socks!" "Sweet Cookie!" shouts the Kid, and falls off the rock. When we recover from that, Harold has smoked the other cigarette, and he nods for my box. Then he asks us do we want to hear the rest. "If you don't tell it," says the Kid, "you'll never leave here alive! Hurry up, I'm dyin' to hear it!" "Well," says the ex-J. Harold Cuthbert, "I am about to be married and at the eleventh hour Nemesis has gripped me. I told my fiancée that I was being featured in 'The End of the World' and that it would be exceedingly easy for me to get _her_ a part in the picture--she having expressed a desire to that effect at various times. She will be here within the hour to watch me being filmed and to hold me to my promise to place her as leading woman opposite me." He stops and moans. "Gentlemen," he goes on, "picture for yourself the contretemps when she finds I am nothing but a super and that Genaro wouldn't give Sarah Bernhardt a job on a recommendation from me! My romance will be shattered, and the--the humiliation will kill me!" There was a heavy silence for a minute, and then the Kid whistles. "Well, pal," he says, "you have certainly balled things up a few, haven't you?" Joe Trout just let loose another moan. "Gimme one of them good cigarettes!" pipes the Kid to me. He lights it and looks over at friend Joe. "The first thing," he says, puffin' away; "the first thing, is this--just how _much_ do you think of this dame, all jokes aside?" Joe turns around and straightens up, for once in his life lookin' like the real thing. "I love her!" he says. That was all--but the way he pulled it was a plenty! The Kid grunts and tosses away the pill. Then he walks over to Joe and slaps him on the back. "Listen!" he says. "You ain't a bad guy at that. I'm gonna give you somethin' I never took in my life--advice! Why don't you lay off lyin' about yourself, kid? Why don't you can that four-flush thing?" The effect of them simple words on Joe was remarkable. He swung around on us so quick that we both ducked, thinkin' he was comin' back with a wallop--but his hands was sunk so deep in his coat pockets they liked to pushed through the linin' and his face was as hard and white as an iceberg. "Because!" he shoots out through his teeth. "_Because I can't_!" Y'know the change was so sudden, I remember lettin' out a little nervous laugh, and then sidesteppin' a vicious left the Kid sent at me. Scanlan had turned as serious as the other guy. "What d'ye mean, you _can't_?" he says, grabbin' Joe by the arm and holdin' him fast. Joe's face showed how hard he was fightin' to keep from fallin' apart. "You won't understand!" he answers in a hard voice. "But I'll tell you. The thing has grown upon me until I cannot shake it off! I guess I was born a liar and probably four-flushed my nurse when I was three days old. When I was a boy, my incessant lying, although it harmed no one but myself, kept me in countless scrapes. As I grew older, the habit grew stronger and I lost girls, jobs, friends and opportunities with breath-taking rapidity. Time after time I have sworn to rid myself of the thing and speak nothing but the undiluted truth, and the first time I open my mouth I find myself unconsciously telling the most astounding falsehoods about myself with an ease that nauseates me!" He tore himself loose from the Kid and kicked a innocent tomato can down the canyon. "I know I'm nothing but a big four-flusher," he winds up, "and I can't help it!" Right then and there I warmed up to Joe Trout like I never had before. After all, Miss Vincent had the right dope--he was nothin' but a big kid at that, and any guy that will come right out in public and admit he's a false alarm, deserves credit! "Well," he says after a minute, "I suppose you're both through with me now, eh?" "Do I look like a quitter?" demands the Kid. "I'm still here, ain't I?" I chimes in. Joe coughs and took hold of our hands. "Thanks!" he mutters. "And now---" "Listen!" interrupts the Kid. "I got the whole thing doped out. When is this dame of yours due to hit Film City?" "She'll be here on that one o'clock train," moans Joe. "Fine!" says the Kid. "Now get this! De Vronde is supposed to do a fall from a horse in 'The End of the World' and the big yellow bum won't do it. They're lookin' for some guy that will take his place, just for that one flash, see? Now suppose I fix it so you get that chance and when the dame comes on, there you are playin' the lead as far as she can see, in the best part of the frolic. How's that?" I thought Joe was gonna kiss him! "I'll never forget it!" he hollers. "You have saved my life! What can I do to repay you?" "Stop four-flushing," comes back the Kid, "and be on the level!" "I'll do it, if it kills me!" promises Joe--and I don't know whether he meant the fall or the other. "Can you ride a horse?" the Kid asks him as we start back. "Can _I_ ride a horse?" repeats Joe, stoppin' short. "What a question! Why at home I was the champion--" "Now, now!" butts in the Kid. "There you go again!" "Pardon me!" says Joe, gettin' red--and he quits! Well, the Kid fixed it all right, so's Joe could double for De Vronde in that one place where he did the fall. I don't know how he did it any more than I know how Edison come to think of the phonograph, but he did! All my suspicions as to who the dame was come true when Gladys hops off the one o'clock train that afternoon. I seen her talkin' to Eddie Duke near the African Desert, and I immediately went scoutin' around for Joe, because Eddie liked him the same way the brewers is infatuated with the Anti-Saloon League and I knowed if Eddie got a chance to harpoon Joe with Gladys, he'd do that thing. About half a hour later, Genaro asks me to go over and find Potts, because they're ready to start shootin' the picture and when I got near the hotel I seen a couple of people blockin' the little narrow passage in back of it. They was Gladys O'Hara and Joe Trout and when I got close up I heard Joseph talkin'. He was goin' like a house on fire and his little old lyin' apparatus was hittin' on all cylinders and runnin' smooth without a break. He explains to Gladys that he went on only in the important part of the picture which she would see in a minute, and that De Vronde was only one of the cheap help who played the part while _he_ was restin' for the big scene. As soon as that come up--and he said the whole picture was built around it--they give De Vronde the gate and in went the darin' Joe. He was all dressed up in a Stetson hat, a cute little yellow silk handkerchief twisted around his manly neck and more chaps than any cow puncher ever wore on his legs outside of a movie. He looked like what he'd liked to have been. "--and not only that," he winds up, "but they are going to feature my name on all the advertising for the picture!" "Is that all?" asks Gladys in a queer little voice. Joe looked surprised. I guess it was the first time anybody had asked for more! "Well--no!" he starts off again briskly. "Of course, I am--" "Wait!" says Gladys, grabbin' his arm. "Don't tell me any more lies! They are not featuring you in this or any other picture! You are not the leading man, you are only a super! Your father is not a millionaire and you cannot get me a job with the Maudlin Moving Picture Company! You're simply a big four-flusher and that lets you out!" Say! On the level, I thought Joe was gonna pass away on his feet! If I was give to faintin', I'd have been stretched out cold, myself. He got white and then he got red, then he got white again and red again for fully a minute. He tried eighteen times by actual count to say something but that well known tongue of his had laid down at last and quit! He couldn't even raise a whisper. "I knew you were four-flushin' the first time you started to hand me that stuff!" goes on Gladys, sweetly. "I happen to know the folks here, includin' the leadin' man, De Vronde. He was hangin' around that shirtwaist counter before you knew whether they made pictures here or sponge cake. Also, some of your friends come over from time to time and tipped me off about you, so that I was all set when you started!" Joe whirls around on her at that, and although this bird had beat me to the wire with Gladys, I felt sorry for him right then. The poor kid was hangin' on the ropes waitin' for somebody to throw in the sponge. "If you knew all that," he says, kinda choked, "why--why did you let me come over and continue to--to mislead you?" Gladys coughs and places three or four stray hairs exactly back of her little white ear, gazin' at her wrist watch like it's the first time she ever seen one, and she's wonderin' can it really go. The big boob stands there lookin' at her and the chance of a couple of lifetimes is slippin' away. What? Say, listen! I don't know much about women--fighters is my line--but there was a look on Gladys's face that I'd seen Genaro work two hours one time to put on Miss Vincent's when they was takin' a big picture. So you can figure she wasn't registerin' hate! "Well, why?" demands Joe again. "This stuff is all new to me," says Gladys, with a sigh, "but I guess I've got to do it!" She gazes at the ground and gets kinda red. "It was not your conversation that made the hit with me!" she winds up softly. "I'm afraid I don't understand," pipes Senseless Joe. "Heavens!" remarks Gladys. "There's enough concrete between your neck and your hat to build a bridge over the bay! I can safely say you're the first man I ever proposed to, but somebody's got to do it and I guess I'm the goat!" "What!" screams Joe, comin' to life at last. "You--you--forgive--you--" The poor simp gets all excited and once again he can't talk and--I don't blame him. You never seen Gladys, and you don't know how she looked right then! "Say!" says Gladys. "Am I bein' kidded or--" Joe might have been a tramp as a movie lover, but take it from me, as the real thing he was no slouch! I hadda stand there and watch it, because I couldn't get past till they got away and if they'd ever seen me, I guess Joe would have bought a gun. Finally, they break, Gladys pushin' Joe away and holdin' him off. "You've got to promise me you'll stop lyin' and four-flushin'!" she tells him. "Tell the truth and don't kid yourself that you'd have been President, if you hadn't been jobbed. That stuff is poor and will get you nowheres. Make good and you won't have to tell anybody about it--it'll be in the papers! As far as I can see, the best thing about you right now is ME! If you can't get over with _that_, I'll see that you do!" "We'll get married to-night!" yelps Joe. "There's a minister in Film City and--" "Don't crowd me!" interrupts Gladys, lettin' herself be kissed. "Do you promise?" "Anything!" grins Joe. "Just what _are_ you supposed to do in this picture?" she asks him. "Fall off a horse!" says Joe. "Is that all?" asks Gladys. Joe nods. "Well," Gladys tells him, "you won't do it! I don't want no crippled bridegroom at my weddin'. Now listen to me! If you could _write_ that stuff you've been wastin' on the air around here, you ought to make a pretty good press agent. Mr. Potts, the man who owns the company and the fellow you or your father _never_ palled around with, has a man on his payroll named Struther. He's head of what they call the publicity department, it says so on ten of his cards I have. He once claimed he'd do anything for me in such a loud voice that the floorwalker had to speak to him. I'm goin' over to the office now and ask him to give you a job back in New York. To be perfectly truthful with you, that's what I came over here for to-day in the first place!" "But--but," stammers Joe. "I can't have you asking favors for me, Gladys, and--and, why New York?" "Because," she says, "that's where I come from, and I want to look at it again--I'm simply crazy to yell down a dumbwaiter and throw a quarter in my own gas meter!" Well--that's about all. They had a big weddin' right in the middle of Film City and everybody sent in and bought 'em a present. Potts got a flash at Gladys, moans regretfully and has the ceremony filmed, givin' the result to Joe as a special gift. Of course Gladys got Joe that job. That dame could have got frankfurters and sourkraut in Buckingham Palace! Before they left for New York, I tried Joe out. "It'll be terrible here, when you're gone!" I says, "because you know more about makin' movies than Rockefeller does about oil." Joe shakes his head and grins. "No!" he says. "I guess I don't know much about anything!" I pronounced him cured to myself and shook his hand. The Kid went to the train with him and his bride. I didn't feel up to seein' that guy goin' away with Gladys. I met the Kid as he was comin' up from the railroad station, and seein' he was laughin', I asked him if the happy pair got off all right. "Yeh!" he says. "Everything went fine. Me and Miss Vincent waited till the train was pullin' out. Gladys was inside and Joe was standin' on the steps of the Pullman, talkin'. Just before the thing pulled out, I shook Joe's hand and said I hoped he got past in New York, because it was a big burg and a tough one for losers." The Kid stops and laughs some more. "Well," I says, "what's the joke?" "Sweet Papa!" says the Kid, wipin' his eyes. "Joe's face lights all up and that old glitter comes back in his eyes! "'Make good?' he yells to me. 'Well, I ought to make good--my father owns half the town, and I was the biggest thing in it when I left!'" CHAPTER V. "EXIT, LAUGHING" Every time I see one of them big, fat, dignified guys that looks like they have laid somebody eight to five they can go through life without smilin' once, I wonder just how much they'd give in American money to be able to put on a suit of pink pajamas and walk down Fifth Avenue some crowded afternoon, leadin' a green elephant by a string! I'll bet they's many a bank president, brigadier-general and what not, that would part with their right eye if they could only force themselves to let down for five minutes, can this dignity thing and give a imitation of what a movie comedian thinks is humor. The best proof of this is that the first chance any of them birds gets--_that's just what they do_! Y'know, you've seen in the papers lots of times where Archibald Van Hesterfeld has been among the starters in the bazaar for the relief of the heat prostration victims in Iceland, or words to that effect. Or, if it wasn't Archibald it might have been General Galumpus or Commodore Fedink--or all of them. Away down at the bottom of the page, if it's a copy of the Succotash Crossing _Bugle_, or right up in the headlines, if it's a big town sheet, after readin' what dignity and so forth the "distinguished guests lent to the affair," you'll see that at midnight they was large doin's on the dance floor. It is even bein' whispered around that the general, commodore or governor fox-trotted with the girls from the Follies and one-stepped with such of the fair sex as cared practically nothin' for the neighbors. Along about the time the milkman was sayin', "Well, here's another day!", the well known distinguished guests was actin' like a guy who knows a Harvard man does, after they have beat Yale or vice versa. One of them birds acts so dignified at the office all day that not even the most darin' of his clerks would _think_ of a joke in the same room with him. He'll breeze home on baby's birthday with a trick lion or a jumpin' jack for the kid, and spend three or four hours on the dinin'-room floor makin' it go, while friend infant wishes to Heaven father would call it a day and commence readin' the papers, so's _he_ could toy with it for a while. The rest of the family stands around and tells each other that the old man must have a good heart at that, because look how he goes out of his way to amuse the baby. Father growls up at 'em and prays that they'll all go to bed, includin' the one that's just learnin' to walk, so's he can be let alone to really enjoy the thing himself! We're all babies at heart, and the reason most of us don't admit it and give in to our childish desires is because we're afraid the people in the next flat will think we're nutty or have found a way to beat prohibition. Now and then some extry brave guy sneers at the neighbors and lets himself loose, and shortly afterward a committee is appointed to look after his money. Finally, he is shipped f.o.b. to some sanitarium where a passin' nod from the head doctor is listed at twenty-five bucks and where the victim is fed strange foods and tucked in bed at the devilish hour of nine. This is naturally very discouragin' to the rest of us which was about to tear loose ourselves, so we sigh, growl at the universe--and lay off! I feel sorry for the guys that have to have their comedy served up to them in disguise, like lobster a la Newburg, for instance. These birds claim they like stuff you got to study for five minutes before you get it, and then at a given signal you pull a nice lady-like laugh, the while remarkin', "How subtle!" You don't want to cackle too loud or the people across the hall will get the idea that you're a tribe of lowbrows, and it'll get said around that your great-grandfather was known to go in hysterics over the funny sheet of the Sunday papers! They think the vaudeville or movie cut-up that does the funny falls is a vulgar lunatic who ought to be in jail, and their idea of the height of humor is the way a iceman pronounces décolleté, or somethin' like that. I like my own comedy straight! I want it to wallop me right on the laugher, so's I can get it the first time and giggle myself sick. I'm extry strong for the loud and common guffaw, and I claim that because I go into hysterics over the fat-man-on-the-banana-peel stuff, it don't prove that I'm a heavy drinker, beat my wife and will probably wind up in jail. On general principles I'm infatuated with the bird that can make me laugh, and I don't care how he does it as long as he makes good. I care not whether he laughs with me or for me, as long as they's a snicker in there somewheres. I can even stand him laughin' at me, because, if his stuff is funny enough--I'll laugh too! No guy who can look around him, no matter how things is breakin' for him and see somethin' to laugh at as the mob goes by, is beat. That bird is just gettin' ready to pull a new punch from somewheres and he's the baby you want to watch! The guy that can't see nothin' funny in life, whether he's eight or eighty, is through! Me and Kid Scanlan saved one of them guys. His name was Jason Van Ness. I was sittin' in Genaro's office one afternoon about seven or eight months after me and the Kid had decided to give the movies a boost, when the door opens and in comes a guy which at first glance I figured must at least be the governor of the state. He's there with a cane, a high hat and the general makeup of a Wall Street broker in a play where he won't forgive his son for marryin' the ingenue. Also, he's built all over like a heavyweight champ, except his face, the same runnin' to the dignified lines of the bloodhounds, them big, flabby, over-lappin' jaws--get me? "I say, old chap--are you Mister Genaro?" he pipes. "Nope!" I says. "I'm Johnny Green, manager of Kid Scanlan, welterweight champion of the world." "Really!" he remarks. "Well," I says, "d'ye wanna see the contract or will we go over to a notary so's I can swear to it?" At that he frowns and waves a finger at me. "Come, my man," he says, "no chaffing now! You may tell Mister Genaro I have arrived! Of course you know who I am?" That "my man!" thing was a trifle more than I could take! I throws my feet up on Genaro's desk and give this guy a long, careless once over, puttin' everything I had on the stare. "I ain't got no more idea who you are," I tells him finally, "than a oyster has of roller-skatin'. Who are you? I never seen _your_ face on no postage stamps!" "Oh, I say!" he busts out, registerin' wild indignation. "Don't you ever read the newspapers?" "Sure!" I says. "But then, escapin' convicts don't get much space in 'em any more! At that, I think I know you now, though." "I should think you jolly well would!" he comes back, calmin' down some. "Why--" "Yes!" I goes on. "I got you. I've met so many from your lodge it's funny I didn't recognize the high signs right away. You're a big, tinhorn four-flusher!" Sweet Cookie! His face did a Georgie Cohan, gettin' red, white and blue by turns, and he pawed the air, gaspin' for breath like a fat piano mover. Before he can get set for a comeback, they's a loud crash outside the door, followed by the well known dull thud. In another minute Kid Scanlan walks in, draggin' somethin' after him by the back of the neck. "Look what _I_ found!" chirps the Kid, droppin' the thing on the floor. "By Jove!" squeals the big guy. "He's killed my dresser!" I got up from the chair and took a flash. Sure enough, the thing the Kid had dragged in was a human bein'. He was a long, lean guy, lookin' like he'd been over here about long enough to tell the judge that George Washington discovered America, was president now and stopped the Civil War, and can he please have his first papers, so's he can vote against suffrage. His one good eye opens and examines the room. Then he hops off the floor, shoots a hand inside his pocket and yanks it out with a thing that looked like a undeveloped spear. "_Sapristi_!" he remarks loudly--and makes a dive at the Kid. The chair I throwed at him was wasted, because Scanlan stepped aside and flattened the assassin with a left hook to the jaw. The big guy gives one yell and rushes out of the office. "Who's your friend?" I asks the Kid, pointin' to the sleepin' beauty on the floor. The Kid glares down at the body and prods it with his foot. "The big stiff!" he says. "I should have murdered him!" "Well," I tells him soothin'ly, "it ain't too late yet! What started the mêlée?" He sits on the side of the desk and lights a cigarette. "This hick is standin' outside here," he begins, "when I come along as peaceful as the Swiss navy. I see right away he's a Eyetalian, and I'm anxious to show him I can talk his chatter so--" "Wait a minute!" I butts in. "Since when have _you_ been able to speak Eyetalian?" "What?" he snorts. "Another one, eh? Ain't Miss Vincent been teachin' me English, French, Eyetalian and what to do with the oyster fork?" "Is she?" I comes back. "That's all new to me. The last flash I got you was just takin' up how to enter a room!" "Well, I'm past that," he explains, "and next week I begin on manners. Anyhow, I see this boob standin' there, and I says to myself, here's a chance to pull a little Eyetalian. So with that I stands in front of him and says, '_Bomb Germo, Senorita--a vostrican salute_!'" The Kid stops and bangs his fist down on the table. "What d'ye think the big hick said?" he asks me. I passed. "He grins at me, waggles his shoulders and pipes, '_No spika da Engleesh_!" "'What d'ye mean _English_!' I says. 'That ain't English, that's Eyetalian, Stupid! _Bomb Germo Senorita_!' "'No spika da Engleesh,' he pipes again. "I grabs him by the shoulder and swing him around. "'What part of Italy was you born in?' I inquires. 'Hoboken?' "'No spika da Engleesh!' he grins. "By this time my goat was runnin' around wild. I grabbed his other shoulder and looked him in the eye. "'I'll give you one more chance,' I says; 'cut the comedy now and come through or you're gonna have some bad luck. _Bomb Germo Senorita_!' "'No spika da Engleesh!' he says. "With that, havin' took all a human bein' could stand, I let him fall!" "Just a minute!" I says, as Scanlan starts for the door. "I want to ask you a question about the Eyetalian language, as long as you know so much about it. Just what does _Bomb Germo_ mean?" The Kid stops and scratches his chin. "To tell you the truth," he admits, "I don't know!" At that the door opens and in blows Genaro with the big dignified guy and "Bomb Germo" arises from the floor again, rubbin' the back of his head. "What's a mat?" asks Genaro, lookin' very excited from me to the Kid. "Why you knock him down Meester Van Ness bureau?" "Dresser!" corrects Van Ness, puttin' a round piece of glass over one eye and glarin' at us. "'Scuse a me!" pipes Genaro, makin' a bow. "Why you knock him down Meester Van Ness dresser?" The Kid growls at "Bomb Germo" who hisses back at him like a snake and backs out of range of that left. "I asked him '_Bomb Germo_,'" explains Scanlan, "and he started to kid me!" "_Bomb Germo_? _Bomb Germo_?" repeats Genaro. "What is she that _Bomb Germo_?" Scanlan grunts at him in disgust. "You're a fine Eyetalian, you are!" he snorts. "I'll bet you and that other guy don't know whether spaghetti is a outfielder or a race horse!" Van Ness removes the one-cylinder eyeglass for a minute and cleans it with his "for display only" handkerchief. "Maybe," he remarks. "Maybe the fellow means to say '_Buona Juerno_!'" "Oh!" grins Genaro. "_Si_! He'sa mean 'Good morning!' No?" "Yes!" says the Kid. "Correct! Step to the head of the class. I told that to Stupid there and he says, 'No spika da Engleesh!'" "Well," chirps Genaro, pattin' the Kid on the back, "let's all be the friend now, no? What's the use hava the fight?" He turns to Van Ness and takes his hand, "Meester Van Ness," he goes on, "thisa Meester Kid Scanlan. He'sa tougha nut--but nica fel'. He'sa fighting champion of the world. He'sa taka his fista _so_," he stops and waves his arms around, "everybody she'sa falla down!" He swings around on the Kid. "Meester Kid Scanlan," he pants, "thisa Meester Van Ness. He'sa greata bigga actor. Oh, of the A numbera seven!" "Yeh?" says the Kid, registerin' "I-should-worry!" and gazin' over at "Bomb Germo." "Well, that ain't my fault, is it? Who's the other guy?" "Guy?" says Genaro. "Whata guy?" "The phoney wop!" pipes the Kid, pointin' to the long, thin bird. "Oh, heem!" snorts Genaro, snappin' his fingers. "He'sa nobody. Justa what you call the dresser for the granda Meester Van Ness." "He's got a name, ain't he?" asks the Kid. "Joosta Tony," answers Genaro. "Good enough!" comes back Scanlan, walking across the room. "Hey, Tony!" he says. "They tell me you claim to be a Eyetalian." "That'sa right!" pipes Tony, forgettin' himself and scowlin'. "Well," goes on the Kid. "_Bomb Germo_!" "No spika da Engleesh!" frowns Tony, waggling his shoulders. "You big stiff!" roars the Kid, gettin' red in the face. "You won't speak nothin' when I get done toyin' with that odd face of yours!" He makes a dive for Tony, but Genaro grabs him. "Joosta one minoote!" pants Genaro. "It'sa maka me laugh! Ho, ho, I teenk I getta one, two hysterics! Fighting champion of the world, he'sa getta mad at the dresser!" "By Jove!" pants Van Ness, givin' the Kid the up and down through the trick eyeglass. "By Jove! I told Tony to converse with no one while we were here. What does this--this person mean by buffeting him about? I thought this company was composed of ladies and gentlemen, not stevedores and longshoremen!" "Don't get gay, Fatty!" yells the Kid, strugglin' with Genaro. "I put bigger actors than _you_ to sleep. I gotta left hand that's got morphine lookin' like a alarm clock!" "Waita, waita!" shrieks Genaro. "We musta all be the friend. Joosta waita when you and Meester Van Ness get better acquainta you'll be joosta like--" "Germany and England!" butts in the Kid, tearin' himself away. "Come on!" he tells me. "Let's get away from here," he glares at Van Ness and Tony, "before certain parties makes any more cracks! If they do--I'll make 'em look like models for The Dyin' Gladiator!" "Don'ta minda heem!" whispers Genaro to Van Ness, as we get over to the door. "He'sa fina fel'. He'sa no hurta the _bambino_--what you call ba-bee. Gotta taka bag of the salts with everything he'sa say. Gotta lots temperament!" "A ruffian, _I_ should say!" remarks Van Ness loudly. "Bigga bunka!" hisses Tony. "What?" roars the Kid, swingin' around on them. "Good day, sir!" pipes Van Ness, steppin' back of the desk. "No spika da Engleesh!" says Tony, steppin' in back of his boss. I yanked the Kid outside before violence was had by all. Jason Van Ness stayed at Film City for about two months. Durin' that time he made as many friends as the ex-Kaiser would pick up in Paris. They was two reasons for this, the first bein' that he was the most dignified and solemn guy I ever seen in my life. Stories that would put a victim of lockjaw in hysterics couldn't coax a snicker from that undertaker's face of his which would have made a supreme court justice look like a clown. In fact, if he'd been a judge and I ever come up before him, I would have took one flash at that face and asked him to gimme life and let it go at that! His favorite smokin'-room story was what causes spots on the sun or somethin' equally excitin', and pretty soon they was a standin' offer of a hundred bucks to the first guy that could make Van Ness laugh! Some of the greatest comedians the movies ever seen laid awake nights and become famous on stunts they pulled off for the sole benefit of Van Ness--and all he did was to inquire if they was crazy or soused! The second reason that Van Ness was as unpopular as snow durin' the world's series was because he was the greatest actor that ever moaned for the star's dressin'-room. He was brought on to play the lead in one of them early Roman frolics where the extry people is called "martyrs" and hurled to the practical lions in the last reel, whilst the emperor raises his hand for the slaughter to begin, murmurin' "This is the end of a perfect day!" When Jason Van Ness walked to the middle of the arena, throwed one end of his cloak over his shoulder, faced the camera and give himself up to actin'--well, you forgot all his bad habits and thanked Heaven for lettin' you live to see him! That baby was there! He was stuck up, he had no friends, he wouldn't laugh, and he had a trick name and carried a dresser, but, Sweet Papa!--he was _some_ actor! The Kid and me stood watchin' him the first time he worked, with our eyes and mouths as open as a mobile crap tourney. "Ain't he a bear?" asks Eddie Duke, comin' up. "That's all two-dollar stuff he's pullin' there, bo! Y' don't see actin' like that every day, eh?" "Oh, I don't know!" says the Kid, takin' a fresh slant at Van Ness. "I bet I could give him a battle in Shakespeare, at that! I was a riot in 'Richard the Third,' wasn't I?" "Cease!" sneers Duke. "This bird has got them classics layin' down and rollin' over when he snaps his fingers. Did you ever see him in 'Quo Vadis'?" "No!" says the Kid. "But I seen him in tights when they was--" Just then Miss Vincent comes along. She's in the picture with Van Ness, playin' the beautiful Christian martyr which is tied to the lion's back in the fourth reel, because she won't quit chantin' "Now I lay me--" or somethin' like that. After that they throw her to the panthers with Abe Mendelowitz, another Christian martyr and the guy that built the scene. She told me that was the story of the thing, and asked me what I thought of it. Personally, I think them martyrs was a lot of boobs. If I'd have been there, I would have bent the knee before them heathen idols and then done my private prayin' elsewhere. The head martyr might have called me yellah, but no lion would have broke his fast on me! While I'm thinkin' about this, Miss Vincent reminds me that she's waitin' for my verdict on the thing. The last I heard her say was about bein' tied to that lion. "Well," I says, "I'll tell you. I think it's pretty soft for the lions myself and--" "How are you and Stupid gettin' along?" butts in the Kid, pointin' to Van Ness and touchin' Miss Vincent's arm. She frowns. "You mustn't call him Stupid!" she says. "Mister Van Ness is an artist and a gentleman--and--and right now I want to tell you that I think all you men are wicked for the way you have been treating him! Here he is away out here, a stranger in a strange land, and simply because he is above the vulgar horseplay so popular around here, you ostracize him. Because his grammar and dress is perfect he is a pariah! Don't you think he feels that? Isn't he human the same as the rest of you? Why--why, if he were a woman, all the girls would have helped and encouraged him and made him welcome in any gathering while he was here. Don't you think it hurt when you broke up that poker party last night when he came in? Or when he was deliberately excluded from that hunting trip by that wretched Eddie Duke? Or any of the--the mean, petty, little things you have done to him--all of you--since he's been here? Oh, you men are horrid!" She gathers up her skirts and flashes Scanlan a look, "I thought _you_, at least, were different!" she whispers--and trips into the picture! For about three minutes the Kid stands lookin' after her without sayin' a word. He acts like he has stopped one with his chin! "The big English stiff!" he busts out finally. "What does he mean by comin' over here and gettin' me in a jam with my girl? I'll _get_ that bird, though, believe me!" "What are you gonna do?" I says. "I'm gonna take that solemn-faced simp back of the African Desert and give him a chance at the welterweight title!" he snorts. "I'll wallop that bird till he'll wish he had stayed over in dear old England and--" "Stoppa!" comes a voice from the back of us, and we look around into the muzzles of two automatics. On the other end of them was Tony! "I hear everyt'ing!" he snarls, wavin' the guns and glarin' at us. "I hear everyt'ing!" The Kid looks at the guns and coughs, kinda nervous. I was glancin' at friend Tony, myself. "Ain't that nice!" I remarks, feelin' my way carefully. "What you mean?" snarls the ex-"No spika da Engleesh." "Bein' able to hear everything," I explains, thinkin' to humour him. "I'll bet right now you're listenin' to a little spicy scandal at some King's palace, eh?" "Don't got funny!" he warns me. "Ha! ha!" snickers the Kid. "Where d'ye get that got funny stuff?" "What'sa that?" yells Tony, whirlin' on him and shovin' the guns under his nose. The Kid gets pale and shuffles back a few steps. "No spika da Engleesh!" he pipes, holdin' up his hand. "Pah!" grunts Tony, registerin' disgust. "Me--I laugh at you! All the tima you talk 'bout Meester Van Ness, I standa righta here with the ear wide open. You no feexa nobody--maybe Tony he'sa feexa you! I hear you say you no lika Meester Van Ness because he'sa no laugha. Sure, he'sa laugha--but not all the tima on the streeta like crazee fel'. When Meester Van Ness--ah, he'sa granda man--when he'sa wanna laugha, he'sa go home, to he'sa rooma, shutta the door and standa in the corner. Then he'sa a laugha ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!--lika that! That'sa lasta heem all day!" "Oh, Lady!" says the Kid, holdin' his side. "Can you tie that?" He looks over and sees Van Ness in a clinch with Miss Vincent--and son, you could see the muscles rollin' under his coat sleeves. "Look at the big, ignorant boob now!" he howls. "Ignoranta!" hisses Tony. "Whata you mean, ignoranta? Seven difference language thisa granda Meester Van Ness he'sa speak! He'sa teacha everybody--joosta lika wan college!" "Why don't you get him to teach you Eyetalian then, Stupid?" sneers the Kid. "You're a fine thing to luck your way past Ellis Island when you can't even tell me what _Bomb Germo_ means!" "Don't got funny!" warns Tony. "What gooda now for you be fighting champion for the world, eh? Leetle Tony he'sa standa here calla you names and what can you do, eh? Nothing--joosta nothing! Champion, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Don't maka me laugha, Meester Fightaire!" He shoves the gun in the Kid's face and snarls, "Now!" he says. "Tella Tony you feela sorry for soaka heem in jaw!" The Kid bites his lip and edges in a bit. Right away I got sorry for Tony! "I'm sorry!" sneers Scanlan slowly. "Awful sorry--just thinkin' of it has got me all broke up. I meant to let you have it on the beak, but I'll make up for it now!" He looks over Tony's shoulder suddenly and yells. "Hey, don't throw that!" If they had rehearsed the act, Tony couldn't have fallen for the plant any harder. He twists his neck around to look back like the Kid figured and Scanlan started one from his left ankle. It caught Tony right on the button--which in English is the point of the chin--and Tony gives a imitation of a seal. He took a dive! While we're takin' him away from his artillery, I look up and there's Van Ness lookin' down at us and frownin'. He reaches inside that Roman toga thing he's wearin' and comes out with a round piece of glass which he balances on one eye. "Ah--I say!" he pipes, glarin' at the Kid. "This is getting jolly annoying, my man. It appears that every time we meet, you have just committed a murderous assault upon my dresser! Since you are the--ah--champion fighter of the universe, why do you not joust with more of its inhabitants and not center your activities upon one who knows nothing of the art of self-defense?" The Kid grunts, takin' away Tony's guns and removin' a couple of them long banana knives from his clothes. Meanwhile, the daredevil dresser is showin' no more signs of life than a sleepin' alligator, so I figured it was about time to pull a little first aid stuff. I turned him over on his back and took off his coat, grabbin' it by the bottom and holdin' it up. They was a sudden crash and--Sweet Cookie! A lot of things fell on the ground, among 'em bein' one set of brass knuckles, one blackjack, two more guns, a thing that looked like a bayonet, five boxes of cartridges, a small bottle of nitro-glycerine and three sticks of dynamite! The last two fell in the folds of the coat, or we'd all have gone away from there. Tony's master looks at the layout with his eyes stickin' so far out of his head you could have knocked 'em off with a cane. Scanlan eyes him and laughs. "This is the bird which don't know nothin' about self-defense, eh?" he grins, pointin' to Tony. "Well, if he'd been in Belgium a few years ago, I bet the Germans would never have got through!" "Oh, I say!" gasps Van Ness. "This is a bit of a shock! Why the fellow is a walking arsenal!" "He's more like a sleepin' fort, now!" I says, pointin' to Tony on the turf. "Look at the chances you been takin' havin' a guy like that fasten your garters and so forth," pipes Scanlan. "You ought to thank us for exposin' him!" Then Tony comes to life and havin' helped him down, the Kid helps him up. "_Sapristi_!" remarks Tony, glarin' at him. "You bigga stiffa! Sometime Tony he'sa feexa you for dis! Whata you hitta me with?" "I think it was a left hook," the Kid tells him, rubbin' his chin, like he ain't sure. "Aha!" snarls Tony. "I know you never hit with your feest sooch a punch! Don't got funny with me any more! I wanna tella you, you keepa up knock it down Tony every fiva, tena, fifteen minootes and some time Tony he'sa got mad! When Tony he'sa got mad--" He stops and makes a terrible face at me and the Kid, "--when Tony he'sa got mad, something she'sa gotta fall!--dat'sa all!" "Well, you been doin' all the fallin' so far," I says, "and--" "Ah--I say!" butts in Van Ness--and Tony sees him for the first time, I guess, because he shivered and got pale. "I say," he goes on, takin' a slant at Tony through the trick eyeglass, "just what does this mean, Antonio? Why are you walking about with this extraordinary collection of weapons on your person?" He points his finger at the munitions on the ground, and Tony's eyes follows his. At the same time he makes a little clickin' noise in his throat and jumps for the pile. "Where is she the gooda carbolic acid?" he snarls. "And whosa taka my eleven incha stiletto?" "How dare you ignore my question!" thunders Van Ness. "What are you doing with all those weapons? Answer me!" "'Scuse a me!" says Tony, makin' a bow and takin' off his hat. "I getta them for my brudda!" "Where's your brother?" asks the Kid. "In Russia?" "'Sno use _you_ talka to me!" growls Tony, "I no talka back. Sometime Tony he'sa getta mad and then--" "Come, come!" interrupts Van Ness, kinda sharp. "The weapons--what of them?" "'Scuse a me!" bows Tony with another smile. "My brudda he'sa live in Santa Francisco. He'sa fina fel'--my brudda. He'sa name Joe. He'sa come this countree five years ago, no fren's, no spika da Engleesh, no nothing! They putta heem in the basement of the sheepa wit' coupla thousand other fel' from seventy-six other countree. One fel' say my Joe he'sa no be able to leava the sheepa at--at--what you call? I don't know--I teenk maybe Chicago, Pennsylvania, Coney Island--I don't know joosta now! Anyhow thisa fel' say Joe he'sa no be able to leava the sheepa wherever he'sa wanna go--eef he'sa got no money, you 'stanna me? Joe he'sa tank dis kinda fel', say coupla nica prayer for heem and then everybody she'sa a maka sleepa. Joe he'sa get up and taka four hundred dollar from thisa nica fel'--whosa sleepa lika he'sa dead--so Joe he'sa be able to leeva the sheepa! He'sa a smarta fel', eh? That'sa Joe. He'sa my brudda!" "Oh, Lady!" says the Kid. "What was you takin' him the ammunition for?" "Don't spika to me!" snorts Tony. "I no answera you! I tella Meester Van Ness. He'sa my boss. He'sa fina fel', too--joosta lika my brudda!" "How dare you!" splutters Van Ness, his face as red as a ale-hound's nose. "What do you mean by that?" "'Scuse a me!" says Tony. "Don't get mad for Tony. No spika da Engleesh very gooda--maybe I maka meestake! Joe he'sa writa me come over Santa Francisco queek, because he'sa gotta the trouble wif he'sa landlord. Disa fel' he'sa a wanta da rent maybe, I don't know, but Joe he'sa wanta me bring something so he'sa can feex disa fel' nex' time he come around, you 'stanna me? He say he'sa a bigga fel'--tougha nut! Yesterday I go out and getta wan gun for Joe. Then I teenk maybe that ain't enough for poor leetle Joe against thisa bigga stiffa landlord, so I stoppa drugga store, hardaware, meata store, five, six, sevena place and get somet'ing for Joe he'sa feex landlord. Then I hear thisa fel' say he'sa gonna feexa _you_!" Tony swings around and points at the Kid. "Tony he'sa don't care if thisa bigga stiffa he's a champion for the world. Tony he's a gotta knifa, gun, dynamite, carbolic acida, everything for fighta. I talka to heem sweeta and he'sa knocka me down wit' a hook! While I sleepa on the dirt, somebody she'sa taka my gooda carbolic acida and stiletto I getta for Joe!" "Oh, Lady!" yells the Kid, slappin' me on the back. "This guy is a riot!" "You may go to the hotel, Antonio," says Van Ness, "and await me there. I am surprised and grieved at your beastly conduct!" Tony hands Van Ness a gun and the bottle of nitro-glycerine. "Alla right!" he says. "Tony he'sa go. But watcha this two fel' they wanna feexa you. The little fel' you can shoota--but the bigga stiffa whosa knocka me down, he'sa needa more than that! Taka thisa bottle and throw it at heem harda. That'sa blow heem away so far, it taka four thousand dollar for heem to come back on sheepa, thirda class!" Van Ness puts the gun and the nitro in Tony's pocket. "Begone, sir!" he says. "I'll jolly well attend to you later!" Tony gathers up his junk and throwin' a last glare at me and the Kid, beats it. Van Ness turns to the Kid, stickin' the eyeglass back in the toga. "Ah--and now, Scanlan," he says, "will you be good enough to explain the cause of the--ah--bitter animosity you have for me?" The Kid frowns and scratches his head. "Somebody has been kiddin' you," he tells him. "I ain't got _nothin'_ for you! Where d'ye get that animosity thing?" Van Ness sighs so hard it like to blowed our hats off. "It is beastly plain to me," he says, "that I am about as popular in Film City as a cloudburst at a picnic! I am snubbed, ridiculed, vulgarly and subtly insulted! Also I am white and human and--ah--I must confess it has penetrated my skin. _You_ are particularly bitter against me--why?" The Kid studies him for a minute. "Listen!" he answers finally. "Are you on the level with this? D'ye really wanna know, or are you simply askin' me so's you can pull one of them witty remarks on the way I answer you--_and get walloped on the beak_?" Van Ness did somethin' then I never seen him do before and only once afterward. _He grinned_! The Roman toga fell off his shoulders, and he leans over with his hands on his hips. On the level, his whole face seemed to change! And then-- Oh, boy! "Listen, guy!" pipes this big, dignified whatnot. "I'm on the level, all right and I want the lowdown on this thing, d'ye make me?" (Me and the Kid nearly went dead on our feet listenin'.) "As for wallopin' me on the beak, well--you may be welterweight champion out here, but if you start anything with _me_, I'll remove you from the title, d'ye get that?" Woof! The Kid and me falls back against a rock, fightin' for air! "Oh, Lady!" whispers the Kid, fannin' himself with his hat. "Did you hear what I did?" "Call me at seven!" I gasps. "Well--?" drawls Van Ness, lookin' us over. "They's just one thing I'd like to know," murmurs the Kid, wipin' his forehead with my handkerchief in the excitement. "What part of dear old England was _you_ born in?" Van Ness grins some more. "Brooklyn!" he says, jerkin' out the eye glass again and stickin' it on his eye. "Surely, my man," he goes on, with that old silly stare of his; "surely you have heard of jolly old Brooklyn--what?" "I know it well!" says the Kid. "It's on the wrong end of the bridge! But where d'ye get the 'my man' thing? And what have you been goin' around like a Swiss duke or somethin', when it turns out you're only a roughneck from Brooklyn? You wanna know why you don't belong, and don't fit in here, eh? Well, you big hick, where d'ye get that Sedate Sam stuff?" He slaps Van Ness on the arm. "Why in the Hail Columbia don't you bust out and giggle now and then, hey?" "Why don't I?" snarls Van Ness, "Don't you think I'd _like_ to? Don't you think I would if I could, you boob?" "Would if you _could_?" repeats the Kid. "What's the matter--have you got lockjaw?" "No!" roars Van Ness, so sudden that we both sidestepped. "No! Not lockjaw, worse! _Dignity_!" "Have you give the mud baths at Hot Springs a play?" I asks. "Stop it!" he sneers. "Cease that small time comedy! I'm the most dignified person in the world--the undisputed champion! I'm Frowning Frank and Imposing Ike rolled into one. It hurts me more than it does you, but I can't help it! I fail to remember the last time I enjoyed a hearty laugh and I know it will be a darned long space before I'll snicker again. My laugher has gone unused for so long that it's atrophied and won't work. I've tried warming it up by going home at night and guffawing before the mirror, but the result is only a mirthless giggle--a ghostly chortle! Of course, I wouldn't dare attempt to laugh in public!" "Do what?" asks the Kid. "Laugh!" answers Van Ness bitterly. "I can't even let myself think of doing it--why, it would ruin me! My dignity is all I have. It's my stock in trade and without it I would lose my income! Were I to unbend and shatter the air with harmless cachinnation, it would be thought at once that I had been drinking!" He stopped and sighed some more. "It began ten years ago," he goes on. "I was playing small parts in a stock company and one week I was cast for a Roman senator. Being anxious to make good, I made that noble so dignified that the local critics dismissed the play with a few paragraphs and gave half a column to my stately bearing! That started it, and from that time I've played nothing but Romans, kings, governors, cardinals and similar roles, calling for my infernal talent in the one direction. Mechanically I grew to playing them _on and off_, yet all the time within me burns the desire to do rough and tumble, yes, by Heaven, slapstick comedy! But alas, I lack the moral courage to throw off the yoke!" "Well, Mister Van Ness--" I begins, when the silence begun to hurt, "I--" "Not Van Ness!" he interrupts. "The name is as false as my manner! My name is Fink, Eddie Fink, and please don't add the Mister. When a lad I had a nickname, but, alas, I--" "What was it?" butts in the Kid. He hesitates. "Well, it was rather frivolous," he says. "As indeed I was myself--a happy, carefree youth! The boys called me Foolish--Foolish Fink!" He throws out his chest like he just realized how he had been honored at the time. Me and the Kid both had a coughin' fit. "Let's go over to Montana Bill's," I says, when I thought it was safe to look up, "and we'll talk it over." "Yeh!" chimes in the Kid. "Over a tray of private stock!" He laughs and slaps alias Van Ness on the shoulder. "Cheer up! Foolish Fink, will you have a little drink? Woof, woof! I'm a poet!" "Thanks!" says Van Ness. "But I'm on the wagon. I stopped drinking five years ago, because under the influence of alcohol I've been known to act the fool!" "You ain't the only one!" says the Kid. "Anyhow I never touch it myself and Johnny here only uses it on his hair! But come on over--you can have your pants pressed or take a shine, I'm gonna buy, and you might as well get in on it. Bill's got a laughin' hyena in a cage outside, and maybe you could get him to rehearse you!" About a week after that, the society bunch in Frisco comes over to Film City to act in a picture for the benefit of the electric fan fund for Greenland, or somethin' like that. About fifty of the future corespondents, known to the trade as the younger set, blows over in charge of a dame who had passed her thirty-sixth birth and bust day when Napoleon was a big leaguer. She had did well by herself though and when dressed for the street, they was harder things to look at than her. Also, when her last husband died, he left her a bankroll that when marked in figures on paper looked like it was the number of Southerners below Washington. A little bit of a guy, which turned around when you yelled "G. Herbert Gale" at him, breezed over with her and at first I had him figured as a detective seekin' divorce evidence, because he stuck to that dame like a cheap vaudeville act does to the American flag. He trailed a few paces behind her everywhere she went, callin' her "Mrs. Roberts-Miller" in public and "Helen Dear" when he figured nobody was listenin'. It was easy to see that he had crashed madly in love with this charmer, but as far as she was concerned they was nothin' stirrin'. Except that G. Herbert was inclined to be a simp, he wasn't a bad guy at that. He mixed well and bought freely, although he was riveted to the water wagon himself. He bragged to me in fact that the nearest he ever come to alcohol in his life was once when he used it to clean his diamonds. But G. Herbert was the guy that invented the ancient and honorable order of village cut-ups. I never asked him what the G stood for in his name, I guessed it the first day he was in our midst. It meant "Giggle!" This here Herbert person was a laughin' fool! The first time I talked with him I thought I was cheatin' myself by only bein' Scanlan's manager. I figured I ought to be in vaudeville knockin' 'em dead for five hundred a week, because G. Herbert roared at everything I said. He screamed with mirth at all the old ones and had hysterics over three or four witty remarks I remembered from a show I seen the night of the Johnstown flood. I thought, of course, it was the way I put the stuff over, and I was just gonna give the Kid my fare-you-well, when I seen G. Herbert standin' by a practical undertakers shop that was fixed up for a fillum. The little simp was standin' over a coffin laughin' his head off! That cured me, but him and the Kid become great little pals. I found out later it was on account of G. Herbert snickerin' at the Kid's comedy. Scanlan hadn't discovered it was a habit with this guy, and he claimed here was a feller that knowed humor when he seen it. One afternoon I see Scanlan and Miss Vincent whisperin' together like yeggmen outside a postoffice. They called me over, and the Kid tells me that the society bunch was gonna leave us flat on the midnight train, and before they blowed, Potts was gonna give 'em a dinner and dance. All the movie crowd was to mix with Frisco's four hundred, so's that both could enjoy the experience and say they took a chance once in their lives. But the thing that was botherin' Miss Vincent--(Some dame, that! She was the world's champion woman, believe me!) The thing that worried her was G. Herbert and Helen Dear, alias Mrs. Roberts-Miller. Likin' 'em both, Miss Vincent wanted to hurl 'em together for good and all before the train pulled out. It seems the only objection the dame had to G. Herbert was the fact that he couldn't keep from laughin'. She had him figured as a eighteen-carat simp and frequently told him so, addin' that she could never marry a man who was shy on dignity. Then she gets a flash at our old pal Jason Van Ness or Eddie Fink, as he claimed, and she fell so hard for him she liked to broke her neck! Here was the only original Sedate Sam! Here was the guy she was willin' and anxious to lead to the altar and then to the old safe deposit vault! He was so handsome! So dignified! Such a splendid actor! That's the stuff she was always handin' poor little G. Herbert and askin' him why _he_ wasn't like that? G. Herbert would shake his head, giggle, and say he didn't know why, but he'd ask his parents. Van Ness couldn't see Helen Dear with opera glasses. He told me he hated 'em stout, and, if possible, had figured on weddin' somebody within ten years of his age--either way. I then felt it my duty to inform him that her bankroll was stouter than she was. He goes into high speed on the dignity thing and sets sail for Helen Dear like a bloodhound after a nigger. He didn't want to look like a vulgar fortune hunter, he claimed, but he figured if he could get his fingers on a piece of Helen's dough, he could bribe G. Herbert to teach him the art of laughin'. The Kid tells Miss Vincent to forget about the thing, and he would guarantee that G. Herbert and Helen Dear went away threatenin' to marry each other. She said she'd leave the matter in our hands and held hers out. I shook it and Scanlan kissed it--a trick he stole from Van Ness. The dinner and dance that night was a knockout! Film City is lit up like a plumber used to be on Saturday night, and the inhabitants is dressed like the people that poses for the ads of any cigarette over fifteen cents a pack. As usual, Miss Vincent had the rest of the dames lookin' like sellin' platers in stake race and, believe me, some of them society girls would have worried Venus. The Kid was so swelled up because she kept within easy call all night that he forgot his promise to fix up G. Herbert with Helen Dear. The latter, as we remark at the laundry, was closer to Van Ness all night than the ocean is to the beach, and it looked like the Kid was gonna have a tough time breakin' 'em up. Along around eleven, Miss Vincent calls Scanlan aside and reminds him that he had better start workin' for G. Herbert, because they would all be beatin' it for the train in a hour. She also give out that, if he didn't make good, she was off him for life. Scanlan bows--another trick he copped from Van Ness--and takes me away down at the end of the lawn to dope somethin' out. I tripped over what I thought at first was a dead body and me and the Kid props it up in the light. "Ha, ha!" it says. "Tony he'sa laugha at you! Tony he'sa laugha at everybody! _Bomb Germo_! thisa fel' tella me--ha, ha, ha!" The Kid grunts in disgust, lets go and Tony bounces back on the lawn. "Stewed to the scalp!" says Scanlan. "Frisk him!" I run my hands over Tony and bring forth a bottle of gin and another one of bourbon. The Kid looks 'em over, finally stickin' 'em both in his coat pocket. "Come on!" he tells me. "They's no use hangin' around here. If I don't get back there, some of them Wealthy Willies that have been wishin' all night will be one-steppin' with Miss Vincent!" "But how about G. Herbert?" I says. "He's got my best wishes!" growls the Kid. "He's a nice little feller, but that's the best I can do. What d'ye think I am--Cupid?" "Well, gimme the alcohol then!" I says. "You ain't gonna fall off the wagon are you, when--" "Shut up, Stupid!" he butts in. "I wouldn't take a drink of this stuff for what Rockefeller gets for overtime! I want to get it away from that wop, so's he'll have somethin' to moan about when he wakes up." We went back to the party, and a couple of dames standin' at the punch bowl calls to the Kid. He always was a riot with the women! Helen Dear is there with Van Ness, and he's got to where he's pattin' her hand, while G. Herbert stands in back of 'em lookin' like he wished he had some nails to bite. I come to a table and there's Miss Vincent sittin' alone and she motions me to sit down with her--so's my back would hide her from the rest of the bunch. She says a little bit of society went a long ways with her, and where was the Kid? Before I can answer her along comes Helen Dear and she plumps down at the table and starts to tell us what a magnificent man Mister Van Ness was. She claims she never seen such a perfect gentleman in her life. I liked to snickered out loud at the disappointed way she pulled that one and then the Kid, G. Herbert and Van Ness suddenly comes around a tree and joins the party. Scanlan winks at Miss Vincent, and she looks at him inquiringly, but he just shakes his head. I noticed that G. Herbert looked kinda sad, and he must have put his giggler away because he just sat lookin' down at the ground. Van Ness is full of life--I never seen him so cheerful--so I figured that while them and the Kid was alone, Van Ness must have told 'em that Helen Dear had proposed or accepted him. Finally, Helen Dear looks at her wrist watch and says she'll have to tear herself away, because the train leaves in fifteen minutes. She wastes five of that throwin' soulful looks at Van Ness and he give back as good as he got. G. Herbert offers to get her wraps, comin' to life long enough to make the request, but Helen Dear gives him a sneerin' look and says there was servants there for that purpose. It was a terrible throwdown, and Van Ness nearly grinned, but G. Herbert gamely tried a giggle that sounded like the squeak of a stepped-on rat. While Helen Dear is gettin' into a coat that couldn't have cost a nickel under five thousand bucks, the Kid gets up and calls Van Ness and G. Herbert aside. They was gone about five minutes. When they came back, Helen Dear is just puttin' on her hat and suddenly the thing slips out of her hands and slides down over one eye. Then--excuse me a minute, I'm in convulsions! I'll never forget it if I live to see Bryan vote against prohibition! There's Helen Dear gettin' red in the face and strugglin' with that hat and-- "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" shrieks Van Ness--_the guy that had lost his laugher_!--"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" he yells, holdin' the chair so's he can stand up and pointin' at Helen's hat. "You ought to go in vaudeville!" he hollers. "You'd be a riot with that act! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" Miss Vincent gasps, the Kid grins, and I all but fainted. Here's this guy laughin' his head off for the first time in ten years and--look at the time he picked to do it! Sweet Cookie! Helen Dear turns eighteen shades of red and fights for her breath like a fish when you drag it over the side of the boat. Then up steps little G. Herbert. His eyes is kinda glassy, but his face is set and hard. His spine is as straight as a flag pole and he sticks a piece of glass over one eye, just like Van Ness used to do! Dignity? Why he could have took Van Ness when that guy was right--_and give him lessons_! "What does this mean, sir!" he says, walkin' up to Van Ness who is holdin' his sides and fallin' off the chair. Laugh? That bird was in hysterics! "Ha, ha, ha!" bellers Van Ness. "Get a couple of good camera men quick! Ha, ha, ha, ha! It looks like she got hit with a pie!" "You infernal idiot!" roars G. Herbert. "How dare you laugh at this lady?" "Oh, boy!" answers Van Ness, finally rollin' off his chair. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" "Come, Herbert!" pipes Helen. "We will go back together and my answer is Yes! Thank Heaven that man stands exposed in his true character!" "Thas' right!" nods Herbert, waggin' his head and glarin' at all of us. "C'mon--hic--Cmon, M' dear!" Somethin' comes staggerin' up and grabs the Kid by the arm. It was Tony. "Aha!" he yells. "Who'sa taka my bottle gin, bottle bourbon? _Sapristi_! You bigga stiffa, I--" The Kid gives him a slow straight arm, and Tony goes over the table backwards, landin' right beside his master. "No spika da Engleesh!" says Scanlan, as Tony disappears. I grabbed him by the arm. "Show me them bottles," I says, gettin' wise in a flash. The Kid takes out two _empty_ non-refillables and tosses 'em in the grass. "My!" he says, dreamily. "How that little guy went to it!" Toot! Toot! Toot! goes the Santa Fe flier pullin' out with G. Herbert and Helen Dear. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha--ho, ho, ho, ho!" screams Van Ness from under the table. "She promised--ha, ha, ha! to cheer me up--hic--ha, ha, ha! and she--hic--certainly--ha, ha, ha!--made good!" CHAPTER VI THE UNHAPPY MEDIUM They may be such a thing as a ghost, but I don't believe it! At the same time, I'm willin' to admit that my feelin's in the matter ain't gonna prove the ruin of the haunted house promoters. They's a whole lot of things which I look on as plain and simple bunk, that the average guy studies at college. But the reason I say they _may_ be, is because when me and Kid Scanlan come back East this year we stopped off somewheres in the hurrah for prohibition part of the country and was showed over what the advertisin' matter admitted to be the greatest bakery in the world. I think them ad writers was modest fellers. That joint was not only the world's greatest bakery, it was the world's greatest _anything_! I never really knowed a thing about bread, except that you put butter on it, until I give that place the up and down. What I don't know about the staff of life now would never get you through Yale. I might go farther than that and come right out with the fact that I have become a abandoned bread fiend and got to have it or I foam at the mouth, since I seen how it was made at this dough foundry. A accommodatin' little guy took hold of me and the Kid and showed us all over the different machine shops where this here bread was mixed, baked and what-notted for the trade. Our charmin' guide must have come from a family of auctioneers and circus barkers and he never heard of no sums under ten or eleven thousand in his life. He knowed more about figures than Joe Grady, who once filled in a summer with a Russian ballet, and he had been wound up and set to deliver chatter at the rate of three words a second, provided the track was fast and he got off in front. He talked with his whole body, waggin' his head, movin' his arms and shufflin' his feet. When he got warmed up and goin' good, he pushed forward at you with his hands like he was tryin' to insert his chatter right into you. He leads us to a spot about half a mile from where we come in, holds up his hands to Heaven, coughs, blows his nose and gives a little shiver. "Over there!" he bellers, without no warnin'. "Over there is our marvelous, mastadon, mixin' shop. We use 284,651 pounds of scrupulously sifted and freshly flavored flour, one million cakes of elegant yeast and 156,390 pounds of bakin' powder each and every year! We employ 865 magnificent men there and they get munificent money. We don't permit the use of drugs, alcoholics, tobacco or unions! The men works eight easy hours a delightful day, six days a week and they are happy, hardy and healthy! Promotion is regular, rapid and regardless! Our employees is all loyal, likable and Lithuanians! They own their own cottages, clothes and chickens, bein' thrifty, temperate and--" "Tasty!" I yells. I couldn't, keep it in no longer! "What?" snaps the little guy, kinda sore. "Lay off, Stupid!" says the Kid to me, with a openly admirin' glance at the runt. "Go on with your story," he nods to him. "Never mind Senseless, here, I'm gettin' every word of it!" The little hick glares at me and points to a shack on the left. "Over there," he pipes. "Over there is our shippin' plant where the freshly finished and amazingly appetizin' loaves are carefully counted and accurately assembled! For this painstakin' performance we employ 523 more men. None but the skilled, superior and--and--eh--Scandinavian are allowed in that diligent department, and each and every day a grand, glorious total of ten thousand lovely loaves is let loose with nothin' missin' but the consumer's contented cackle as he eagerly eats! We even garnish each loaf with a generous gob of Gazoopis--our own ingenuous invention--before they finally flitter forth! Would you like to see the shop?" "I certainly wish _I_ could sling chatter like that!" answers the Kid with a sigh. "But I guess it's all in the way a guy was brung up. Gobs of generous Gazoopis!" he mutters, turnin' the words over in his mouth like they was sweet morsels. "Gobs of generous Gazoopis! Oh, boy!" The little guy throws out his chest and bows with a "I-thank-you" look all over his face. He got me sore just watchin' him. Y'know that runt hated himself! "Say!" I says to him. "If all that stuff you claim for this roll foundry is on the level, it must take a lot of dough to run it, eh?" "Are you tryin' to kid me?" he sneers. "No!" I comes back. "But speakin' of bakeries, I'd sacrifice my sacred silk socks for a flash at them skilled Scandinavians assemblin' that bread, before I move on to nasty New York!" The Kid slaps me on the back and grins. "Go on, Foolish!" he says. "You got this bird on the ropes!" He turns to the runt. "All I want," he goes on, "is one peep at them likable Lithuanians--can I git that?" "You guys is as funny as pneumonia to me!" snorts the little guy, gettin' red in the face. "That stuff may pass for comedy in Yonkers or wherever you hicks blowed in from, but it don't git no laugh outa me! D'ye wanna see this shop or don't you--yes or no?" "Let's go!" I tells him. "You got me all worked up about it!" "Same here!" says the Kid. "I only wish I could talk like you can, but I guess it's a gift, ain't it?" The little guy grunts somethin' and nods for us to fall in behind him, and we lock step along till we come to another joint from which was issuin' what I'll lay eight to five was all the noise in the world. How they ever gathered it up and got it in the buildin' I don't know, but I do know it was there! If you'd take a bowlin' alley on Turnverein night, a boiler factory workin' on a rush order and the battle of Gettysburg, wind 'em up and set 'em all off at once, you might get a faint idea of how the inmates of that buildin' was ruinin' the peace and quiet of the surroundin' country. A dynamite explosion in the next block would have attracted as much attention as a whisper in a steamfittin' shop. "I thought the war was all over!" hollers the Kid, holdin' his ears. "Has the police been tipped off about this?" "What d'ye mean the police?" screams back the runt. "That there is the mixin' and bakin' shop." "Yeh?" I cuts in. "Well, I don't know what them skilled Scandinavians of yours is at, but, believe me, they're _tryin'_ all right!" The runt sneers at us. "You must be a fine pair of hicks!" he says. "D'ye mean to say you never heard of the Eureka Mixin' and Bakin' machine?" "I can hear it now, all right!" I tells him, noddin' to the buildin' where the boilermakers was havin' a field day, "but--" "Sufferin' salmon, what boobs!" he interrupts me. Then he gives us both the once over and starts his sneerer workin' again. "Say!" he asks me. "Who d'ye like to win the battle of Santiago and d'ye think Lincoln will git elected again?" "I don't know," I comes back. "I'm gonna vote for Jefferson myself!" I looks him right in the eye. "I think Washington is a sucker to hang around Valley Forge all winter, don't you?" I asks him. "Couple of small time cut-ups, eh?" he says, shakin' his head. "Where d'ye come from?" "New York," the Kid tells him, "and listen--will you do me a favor and let's hear some more about them likable Lithuanians and gobs of generous Gazoopis?" "I figured you come from some hick burg like New York," says the runt, ignorin' the Kid's request. "I can spot a guy from New York ten miles away! He knocks Brooklyn, thinks walkin' up Broadway is seein' life, was born in Memphis and is the only thing that keeps the mail order houses in Oshkosh from goin' to the wall! New Yorkers, eh?" he winds up with another insultin' sneer. "I got you!" "Gobs of generous Gazoopis!" mutters the Kid like he's in a trance. "Sweet Papa!" The runt looks at him. "How does _that_ bird fool the almshouse?" he asks me. I bent down so's I could whisper in the side of his little dome. Them skilled Scandinavians in the buildin' had gone crazy or else some of the night shift had come in with more boilers and things to hit 'em with. "That's Kid Scanlan, welterweight champion of the world!" I hisses in his ear. "Ha, ha!" laughs the runt. "That's who he'd _like_ to be, you mean!" "Our employees is all hale, hearty and hilarious!" grins the Kid at him. "We pay 'em off in money, music and mush! Wow!" "If that big stiff is tryin' to kid me," begins the runt, gettin' red again, "he--" "All right, all right!" I butts in quickly. "Don't let's have no violence. Show us what makes that shop go, and we'll grab the next rattler for New York. Y'know the Kid fights Battlin' Edwards on the twenty-first and--" "Are you on the _level_ with that stuff?" interrupts the runt, still lookin' at the Kid. "Is that really Kid Scanlan?" I calls the Kid over. "Kid," I says, "meet Mister--er--" "Sapp," says the runt. "Joe Sapp!" He sticks out his hand. "I remember you now," he tells the Kid. "I seen you fight some tramp in Fort Wayne last year. I think you hit this guy with everything but the referee and that's why I like your work. When _I_ send in three bucks for a place to sit down at a box fight, I expect to see assault and batter and not the Virginia Reel! Why--" "Not to give you a short answer," I butts in, "but how about the insane asylum over there?" I points to the buildin'. "Do we see that or don't we?" Right away he straightens up and sticks his finger at it. "It takes exactly twelve, temptin' minutes to completely compose and accurately assemble a loaf!" he shouts. "We never heard of waste, and efficiency was born in this factory. The only thing that loafs here is the bread! Each eager employee has his own particular part to perform and that accounts for the amazin' and awesome accuracy with which we bake the beautiful bread. Step this way!" "Believe me!" says the Kid, "I wish I had a line of patter like that! 'Amazin' and awesome accuracy'!" he repeats. "Do you get that?" Right then about a dozen dames and their consorts come breezin' in the main entrance. Offhand, they look like the hicks that gives the "Seein' New York" busses a play, and when the runt spots them he ducks and grabs my arm. "C'mon!" he says. "Shake it up! If them boobs see me, I'll have to show 'em all over the plant! That's a gang of them Snooks' Tourists, seein' the world for fourteen eighty-five a-piece, breakfast at hotel on third mornin' out and bus from train included! Most of them is wisenheimers from Succotash Crossin', Mo.; and they're out to see that they don't get cheated. They're gonna see everything like it says on the ticket, and some of 'em is ready to sue Snooks because they got somethin' in their eye from lookin' out the train window and missed eight telegraph poles and a water tank on account of it. The rest of them sits around knockin' everything on general principles and claimin' the thing is a fake. Then there'll be one old guy in the party with a trick horn he holds to his ear, and, when I get all through tellin' 'em about the mixin' shop, the deef guy will say, 'Hey? What was that about the airship again?' There will also be three veteran school-teachers which will want samples of the bread and hide out a couple of rolls on the side. And then one young married couple which started sayin' 'Wonderful!' when the train pulled out of the old home town and which has said nothin' else but that since! No, sir! I'm off them tourists--c'mon, sneak around here!" He boldly walks into the buildin' where all the noise is comin' from, and not wantin' to act yellah before strangers we followed him in. They was a lot of things in there and if you ever make the town, Joe Sapp will show 'em to you. He has to, in order to eat. But the only thing I remember was the way them lovely, luxurious loaves was artistically assembled, and I'll remember that little item till the insurance company pays off! They was a great, big machine in the middle of the floor and that was the thing that was makin' the bread and noise. A half dozen of them skilled Scandinavians stood away up on a gallery at one end and their job was of a pourin' nature. They was all dressed in white and wore little trick hats on which it said this, "No Human Hands Touch It." I didn't know whether it meant the skilled Scandinavians or the beautiful bread. "The most marvelous, magnificent, mammoth invention of the age!" bawls the runt so's we could hear him over the noise. "Here is where the beautiful bread is blissfully baked by the wonderful workmen! This machine cost the sensational sum of half a million dollars, and its capacity is a trifle over five hundred finely finished luscious loaves each and every--" That's all I heard because I went in a trance from watchin' the thing. I never seen nothin' like it before and I know darn well I never will again. Listen! Them skilled Scandinavians poured in raw wheat at one end of this here machine, and it come out the other end, steamin' hot bread! Some machine, eh? Not only that, but when it come out, it was baked, labelled, wrapped in oil paper and smellin' most heavenly from that generous gob of Gazoopis, as the runt said. I dragged the Kid outside and we started for the railroad station without comment. As we passed out the door, we heard the runt screamin', probably thinkin' we was still there. "One section reduces the wheat to flour, another mixes the dough, it passes on to the steam ovens and then what happens? _Bread_! Over here--" The Kid stops all of a sudden, takes a hitch in his belt and looks back at the shop. "Hell!" he says. "They _can't_ make no bread like that!" "You seen 'em do it, didn't you?" I asks him, although I was thinkin' the same thing myself. "Even at that," he comes back, "I don't believe it!" We walks on a little ways, and the Kid stops again. "I certainly wish I could talk like that little runt!" he shoots out. "Take it from me, that bird is there forty ways. He's got Webster lookin' like a dummy!" He keeps on mutterin' to himself as we breeze up to the station, and, when I lean over to get an earful I hear him sayin', "They're all simple, sassy and suckers! We feed 'em oranges, oatmeal and olives!" So, as I said before, they _may_ be such a thing as ghosts. After watchin' that bread bakin' machine at play I'll go further than that. There may be _anything_! One day at the trainin' camp, a couple of weeks after we hit New York, a handler comes to me and says they's two guys outside that wants to see the Kid. I hopped out to take a flash at 'em, but the Kid has been reached, and when I come on the scene he's shakin' hands with 'em. One of these guys was dressed the way the public thinks bookmakers and con men doll up and he wore one of them sweet, trustin' innocent faces like you see on the villain in a dime novel. He looked to me like he'd steal a sunflower seed from a blind parrot. But it was the other guy that was the riot to me. He was tall and lanky, dressed all in black like the pallbearer the undertaker furnishes, and the saddest-lookin' boob I ever seen in my life! If he wasn't the original old Kid Kill-Joy, he was the bird that rehearsed him, believe me! Y'know just from lookin' at this guy, a man would get to thinkin' about his past life, the time he throwed the baby down the well when but a playful child, how old his parents was gettin' and the time Shorty Ellison run off with the red-headed dame that lived over the butcher's. You wished you had saved your money or somebody else's, suddenly findin' out that it was a tough world where a poor man didn't have a Chinaman's chance, and you wondered if death by drownin' was painful or not. That's the way it made you feel when you just looked at this guy. Ever see one of 'em? He had a trick of sighin'. Not just ordinary heaves, but deep, dark and gloomy sighs that took all the life out of whoever he sighed at. If they had that bird over in Europe, they never would have been no war, because when he started sighin', nobody would have had enough ambition left to fight. Every time he opened his mouth I thought he was gonna say, "Merciful Heaven help us all!" or somethin' like that. But he didn't. He just sighed. The Kid tells me the riot of color was Honest Dan Leduc, and that he was the best behaved guy that ever spent a week end in Sing Sing, where he had gone every now and then to study jail conditions at the request of thirteen men, the same bein' a judge and a jury. The sad-lookin' boob was Professor Pietro Parducci, the well known medium. "Medium what?" I says, when the Kid pulls that one. The Kid frowns at me and turns to his new found friends. "Don't mind Foolish here," he tells 'em, "he's got the idea that everything is crooked. He thinks the war was a frame-up for the movies, and the Kaiser got double-crossed, but he ain't a bad guy at that. He knows more about makin' money than a lathe hand at the mint." He jerks his thumb at Honest Dan and swings around on me. "This guy and me was brung up together," he explains, "and before I went into the fight game we was as close as ninety-nine and a hundred. He's been all over the world since then, he says so himself, but just now he's up against it. It seems he was runnin' a pool room on Twenty-Eighth Street and he give the wrong winner of the Kentucky Derby to the precinct captain. The next mornin' the captain give every cop in the station house a axe and Dan's address. His friend here is a now, whosthis and--" Honest Dan pulls what I bet he thought was a pleasant smile. It reminded me more of a laughin' hyena. "One minute!" he butts in. "My friend, the world-renowed Professor Parducci, is a medium, a mystic and a swami. He's the seventh son of a seventh son, born with a veil and spent two years in Indiana with the yogi. He can peer into the future or gaze back at the past. He is in direct communication with the spirits of the dear departed and as a crystal gazer and palmist he stands alone!" "That's a great line of patter, Dan," says the Kid, "but we met a guy on the trip back that had the English language layin' down and rollin' over when he snapped his fingers. Generous gobs of Gazoopis and likable, loyal Lithuanians! Can you tie that?" I was still lookin' over the gloomy guy with the name that sounded like a brand of olive oil, and I decided he was the bunk. I asked him could he tell my fortune, and he draws himself up and claims he's not in harmony just now. That was the tip-off to me, and I figures he has come out to take the Kid for his bankroll. I knowed he couldn't tell no fortunes the minute I seen him. He didn't look to me as if he could tell his own name, and I bet all the spirits he ever communicated with was called private stock. The end of his nose was as red as a four alarm fire and the back of his collar was all wore off from where he had kept throwin' back his head so's the saloon keepers could meet expenses. Honest Dan said he couldn't speak much English, so I guess he had stopped at "I'll have the same" and "Here's a go!" Well, I had the right dope, because the next week the Kid goes down to the bank and draws out five thousand bucks to set Honest Dan and the professor up in business with. They was gonna open a swell fortune-tellin' joint on Fifth Avenue. I said the thing sounded crooked to me, and the Kid got sore and told me Honest Dan couldn't do nothin' like that, it wasn't in him. He showed me where Dan had always got time off for good conduct, no matter what jail he was in. The professor brightens up for a minute when the Kid hands over the roll, but after that he went right back into the gloom again. Honest Dan gives the Kid a receipt for the sucker money and him and his trick medium goes on their way. After a while, I forgot about 'em. The Kid fights Edwards and a couple of more tramps and knocks 'em all kickin' and we're just gonna grab one of them "See America Firsts" for the coast when some club promoter goes crazy and offers us ten thousand iron men to fight Joe Ryan. The Kid would have fought the Marines for half of that, so we run all the way to the club and signed articles whiles the guy that hung up the purse was still wishin' he had stayed on the wagon. The Kid had got Professor Parducci to fix him up with a few love charms and owls' ears by which he was gonna make himself solid with Miss Vincent. In fact Scanlan fell so hard for the medium stuff that when the professor told him to get at all cost a lock of Miss Vincent's hair clipped at eighteen minutes after eleven on a rainy Sunday night, he writes out to her and asks her to send him a lock cut just that way! When he wasn't pesterin' the professor on how to win the movie queen, he was goin' around mutterin', "Loyal, likeable Lithuanians and generous gobs of Gazoopis!" until the newspaper guys wrote that Kid Scanlan would be a mark for the first good boy he fought, because like everybody else that was a sudden success, he had took to usin' stimulants which is only sold on a doctor's prescription. On the level, he'd git a wad of paper and sit around all night with a dictionary, writin' down all the words that begin with the same letter and then he'd git up and repeat that stuff for a hour. One afternoon we went downtown to look over this joint run by Honest Dan and the professor. It was in one of them studio buildings on Fifth Avenue near Twenty-Eighth Street, and the rent they was payin' for it would have kept the army in rubber heels for six years. They's a long line of autos outside and the inmates was streamin' in and out of the place like a crowd goin' to see the beloved rector laid out. Some of the dames would be familiar to you, if you've been readin' the box scores in the latest divorce mêlées, or the lineup of the committee for the aid of the Esquimaux victims of the war. We get in a elevator, and, floatin' up to the roof, walk down what would have been a fire trap on the East Side, and here we are at Professor Parducci's Temple of the Inner Star. A couple of West Indian hall boys, who's gag line was "Say-hib," lets us in. They was dressed in sheets and had towels twisted around their heads and smelled strongly of gin. Pretty soon Honest Dan comes out and shakes hands all around. Except for his face, you'd never know it was the same guy. His hair is brushed all the way back like the guys that poses for the underwear ads and he's dressed in a black suit that fit him better than most of his skin. In his shirt front they's a diamond that looked like a young arc light, and he had enough gems on his hands to make J. P. Morgan gnash his teeth. He told me that him and the professor wasn't doin' no more business than a guy would do in Hades with the ice water concession, and that Barnum was wrong when he said they was a sucker born every minute. Honest Dan said _his_ figures showed there was about two born every _second_. He leads us into a great big hall that was filled with statues, pictures, rugs, sofas, women and fatheads. The furnishings of this joint would make Buckingham Palace look like a stable. It must have ruined the Kid's five thousand just to lay in scenery for that one room alone. The statues and pictures was nearly all devoted to one subject, and that was why should people wear clothes--especially women? The victims is all lollin' around on them plush sofas, drinkin' tea and lookin' like a ten-year-old kid at church or a guy waitin' in the doctor's office to find out if he's got consumption or chilblains. It was as quiet as a Sunday in Philadelphia and they was also a very strong smell of burnin' glue, which Honest Dan said was sacred incense that always had to be used by the professor before he could work. Among the decorations was a very large dame sittin' over in a corner dressed within a inch of her life. I suppose she had ears, a neck and hands, but you couldn't tell right away whether she had or not, because them parts of her anatomy, as the feller says, was buried under a carload of diamonds. You could see by her face that at one time she had probably been a swell-lookin' dame, but them days was all over. Still, she was makin' a game try at comin' back, and from her complexion she must have been kept busy day and night openin' bottles and cans signed on the outside by Lillian Russell and etc. This dame was havin' the best time of anybody in the joint. She was sittin' up very straight and solemn with both chins restin' in her glitterin' hands and from the look in her eyes some Sunday paper had just claimed she was the best lookin' woman in America and the like. A guy wouldn't have to be no Sherlock Holmes to see that this was the bird that was bein' readied for the big killin' by Honest Dan and his trick professor. The rest of them was just what you might call the chorus. Sittin' right beside the stout party was a kid that had just dropped in from the cover of a magazine. She was the kind of female that could come down to breakfast with the mumps and her hair in curl papers, fry the egg on the wrong side and yet make the lucky guy across the table go out whistlin' and pityin' his unwed friends. You know how them dames look when they have give some time to _dollin' up_, don't you? Well, this one had everything; take it from me, she was a knockout! She's tappin' the floor with a classy little foot and tryin' to see can she pull a silk handkerchief apart with her bare hands, the while registerin' this, "This-medium-thing-is-the-bunk-and-I-wish-I-was-out-of-here!" I doped her as the stout dame's daughter, hittin' .1000 on the guess as I found out later. "Well," whispers Honest Dan to the Kid, "what d'ye think of the place?" "Some joint!" says the Kid. "Listen--I got a new one. The most magnificently, male mauler on earth! How's that--poor, eh?" "What does it mean?" asks Honest Dan. "It means _me_, Stupid!" pipes the Kid. "I'm havin' some cards made up with that on it. The sagacious, sanguine and scandalous Scanlan, welterweight walloper of the world! Where's the professor?" "Sssh!" whispers Honest Dan. "Lay off that _professor_ gag here. That's small town stuff--he's a mahatma now! He's in one of his silences, but if you keep quiet I'll take you around and show you how he works." He takes us through a little door that leads into a dark room which was a steal on the old chamber of horrors at the Eden Musee. It was full of ghost pictures drawed by artists who had no use for prohibition, and they was plenty of skulls and stuff like that layin' around where they would do the most good. At the far end is a small wire gratin' with a Morris chair on the other side of it. Honest Dan explains that that's where the come-ons sit while the professor massages their soul. They never see him, Dan figurin' in that way it would be harder to pick the professor out at police headquarters when the district attorney got around to him. We hadn't been there a minute, when the curtain at the other end of the room opens and in blows the stout dame, floppin' down in the chair with a sigh as the professor pulls open the grate to feed her the oil. Dan pulls us back in the dark, and I notice she was so excited that she shook all over like a ten cent portion of cornstarch or Instant Desserto and her breath was comin' in short little gasps. Honest Dan is takin' a inventory of the couple of quarts of diamonds she wore and figurin' the list price on his shirt cuffs. When he got through, he dug me in the ribs and says it looks like a big winter. The professor starts to talk with a strong Ellis Island dialect, tellin' the dame that he's just been in a trance, give the sacred crystal the once over and took up her case with a few odd ghosts. The result was that a spirit which was in the know had just give him a tip that she was no less than the tenth regular reincarnation of Cleopatra, who did a big time act in one with a guy called Marc Anthony which was now doin' a single or had jumped to the movies or somethin' like that. The stout dame gets up off the chair and waves her handkerchief. "Merciful Heavens!" she remarks loudly. "I knew it!" Then she pulls a funny fall and faints! The professor hisses at Dan to get him a cigarette, and the West Indian hall boys drag the stout dame into the chair from which she had slipped followin' the professor's sure-fire stuff about Cleopatra. He snatches a few drags out of the cigarette before the dame comes to and when she does, he goes on and says yes she is Cleopatra, they ain't no doubt about that part of it and she must have noticed the strange power she had over men all her life, hadn't she? The stout dame sighs and nods her head. The professor then tells her that she has been in wrong and unhappy all her life, because she had never met her mate. The same bein' a big, husky, red-blooded cave man which would club her senseless and carry her off to his lair. Had she ever met anybody like that? The stout dame says not lately, but when poor Henry and her had first got wed he was a Saturday night ale-hound and once or twice he had--but never mind, she won't speak ill of the dead. The professor says he can see that nobody of the real big-league calibre has crossed her path as yet and that her husband's spirit had told him in confidence only the other day that one night he got to thinkin' what a poor worm he was to be married to Cleopatra, and it had been too much for his humble soul which bust. The dame nods and starts to weep. "Poor Hennerey!" she says. "He ain't stopped lyin' yet. I should never have wed him, but how did I know that my fatal beauty would prove his undoing?" "Ain't that rich?" pipes Honest Dan in my ear. The professor has a coughin' spell, and when he calmed himself, he says he has just got in touch with Marc Anthony and he's pullin' the wires to have him come back to earth so's their souls can be welded together again and if she will come back in a week, he'll be able to tell her some big news. He said it was bein' whispered around among the spirits that Marc Anthony was on earth now, eatin' his noble heart out because he couldn't find her. Then he suddenly shuts the gate, and the dame staggers out, overcome with joy and the smell of that incense which would have made a glue factory quit. Honest Dan beats it around and opens the door for her. They wouldn't take a nickel off her then, because they was savin' her for the big play. About a week after our visit to the Temple of the Inner Star, the Kid comes runnin' up to my room at the hotel one mornin' and busts in the door. He's got a newspaper in his hand and he slams it down on the bed and kicks a innocent chair over on its side. "I hope they give him eighty years!" he hollers. "Who's your friend?" I asks him. "Friend!" he screams. "Why, the big psalm-singin' stiff, I'll murder him!" "They's just one thing I'd like to know, Kid," I says. "Who?" "That cheap, pan-handlin' crook that Dan Leduc wished on me!" he yells. "That rotten snake I kept from dyin' in the gutter, that baby-stealin' rat which claims he's a medium! Professor Bunko--that's who!" I grabbed up the paper and all over the front page is a picture of Miss Vincent. Underneath it says this, "Famous Film Star Rumored Engaged to Millionaire." "Well," I says, "what has this here social note got to do with the Professor?" "What has a jockey got to do with horse-racin'?" bellers the Kid. "Why the big hick, I'll go down there and strangle him right out loud before them high-brow simps of his! I'll have him pinched and I hope he gets life! I'll--" He went on like that for half an hour, and when he finally cools off he explains that the professor had guaranteed to dust off his charmers and charm Miss Vincent so hard that she wouldn't even give a pleasant smile to nobody but the Kid. All Scanlan had to do was follow the professor's dope and they'd be nothin' to it but slippin' the minister and payin' the railroad people for the honeymoon. The Kid had gone ahead and done like the professor said, startin' off with the letter requestin' a lock of her hair clipped at eleven eighteen on a rainy Sunday night. Then he telegraphed her to bathe her thumbs in hot oolong tea every Friday at noon and send him the leaves in a red envelope. He followed that up with a note demandin' a ring that she had first dipped in the juice of a stewed poppy, and then held in back of her while she said, "Alagazza, gazzopi, gazzami" thirteen times. I guess the professor overplayed the thing a bit, because the only action the Kid got was a short note from Miss Vincent in which she said that as long as he had started right in to drink the minute he hit New York, their friendship was all over. The next thing was that notice in the paper. The Kid's idea was to go right down and wreck the Temple of the Inner Star, windin' up by havin' Honest Dan and his bunk medium pinched. I showed him where it would do no good, because he had set 'em up in business and if they was crooked the jury would figure that and put the Kid's name on one of them indictments. He calmed off finally and said he'd be satisfied to let it go at half killin' 'em both and makin' a bum out of the Temple of the Inner Star. We got down there in a few minutes, and Honest Dan meets us at the door. He's all excited and says the time has come for the big hog killin', after which they're gonna blow New York, because they been tipped off that the new police commissioner is about to startle the natives with a raid. The Kid starts to bawl him out, when the big stout dame is ushered into the room and Dan hustles us into the professor's shrine in the rear. As soon as she gets inside, the professor tells her to prepare for a shock. She shivers all over, grabbin' the side of the chair and takin' a long whiff out of a little green bottle. Then she says she'll try and be brave, and to let her have the works. The professor says he has finally dug up Marc Anthony, and all the spirits is in there tryin' for them, so's they can be brought together. He told her to go right back to her rooms at the Fitz-Charlton and he would send out the old thought waves for Marc. Just when he'd get him, he didn't know--it might be a day, a week or a month, but she was to sit there all dolled up to receive him and wait. He said she would know Marc, because he would have a snake tattooed on the third finger of his right hand in memory of the way Cleopatra kissed off. That's all he was allowed to give out just now, he winds up. Well, the stout dame thanks him about six hundred times and waddles out darn near hysterical. She grabs hold of her daughter and hisses in her ear, "Oh, Gladys, they've found him! My beloved Marc Anthony is coming to claim me for his own. Then we will return to Egypt, and, sitting upon a golden throne--" Friend daughter pulls a weary smile and leads Cleopatra to the door. "Oh, don't, mother!" she says. "Don't! If you only knew how all this sickens me! This man has hypnotized you! Why don't you listen to me and take that trip to California where--" "What!" squeals the stout dame. "What? Be away when my Marc comes? How dare you think of such a thing! I did that once and if you have read your ancient history, you must remember the terrible result!" Daughter sighs, shakes her head and they go out. Now the Kid has been takin' all this stuff in without lettin' a peep out of him and when the stout dame has left, I figured he'd tear right in to the plotters, so I got ready to hold up my end and reached for a chair. But what d'ye think the Kid did? He falls down on a sofa and starts to laugh! On the level, I bet he snickered out loud for a good fifteen minutes and then he gets up and walks to the door without sayin' a single word to either Dan or the professor, after all that stuff he pulled on me at the hotel! While we're goin' down in the elevator, Honest Dan tells us that they got a handsome actor who just now is playin' in a show called "Standin' on the Corners, Waitin' for a Job," and they're gonna have him get a snake painted on the third finger of his right hand and shoo him up to the stout dame the next day. After he has been welcome homed, Marc Anthony is gonna say that he's makin' out a check for the professor which throwed them together, and don't she think she ought to send in somethin' also? When she asks what he thinks would be about right, Marc Anthony is gonna say that he guesses she ought to keep the pen she wrote the check with as a souvenir, but that everything else she had, includin' anything a pawnbroker would give a ticket on, would do! I didn't say nothin' to that, but I was doin' a piece of thinkin' and as soon as we got our feet on Fifth Avenue again, I let go. I told the Kid what I thought of his friend Honest Dan in language that Billy Sunday could have been proud of. When I got through with Dan, I took up the professor and give him a play. I said it was my belief that a couple of safety-first crooks, who would deliberate trim a simple old stout dame out of her dough in that coarse manner, should be taken up to the Metropolitan tower and eased off. The Kid just grins and starts hummin' under his breath. By this time I had worked myself up to such a pitch that my goat was chasin' madly about the streets, and to have the Kid act that way was about all I needed. I carefully explained to him just how many kinds of a big, yellah tramp he was, to let the professor crab him with Miss Vincent and get away with it clean. I showed him where he should have at least bent a chair over that guy's head, if he was a real gentleman whose honor had been trifled with and not a four flushin' false alarm. "Gobs of generous Gazoopis!" he snickers at me when I get through. "Our employees is all new, noisy and Norwegians!" They was a queer look in his eye, and I figured he must have slipped out in the mornin' at that and dug up a place where prohibition hadn't carried. I stopped right in the middle of the traffic and told him I was goin' up to the Fritz-Charlton the next mornin' and tip the stout dame off, if it was the last thing I did. He just grins! The next mornin' I beat it up to Cleopatra's hotel, and, after I have waited an hour, she sends a maid down to see me. The maid tells me to spread my hands out flat on a little table that's standin' there and she examines every finger like a sure enough mechanic looks over a second-hand automobile he's gonna buy to hack with. Finally, she throws my hands down with a disappointed look and her shoulders begins one of them hula dances. "_Viola_!" she remarks. "That leetle snake, he is not there! Madame she is not at home--away wit' you!" Well, I figures I did what _I_ could, so I breezed out and left Cleopatra flat. Failin' to locate the Kid anywheres, I went on down to the studio and walk right in on the professor and Honest Dan givin' Marc Anthony a dress rehearsal. He was a handsome guy, all right, sickenin'ly so, with one of them soft, mushy faces and wavin' blonde hair. He's had the snake tattooed on his finger, like the part called for, and the way he carries on about how he's gonna give the stout dame the work makes me foam at the mouth. My once favorably known left had all it could do to keep from bouncin' off his chin! Finally, they start him away and Honest Dan tells me how they got it framed up for him to meet Cleopatra. He was to go to the Fritz-Charlton and send up a card that claimed he was the editor of "Society Seethings," and when she comes down to see him, he was to ask her what was her plans for the winter season and a lot of bunk like that. In no way was he to make a crack about bein' Marc Anthony--that would be too raw, but as he was leavin' he was to carelessly let her see that snake on his finger. That was all! They knowed Cleopatra would do the rest. I couldn't stand no more, so I hustled back to our hotel, and the minute I get in, the clerk tells me the Kid has been chasin' around lookin' for me all morning so I beat it right up to our suite. The Kid is doin' his road work by canterin' around the room when I come in, and he rushes over and grabs me by the arm. "When are them yeggmen gonna send Marc Anthony up to Cleopatra?" he demands, all excited. "He just left a few minutes ago!" I tells him. "Why?" The Kid gives a yell and jumps over to the door leadin' to our sittin'-room, yankin' it open with one jerk. I thought I'd pass away when I got a flash at what was inside. They was about twenty of the roughest lookin' guys I ever seen in my life, all dolled up in new suits, shoes and hats. Some of them I recognized as ex-heavy-weights, they was a few strikin' longshoremen, a fair sprinklin' of East Side gunmen and here and there what had passed for a actor in the tanks. "Some layout, eh?" pipes the Kid, rubbin' his hands together. "It took me all mornin' and nearly three hundred bucks to rib them guys up, but they're all desperate, darin' and dolled up!" "What the--what's the big idea?" I gasps. "Hold up your hands!" roars the Kid at his rough and readys. They did--and I got it! Each and every one of them guys had a snake tattooed on the third finger of his right hand! The Kid had probably put in the mornin' rehearsin' 'em, because all he had to say now was, "Go to it!" and they beat it. He told me they was all goin' up to the Fritz-Charlton and ask for the stout dame at three minute intervals, show their right hand and claim they was Marc Anthony! "If that don't show the stout dame that the professor is the bunk and if she don't let out a moan that'll be plainly heard at police headquarters, I'll make Dan a present of the five thousand he took me for!" says the Kid. In about a hour the telephone begins to ring and I answers it. When the ravin' maniac on the other end of the wire got to where he could control the English language, I found out it was no less than Honest Dan. The main thing he said was for us to come down to the Temple of the Inner Star right away, because him and the professor has got in a terrible jam. We hopped in a taxi and did like he said. Honest Dan is waitin' in the elevator for us, and he looked like the loser in a battle royal. He says the stout dame has just left, and she's in a terrible state. I could believe that easy, because they is nothin' more vicious in the land of the free than a enraged come-on. I'd rather face a nervous wildcat than face a angry boob! "Somebody put the bee on us!" howls Honest Dan, wringin' his hands. "And a truckload of guys went up to the hotel claimin' they was Marc Anthony in voices that disturbed people in China. They throwed the real Marc out on his lily white ear, and seven of 'em got pinched for disorderly conduct. I understand they was a mêlée up there that would make a football game look like chess and the papers is havin' a field day with the thing! We got to grab Cleopatra's gems and go away from here before the whole plant is uncovered." "Why," I says, "how are you gonna take the stout dame now? She knows it's a fake, don't she?" "Fake, hell!" hollers Dan. "_She thinks it's on the level_! The only thing that bothers her is which one is the _right_ Marc Anthony. She says two of them had such patrician faces that she thinks some of the Caesars has got mixed up with the lot. She's gonna put it up to her late husband, and she's comin' back here any minute to talk with his spirit!" He begins walkin' the floor. "I never seen no dame like that!" he busts out. "She _wants_ to be trimmed! The only thing she seemed to be sore about was the fact that she couldn't pick out the right Marc Anthony. Now we git the chance of a lifetime to grab a roll when she comes back and we ain't got no ghost! If I could only get the guy that sent all them Marc Anthonys up there," he winds up with a yell, "I'd make a ghost out of him!" He never seemed to think the Kid might have done it, because the Kid was the boy that had set him and the professor up in business and why should he crab his own play? A little electric buzzer makes good while Honest Dan is ravin' away, and Dan, gettin' white, grabs the Kid by the arm and begs him to come to the rescue. "Jump in that cabinet there!" he whispers to him. "And when this dame asks if you're Henry, say yes, and tell her the real Marc Anthony is the guy with the blonde hair, and he's now at the City Hospital. That's all you got to say and--" He shoves the Kid back of the cabinet and me back of a curtain just as Cleopatra blows in with her daughter. Honest Dan tells them to be seated quick, because the professor has just got the spirit of her husband where he's ready to talk to the reporters. The West Indian hall boys sneak around in the back, rattlin' chains and bangin' on pans. Then Dan reaches back and opens the mechanical bellows, and a blast of cold air comes into the room while a white light flashes over the cabinet. "Now!" whispers Dan to the stout dame, "speak quick!" At that minute, Dan looked like a guy with a ticket on a hundred to one shot, watchin' it breeze into the stretch leadin' by by a city block. "Is--is that you Henery?" squeaks Cleopatra in a tremblin' voice. They's a rustle in the cabinet and then _this_ comes out over the top. "Generous gobs of Gazoopis! Our employees is ready, reckless and Russian. This guy is crooked, crazy and careless. He will take you for your beautiful, bulgin' bankroll and--" "Why, Henery!" squawks the dame, jumpin' up off the chair. I heard the well known dull thud on the other side of the cabinet, and I guess it was Professor Parducci fallin' senseless on the floor. I thought Honest Dan had dropped dead from the way he was hung over a sofa. "Each and every day," goes on the voice in the cabinet, "each and every day we ship a million lovely loaves--" "Merciful Heavens!" yells the dame. "A sign! Henery, shall I go back?" "Back is right!" says the voice. "These guys is cheap crooks and they ain't no Marc Anthony!" The lights go out and Honest Dan comes to, rushin' over to the stout dame with a million alibis tryin' to be first out of his mouth. I beat it around to the back, but the professor has gone somewheres else while the goin' was fair to medium. "You have deceived me, you wretch!" screams the stout dame. "You have--" That's as far as she got, because right in the middle of it she pulls a faint, and daughter eases her to the floor. The Kid hops out of the cabinet and grabs Honest Dan. "Beat it, you rat," bawls Scanlan, "before I commit mayhem!" From the way Honest Dan went out of that room, he must have passed Samoa, the first hour! Daughter reaches up and grabs the Kid's hand. "I--I--want to thank you," she says, "for saving my mother. I--I don't know what might have happened, if you hadn't been here!" "That's all right!" pipes the Kid. "D'ye want us to do anything else?" "Yes," she says. "Will you tell me where you heard that--that description of the--the million lovely loaves?" "Sure," answers the Kid. "When we was comin' East, we stopped off at a hick burg somewheres and a guy took us over a bakery--" Daughter claps her hands and laughs. "Poetic justice!" she says. "That explains everything. My poor, dear father founded that bakery, and those were the last advertisements for it he wrote!" CHAPTER VII LIFE IS REEL! The nation is bein' flooded these days with advertisements claimin' that any white man which works for less than forty thousand bucks a year is a sucker. The best of 'em is wrote by a friend of mine, Joe Higgins, who gets all of twenty bucks every Saturday at six--one-thirty in July, August and September. The ads that Joe tears off deals with inventions. He shows that Edison prob'ly wouldn't of made a nickel over a million, if he hadn't discovered everything but America, and that Bell, Marconi, Fulton and that gang, wouldn't of been any better known to-day than ham and eggs, if they hadn't used their brains for purposes of thinkin' and invented somethin'. There's fortunes which would make the Vanderbilts and Astors look like public charges, explains Joe, awaitin' the bird which will quit playin' Kelly pool some night and invent a new way to do _anything_. The ad winds up with the important information that the people which Joe works for is so close to the patent office gang that they could get French fried potatoes copyrighted. For the sum of "write for particulars," they'll rush madly from Washington papers that'll protect any idea you got, before some snake-in-the-grass friend plies you with strawberry sundaes and steals your secret. At the bottom of this there's a long list of things sadly needed by a sufferin' public, which will willin'ly shower their inventor with medals and money,--things like non-playable ukaleles, doctors which can guess what's the matter with _you_ instead of your bankroll, grape fruit that won't hit back while you're eatin' it, non-refillable jails and so forth. All you got to do is stake yourself to a couple of test tubes, a white apron and a laboratory, hire Edison, Marconi, Maxim and Hennery Ford as assistants--with the U. S. Mint in back of you in case expenses come up--and you'll wake up some mornin' to find yourself the talk of Fall River. I been lookin' over these ads for a long time, but there's three names I never seen on the list of famous inventors. They are to wit: the guy that discovered the only absolute cure for rheumatism, the one that invented the dope book on the female race and the bird that holds a patent on the complete understandin' of human nature. I guess the reason I never seen _their_ names is because the thing ain't really been decided yet--there seems to be some difference of opinion. But if you wanna find out how many guys there are that swear they invented _all_ them things, look up the population of the world. The figures is exactly the same. I ain't met nobody yet which didn't admit they had the only correct dope on women, rheumatism and human nature, but I'm still waitin' to be introduced to the guy which really knows anything at all about _any_ of 'em, when it gets right down to the box score! The nearest I ever come to knowin' the original patentee to two of 'em was Eddie Duke. Eddie is one of the best men in the movable picture game, accordin' to everybody but himself. _He_ concedes he's _the_ best. He's a little, aggressive guy which would of prob'ly been a lightweight champion, for instance, if it hadn't been for his parents. They killed off his chances of makin' _big_ money, by slippin' him a medium dose of education when he was too young to fight back. Eddie's like a million other guys I know, all Half-way Henrys, you might call 'em. Too much brains to dig streets and not enough to own 'em! Unhappy mediums that always calls _somebody_ boss! We're sittin' in Duke's office one mornin', when without even knockin'--a remarkable thing for a movie star--in walks Edmund De Vronde. Edmund has caused more salesladies to take their pens in hand than any other actor in the world. His boudoir is hung with pictures of dames from eight to eighty and from Flatbush to Florida. If some of 'em was actual reproductions, them dames was foolish for sellin' shirtwaists, believe me! Edmund is as beautiful as five hundred a week and built like Jack Dempsey. Off the screen he's as rough and ready as a chorus man. "Hello, Cutey!" says the Kid, who liked De Vronde and carbolic acid the same way. "I've come to ask a favor," says De Vronde. "Well," Duke tells him, lightin' a cigarette and lookin' straight at the end of it, "we ain't gonna pay for no more autographed photos, we won't fire the press agent, you gotta finish this picture with Miss Hart and both them camera men that's shootin' this movie is high-class mechanics and stays! Outside of that, I'm open to reason." "What I want will cost you nothing," says De Vronde. "That is--practically nothing. My dresser,--the silly idiot!--tendered me his resignation this morning!" "Well, what's all this gotta do with me?" he asks De Vronde. "I can't be bothered diggin' up valets to see that you got plenty of fresh vanilla cold cream every morning and that they's ample talcum powder on the chiffonier! I got--" "I have already secured a man," interrupts De Vronde. "He happens to be a--a--friend of mine. The poor fellow is desperately in need of work. He's in Denver at present, and I'd like to have him on as soon as possible. If we're to begin that big feature on Monday, I'm sure I can't be bothered thinking about where this shirt and that cravat is, and just what color combinations will be best for my costume in the gypsy cave." "That's right!" grins the Kid. "Figure for yourself what would happen, if Cutey forgot his mustache curler, for instance. The whole country would be, now, aghast, and he'd be a nervous wreck in five minutes!" "So if you'll kindly telegraph the fare to this address," goes on De Vronde, ignorin' the Kid, "I'll be obliged." With that he blows. "And the tough part of it is," moans Duke, reachin' for a 'phone, "I'll have to do just that! It'll cost about sixty bucks to import this bird here and when he gets here, it's nothin' but another mouth to feed. If I had half the nerve of that big stiff De Vronde, I'd take a German quartette over to London and make 'em sing the 'Wacht Am Rhein' in front of Buckin'ham Palace!" "He claims this valet's a friend of his, too," says the Kid. "I'll bet he'll turn out to be another one of them sweet spirits of nitre boys, eh?" "If he is," growls Duke, "it won't be two days before he'll be sick and tired of the movie game, you can bet two green certificates on that!" A week later, me and the Kid is standin' near the entrance to Film City talkin' to Miss Vincent, when a young feller blows in through the gates and walks up to us. He's one of them tall birds, as thin as a dime, and his clothes has been brushed right into the grain. When the light hit him, I seen they was places where even the grain had quit. His shoes is so run over at the heels that they'd of fit nice and snug into a car track and he'd just gone and shaved himself raw. One good look and this bird checked up as a member in good standin' of one of the oldest lodges in the world. They got a branch in every city, and they was organized around the time that Adam and Eve quit the Garden of Eden for a steam-heated flat. The name of this order is "The Shabby Genteels." But what transfixed the eye and held the attention, as we remark in the workhouse, was this guy's face. I might say he had the most inconsistent set of features I ever seen off the screen. He ain't a thousand miles from bein' good-looking and his chin is well cut and square, like at one time he'd been willin' to hustle for his wants and fight for 'em once he got 'em, but that time ain't _now_! His eyes is the tip-off. They don't look straight into yours when he talks--the liar's best bet!--or they don't look at the ground, but they stare off over your shoulder into the air, like he's seein' somethin' _you_ can't, and it ain't pleasant to look at. I've seen that look on beaten fighters, when the winner is settin' himself for the knockout, and I've seen it on the faces of other guys, when some smug-jowled judge has reached into their lives and took ten or twenty years as a deposit on what they'll do with the rest. It's a look you don't forget right away, take it from me! Well, this feller that's walkin' up to us had that look. If a director had yelled "Register despair!" at him, he could of just looked natural and they'd of thought he was another Mansfield. And he's _young_! Get that? "Pardon me!" he says, takin' off his hat. "Where can I find Mister De Vronde?" The Kid puts his hand on his arm and swings him around, "You'll pro'bly find him over behind the Street Scene in Venice," he tells him. "If he ain't there, look around the Sahara Desert for him--know him when you see him?" The other guy looks at us for a minute like he thinks he's bein' kidded. Then he pulls a slow, tired grin. "I think so," he says. "Thanks!" When he walks away, I turns to Miss Vincent. "That's prob'ly Cutey De Vronde's new guardeen," I says. "I guess he--" "You and the Kaiser is the same kind of guessers!" butts in the Kid. "He guessed we wouldn't scrap! If that guy we was just talkin' to is a lady's maid for Cutey, I can sing like Caruso!" "He doesn't look like a valet," says Miss Vincent, kinda doubtful. "I don't blame him!" says the Kid. "And lemme tell you, he never got them muscles from brushin' clothes and buttonin' vests. I felt his arm when I swung him around that time, and this guy is just about as soft as the Rock of Gibraltar!" "I can't understand," says Miss Vincent, "how a strong, healthy man can be a valet--ugh!" she winds up, with a little shiver. "That's easy," sneers the Kid. "A _man_ can't!" Well, a man _did_! Gimme your ears, as the deaf guy said. The next mornin' it turns out that I can guess like a rabbit can run. The new entry on the payroll borrehs a match from me, and durin' the tête-à-tête that folleyed, I find out that his name is John R. Adams and, as far as the world in general and America in particular is concerned, it could of been George Q. Mud. Durin' the lifetime of twenty-nine years he's been on earth, he's tried his hand at everything from bankin' to bartenderin', and so far the only thing he's been a success at is bein' a failure. At that he leads the league. And now, to top it all off, he's a valet for a movie hero! "It's all a matter of luck!" he says, bitterly. "A man who tries these days is not an ambitious hustler, but a _pest_ to the powers above him! I defy a man to stand on his own feet and make good without influence. It's not _what_ do you know any more, but _who_ do you know! I've been a bookkeeper, a printer, a salesman, a chauffeur, a bank clerk, and, yes, even a chorus man. At every one of those things I gave the best I had in stock to get to the front. Did I get there? Not quite!" he throws away the cigarette he's hardly had a puff of. "Why?" he asks me. "Because in every trade or profession there's somebody with half the sand and ability, who don't know the job's requirements but knows the boss's son! I'm not a quitter or I wouldn't be here, but I'm sick and disgusted with this thing called life and--" "And that's why you never got nowhere!" breaks in a voice behind us--and there's Eddie Duke. Adams flushes up and starts away, but Eddie pulls him back. "Listen to me, young feller!" he says. "I happened to hear your moan just now and your dope is all wrong. There ain't no such thing as luck; if there was, a blacksmith is the luckiest guy in the world and oughta make a million a minute, because he's handlin' nothin' but horseshoes all day long, ain't he? Forget about that luck stuff! Makin' good is all in the way you look at it, anyways. A bricklayer makin' thirty bucks a week, raisin' a family and bringin' home his pay every Saturday night in his pocket instead of on his breath, is makin' good as big as J. P. Morgan is--d'ye get me? Yes, sir, that bird can say he's got over! Makin' good is like religion, every other guy has a different idea of what it means, but there's many a feller swingin' a pick that's makin' good just as much as the bird that owns the ditch--in his own way! You claim a guy's got to know somebody these days to get over, eh? Well, you got that one right, I'll admit it!" "Of course!" says Adams, brightenin' up. "That's my argument and--" "That ain't no argument, that's a whine!" sneers Duke, cuttin' him off short. "Listen to me--you bet you gotta know somebody to get anywheres, _you gotta know yourself_! That's all! Just lay off thinkin' how lucky the other guy is, and give Stephen X. You a minute's attention. You may be the biggest guy in the world at _somethin'_, if you'll only check up on yourself and see what that somethin' is! Remember Whosthis says, 'Full many a rose is born to blush unseen--' Well, don't be one of them desert flowers; come into the city and let 'em all watch you blush. Get me? How did you happen to meet this big stiff De Vronde?" Adams gets pale for a second and clears his throat. "I'm working for him," he says slowly, like he's thinkin' over each word before lettin' it go, "and I don't care to discuss him." At just that minute, De Vronde, Miss Vincent, the Kid and another dame come rollin' up in Miss Vincent's twelve-cylinder garage-mechanic's friend. De Vronde hops out and walks over to us, wavin' his cane and frownin'. "Look here!" he bawls at Adams. "I thought I told you to be at the east gate with my duster and goggles? You've kept me waiting half an hour, while you're gossiping around! Really, if you're going to start this way, I shall have to get another man. Look sharp now, no excuses!" The Kid winks at me, noddin' to Adams who's lookin' at De Vronde with a very peculiar gaze. I couldn't quite get what he's registerin'. Miss Vincent looks interested and sits up. The other dame opens the door of the car and stands on the runnin' board. "Here's where the fair Edmund gets his and gets it good!" hisses Duke in my ear, lookin' at Adams. "I'm very sorry," says Adams, suddenly. "I should have remembered." And without another word or look, he exits. "Yellah!" snorts the Kid. "No spine!" sneers Miss Vincent. "Nick-looking boy--who is he?" asks the other dame, lookin' after him. Duke slaps his hands together all of a sudden and gazes at her like a guy gettin' his first flash at his hour-old son. Then he looks after Adams, grins and claps his hands again. "Who is he?" repeats the dame. De Vronde sneers. "Really," he says, "your interest is surprising. That fellow is my--" "Shut up!" roars Duke, springin' to the runnin'-board. "Here!" he goes on, talkin' fast. "I'm gonna shoot them two interiors in half a hour, so you better call this joy ride off!" He turns to the strange dame and speaks very polite, "Miss Vincent will show you everything; if you want anything, just 'phone the office." When they're gone, Duke turns to me and grins. "I often heard you say you made Scanlan welterweight champ," he says, "by _pickin'_ the guys he was to fight till he got where he could lick 'em _all_. Well, I'm gonna do the same thing for our friend Mister Jack Adams, valet for Edmund De Vronde, the salesladies' joy. I'm goin' in that boy's corner from this day on, and, when I get through, he'll be a champ!" "What?" I says. "Train a guy like that for the ring? Why--" "I see you don't make me," he interrupts, "which is just as well, because you'd be liable to ball the whole thing up, if you did. This kid Adams has got symptoms of bein' a he-man in his face. He's hit the bumps good and hard and right now he's down, takin' a long count. Now whether he needs to be helped or kicked to his feet, I don't know, but I'm the baby that's gonna stand him up!" "Well," I tells him, "go to it! But the thing I can't figure, is what d'you care if he gets over or not--who pays _you_ off on it?" He looks me over for a minute, registerin' deep thought. "I'm gonna give you the works!" he says finally. "And if you ever mention a word of this to anybody, they'll have to identify your body afterwards by that green vest you got!" "Rockefeller's three dollars short of havin' enough money to make me tell!" I says. "Fair enough!" says Duke. "Did you notice that strange dame which was with Miss Vincent in the car just now?" "The blonde that would of made Marc Anthony throw away Cleopatra's 'phone number?" I asks. "Yeh--I noticed her. Easily that!" "Well," he says, "this dame, which was such a knockout to you, is Miss Dorothy Devine. When her father died last year, she become a orphan." "Well, that's tough," I says. "Me and the Kid will kick in with any amount in reason and--" "Halt!" said Eddie. "Her dear old father only left her a pittance of fifty thousand a year and two-thirds control of the company we're all workin' for out here. Now besides bein' several jumps ahead of the average dame in looks, Dorothy is a few centuries ahead of the movies in ideas. She claims we're all wrong, and she's gonna revolutionize the watch-'em-move photo industry. That's what she's here for now!" "Well," I says after a bit, "what d'ye expect _me_ to do--bust out cryin'?" "Not yet!" he says. "I'll tell you when. Accordin' to Dorothy, all the pictures we put out are rotten. Our heroes and villains are plucked alive from dime novels and is everything but true to life. Our heroines belong in fairy tales and oughta be let stay there. _She_ claims that no beautiful girl with more money than the U. S. Mint would fall for the handsome lumberjack, and that no guy who couldn't do nothin' better than punch cows would become boss of the ranch through love of the owner's daughter. All that stuff's the bunk, she says. Her dope is that a real man would boost himself to the top, girl or no girl, and the woman never lived which could put a man over, if he didn't have the pep himself. As a finish, she tells me that no healthy, intelligent girl would stand for the typical movie hero. A bird which would go out and ride roughshod over all the villains like they do in the films would nauseate her, she says, and we have no right to encourage this bunk by feedin' it to an innocent public!" "Eddie," I says, "she ain't a mile off the track, at that! This--" "Oh, she ain't, eh?" he snarls. "Well that shows that you and her knows as much about human nature as I do about makin' a watch! Miss Devine wants us to put on a movie that she committed herself, and, if we do, we'll be the laughin' stock of the world and Big Bend. It's got everything in it but a hero, a heroine, a villain, action and love interest. It's about as hot as one of them educational thrillers like 'Natives Makin' Panama Hats in Peoria' would be. A couple of these would put the company on the blink, and I lose a ten-year contract at ample money a year!" "Well," I says, "what are you gonna do--quit?" "Your mind must be as clean as a baby's," he says, "because you got your first time to use it! No, I ain't gonna quit! I'm gonna show Miss Dorothy Devine that as a judge of movin' pictures, she's a swell-lookin' girl. I like these tough games, a guy feels so good all over when he wins 'em. She's startin' with all the cards--money, looks and, what counts more, she's just about the Big Boss here now. All I got is one good card and that's only a jack--Jack Adams, to be exact--and I'm gonna beat her with him!" "I'll fall!" I says. "How?" "Well," he tells me, "my argument is that all these thrillers we put on are sad, weary and slow compared to some of the things that happen in real life every day that we never hear about. They's many a telephone girl, for instance, makin' a man outa a millionaire's no-good son and many a sure-enough heiress bein' responsible for the first mate on a whaler becomin' her kind and a director in the firm! I claim it does _good_ and not harm, to feed this stuff to a trustin' public by way of the screen. Why? Because every shippin'-clerk that's sittin' out in front puts himself in the hero's place and every salesgirl dreams that she's the heroine. Without thinkin', they both get to pickin' up the virtues we pin on our stars, and it can't _help_ but do 'em good! I don't know who started the shimmy, but I know women and I know human nature, and knowin' 'em both, I'm gonna make a sportin' proposition to Miss Dorothy Devine!" "What's the bet?" I says. "I may take some of it myself." "The bet is this," he tells me. "Here's this boy Adams, who, bein' De Vronde's valet, is undisputed low man in Film City. He's disgusted with life, he ain't got the ambition of a sleepin' alligator, or nerve enough to speak harshly to _himself_. All right! If Miss Devine will follow my orders for a couple of weeks without Adams knowin' who or what she is, I claim that bird will make good! All that guy needs is a reason for tryin', and she can make herself it!" "You don't expect a dame like that to make love to a guy that cleans De Vronde's shoes, do you?" I asks him. "You must of been a terrible trial to teacher when you went to school!" he snorts. "No!--I don't want her to make love to him. I want to prove to her that the things we put in the movies is happenin' all the time in real life, only more so! I want her to make Adams _feel_ just how far back he's gone. I want her to cut him dead, because he's a valet, and let him know that's the reason. Then nature and him will do the rest, or I'll pay off! Who put Adam over? Eve! All right, I'm gonna wind this thing up and let it go. I'll take the best scenes from the last six pictures we put out, and make Adams and Miss Devine play 'em out, without either of 'em knowin' it. They oughta be a villain, and I'm shy one just now, but I'll lay six to five that one will turn up!" "Look here!" I says. "Suppose Miss Devine should fall for this Adams guy for _real_! Did you ever figure that?" "Yes!" he snorts. "And suppose the Pacific Ocean is made outa root beer!" I guess Miss Devine must of been a sport, because Duke starts his stunts off the next day. She promised to give Adams a month to show signs of life and to do exactly as Duke tells her. Adams ain't to be told a thing about it, and Miss Devine giggles herself sick over how she's gonna show Duke the difference between real life and the movies. They put up a thousand bucks apiece. The first action come off when Miss Devine and Adams meets in the "Sahara Desert" set. "Good morning!" pipes Adams, bowin' and raisin' his hat. "I beg your pardon!" comes back Miss. Devine, drawin' herself up and presentin' him with a glance that's colder than a dollar's worth of ice. "I--I--said good morning!" stammers Adams, kinda flustered. "You have made a mistake, my man!" she says, each word bein' about twenty below zero. "A mistake I shall report to your master. I--" "But--," begins Adams, gettin' red. "You--" "That will do!" she cuts him off. "I'm not in the habit of arguing with servants. You may go!" Sweet cookie! The poor kid looks like he'd stopped one with his chin and for the first time since I'd seen him, he straightens up with his hard, white face fairly quiverin'. I thought he was ready for a peach of a come-back, but he fooled me. He walks off without a word. Miss Devine laughs like a kid with a new rattle and snaps her fingers after him. The next day, Duke is directin' a scene in a big thriller they're puttin' on and Miss Devine is appearin' in it as a super at his orders. She's wearin' enough jewels to free Ireland and she looked better than 1912 would look to Germany. Adams is standin' on one side with his arms full of De Vronde's different changes. Duke looks at Miss Devine for a minute and then raises his voice. "Say--you!" he bawls at her. "What's the matter, can't you hear? You made that exit wrong four times runnin', d'ye think we get this film for nothin'? What d'ye mean by comin' here and ruinin' this scene on me, eh? You wanna be a movie star, they tell me--well, you got the same chance that I have of bein' made Sultan of Turkey! If you can act, I'm King of Shantung! Why--" Miss Devine gasps and looks more than ever like a rose, by turnin' a deep and becomin' shade of red. Nobody pays any attention to the thing. They'd all heard it a million times before, when Duke was rehearsin' supers. Nobody but Adams! He drops all of De Vronde's clothes right on the floor, and I thought the fair Edmund would faint away dead! Adams walks right through the camera men up to Duke and swings him around while he's still bawlin' out Miss Devine. "That's enough!" he snarls, white to the ears. "One more word to this lady, and I'll knock you down! You hound--you wouldn't dare use that language to a man!" Duke's eyes sparkle, but he looks Adams over coolly and sneers. "Curse you, Jack Dalton!" he says. "Unhand that woman, or you shall feel my power, eh?" He sticks his chin close to Adams's face. "Take the air!" he growls. "Where d'ye get that leadin' man stuff? If I see you around here any more this afternoon, I'll fire you and you'll walk home for all the money you'll draw from this man's firm. Now, beat it!" Adams hesitates a minute, and then he looks like on second thought he's scared at what he's done. He mumbles somethin' and walks right outa the picture, nor even turnin' when De Vronde squawks at him for walkin' over his silk duster which he'd throwed on the floor. "That's all for now, ladies and gentlemen!" pipes Duke suddenly, turnin' to the bunch. "I'll shoot the rest of this to-morrow." They all blow out except Miss Devine. Duke looks at her, rubbin' his hands together and grinnin'. "All right!" she smiles back. "First honors! What will I do next?" She didn't have to do nothin' next! The thing that Duke had started got away from him and Adams led all the tricks from then to the finish. Duke told me afterwards he felt like a guy which has lit a match on Lower Broadway and seen the Woolworth Buildin' go up in flames! The very next afternoon, Mister Jack Adams becomes a star. Yes, sir! A gang of supers is hangin' around the general offices waitin' for their pay. De Vronde and Miss Devine is sittin' at a cute little table under a tree drinkin' lemonade, and Adams is standin' with the supers, watchin'--Miss Devine. "Look at that big stiff tryin' to make the dame!" pipes one of the extrys, a big husky grabbed up off the wharves in Frisco. He points at De Vronde. "If I was built like he is, I'd eat arsenic!" Adams walks over to him. "Why?" he says, very cool and hard. "Heh?" says the super. "Why, look at 'im. Lookit the lace shirt he's wearin' and them pink socks. Why--" "Shut up!" snarls Adams. "I know your kind--you think because a man bathes, shaves, speaks English and wears clean linen, that there's something wrong with him! You roughnecks resent the--" "Well, I'd hate to be the family that brung that up!" interrupts the super. "Gawd! It makes a man sick to look at 'im!" It all happened so quick that even Miss Devine and De Vronde didn't get it. They's just a sudden swish--a crack of bone meetin' bone, and the big super is flat on his ear! The rest of the gang mills around, shoutin' and yellin', and Adams prods the super with the toe of his shoe. I see Duke runnin' over with a couple of camera men which is so excited they've even brought their machines along. "Listen!" spits out Adams, bendin' over the fallen gladiator. "Don't make any more remarks like that about--about Mister De Vronde, while I'm in this camp! If you do, I'll hammer you to mush! If you don't believe that, get up now and I'll illustrate it!" The super plays dead, and Adams turns away. By this time, Miss Devine and De Vronde, on the outskirts of the mob, has seen some of it. "Really," says De Vronde, frowning "you'll have to stop this brawling, Adams! I can't have my man--" Adams gives him the up and down. "Aw, shut up!" he snarls--and blows. Well, right now I'm a million miles up in the air and no more interested in the thing than the bartenders was in final returns of the prohibition vote. They's two things I can't figure at all. One of 'em is why Adams should knock a man kickin' for roastin' De Vronde, who didn't have a friend in the place, and the other is what Duke and them camera men is doin' there. About a week blows by, and then Miss Devine rides out alone one mornin' on a big white stallion. In a hour the horse trots into camp with the saddle empty. For the next twenty minutes they's more excitement in and about Film City than they was at the burnin' of Rome, but while Duke is gettin' up searchin' parties, Adams has cranked up Miss Devine's roadster and is a speck of dust goin' towards Frisco. It was around five o'clock that afternoon, when he comes back and Miss Devine is sittin' beside him. Her ankle is all bound up with handkerchiefs and Adams is drivin' very slow and careful. He stops and then turns to help her outa the car, but she dodges his arm, steps down all by herself and without any sign of a limp, walks into the general offices. Adams stands lookin' after her for a minute, kinda stunned. "What was the matter?" I asks him, runnin' up. "Why," he says, without lookin' at me; "she broke--she said she broke her ankle. She--" Then he turns and runs the car into the garage. The next mornin' he quits! Duke broke the news, comin' over to Miss Devine, while I'm tellin' her how Kid Scanlan clouted his way up to the title. "Well, Miss Devine," he growls, "I guess you win! Adams has left Film City flat on its back. I thought that bird had the stuff in him, but I guess you saw deeper than I did!" "I guess I did!" says Miss Devine kinda slow. "I knew he'd never stay." Duke clears his throat a coupla times, blows his nose and wipes his forehead with a silk handkerchief--his only dissipation. "And now I got a confession to make," he says, throwin' back his shoulders like he's bracin' himself for a punch. "Ever since the day I played you against Adams, I been takin' a movie of you and him. Every time you was together they was a camera man--and a good one--in the offin'. You didn't know it and neither did Adams, but the result is a peach of a movie that'll make us a lot of money, if you'll let me release it. All I need is a couple more close-ups and--" Miss Devine has been listenin' like she was in a trance. She turned more colors than they is in the flag, and, lemme tell you, they all become her! "You--you--made a picture out of our--out of--me?" she gasps. Whatever else Eddie Duke is, he's game. "Yeh!" he nods. "And wait till you see it--it's great! Why, you got Pickford lookin' like a amateur, and Adams will be a riot with the girls the minute this movie's released! I wanted to prove to you that the movies ain't got a thing on real life, and I did! Why Adams can sign a contract with me any time he wants. That's makin' good, ain't it? From valet to movie star in five reels--and who put him over? _You_!!!" Before Miss Devine can say anything, we hear voices behind us. We're standin' by a high hedge that had been set up for a picture that mornin', and it was Miss Devine that motioned us to keep quiet. The voices on the other side are Adams and De Vronde. "I've done my share!" De Vronde is sayin'. "I've been sending home--" "Eighty dollars a month!" cuts in Adams, in that new, cold voice of his. "Eighty dollars a month to your father and mother, and you're making a thousand a week. Eighty dollars a month, and you pay a hundred and fifty for a suit! It's hard for me to call you a brother of mine! Do you know why I whipped that bum the other day? For what he said about you? No! Because I didn't want it thought that the whole family was as yellow as you are! But I'm going to make you game. You're going to turn what money you've hoarded over to Dad." We're all lookin' at each other--dumb-founded! Even Duke is pale and pop-eyed. "By the Eternal, Miss Devine," he whispers in her ear. "I swear I didn't know _that_! It don't happen in real life, eh? _Brothers_--by the dust of Methuselah!" De Vronde is speakin', and we bend to listen. "I can't!" he chokes out. "Why, I'll--" We hear Adams snort. "Stop!" he says. "You can make more money than I can and make Ma and Dad comfortable for the rest of their days. I'm going--" "About that girl--that Miss Devine," De Vronde breaks in, his voice shaking "It's only right that you should know. She's made an ass of you--she and that Duke person! You've been followed about and everything you've done has been recorded by a camera. She had no accident the other day--her ankle wasn't hurt--the horse was sent back with the empty saddle deliberately--they photographed that, too! They had a silly bet of some sort and--" Miss Devine steps deliberately right around the side of the hedge almost into Adams's arms. He's white and lookin' much like he did the first day he blowed into Film City. The minute he sees her he straightens up. "How long have you been here?" he clips out. "I've heard--everything!" she says, lookin' him right in the eye. Adams runs his hand through his hair, and pulls a look that went through me to the bone. I don't know how it hit Miss Devine. "And all of this--this--your attitude toward me--the accident--was played to make a picture?" he says. "Yes!" says Miss Devine. "All except _this_!" And I hope I never see another movie, if both her arms didn't go around his neck--right out loud in public, too! "All except _this_!" she repeats. "And, oh, Jack--this is _real_!!" "I win a thousand bucks!" pants Duke, draggin' me away--De Vronde blew the minute she appeared on the scene--"I win a thousand bucks!" he says. "And the picture is gonna be a riot! If they was only a good camera man here now for that close up at the finish, eh? Still--I guess that would be too raw!" He looks back where Adams and Miss Devine is posin' for a picture of still life. "And she said this love stuff was the bunk!" he hollers. "Oh, boy!!!!" CHAPTER VIII HOSPITAL STUFF Every time I see a thermometer, a watch, and a egg my temperature aviates to about a hundred and ninety-eight in the shade--and if they's nobody lookin' I bust 'em! I spent two months and eight hundred bucks with that layout once and, oh, lady!--Say! The next time I feel a vacation comin' on, I'm goin' to Russia and holler, "Hooray for the Czar!" I just been Red-Crossed to within a inch of my life and I'm off that "take-two-once-every-twice, and don't-eat-any-this-or-drink-any-that" stuff! The right cross and the double cross has been little pals of mine for years, and I once got throwed out of school for pullin' that "How to make a maltese cross" thing, but the _red_ one was all new to me up to last month. They call me a glutton for punishment, but I got--enough! I can't go in a drug store no more, because the sight of the prescription bar in the rear affects me like strong drink and I even had to lay off peas, because they look like pills. All the food I got durin' the time I become a victim of the Red Cross could have been carried over the Rocky Mountains by a lame ant, and I got a hole in my wrist that can be used as a ash tray from doctors grabbin' it to give my pulse early mornin' workouts and clockin' it over the full course. I was allowed two kinds of milk to drink--hot and cold. The only thing I could get to read was wrote to order on the premises and was all on the same subject, "Shake well before using!" The whole thing was brought on by two words and Genaro, which was puttin' on this five-reel barbecue called "How Kid Scanlan Won the Title," and take it from me, if the Kid had pulled off in Manhattan some of the stunts he did in that picture, he would have won more than the welterweight title--he'd have won the oil business from Rockefeller the first night! The two words was "Don't jump!" and Genaro _didn't_ say 'em--if he had, the Kid would never have dove off a cliff and sprained his million-dollar left arm, which triflin' detail caused _me_ to get my mail at a hospital for two months. It was in the third reel of this picture, which I see by the billboards is liable to thrill the nation, that the thing happened. The Kid is supposed to jump off a cliff to fool the plotters which is tryin' to stop him from winnin' the title. They had picked out two of them cliffs--one of 'em was a drop of three feet and the other was a drop of twenty-one miles, accordin' to Scanlan, who made it and ought to know. Anyhow, it was far enough! They was gonna show a close-up of the high one first and then take a flash of Scanlan leapin' from the little one. The Kid walks to the edge of that high one, looks down and some fat-head camera man points a machine at him and starts turnin' the crank. Genaro was to wave his handkerchief as a signal for the Kid to dive off the _little_ cliff and Scanlan, kinda puzzled, watches him. Just as he's walkin' away from the edge, Genaro blows his nose! The Kid sees the camera man and the handkerchief, and not wantin' to act yellah before the bunch, he--jumps! A lot of excitement was had by all and Scanlan sprained his arm. "Ah!" yells Genaro. "She'sa make the greata scene! What you think thisa Meester Scanlan he'sa joomp off wan mountain for art? That'sa real arteeste! He'sa killa himself for maka picture for Genaro! Ah--I embrace heem!" Miss Vincent begins by faintin'. Then she comes to, throws a rock at a camera man which is takin' a close up of her unconscious, kneels at the Kid's side and kisses him right out loud before everybody. She claims, if he proves to be dead, she'll leave the company flat and have Genaro tried for murder before a judge which had been tryin' for two years to do somethin' for her. They finally carried the Kid up to the hotel, and sent for a doctor which was recommended by Eddie Duke. Accordin' to Eddie, this friend of his had the average doctor lookin' like a drug clerk. Pluckin' people from the grave was his specialty, says Eddie. I guess they had to wait till this graverobber graduated from college, because it was over a hour before he showed up. He gets out of a buggy that was all the rage about the time Washington was thinkin' of goin' in the army, and the animal that was draggin' it along had been a total failure at tryin' to be a horse. The doc wasn't a day over seventy-five and he was dressed in a hat that must have come with the buggy, a pair of shoes like grandpa used to wear to work and a set of white whiskers. If he had any clothes on, I didn't see 'em. All I seen was them whiskers! I figured, if he had plucked people from the grave, like Eddie Duke claimed, he must have did it after they was dead. He didn't look very encouragin' to me, but I led him upstairs and into the room where Scanlan was just comin' to and askin' what round it was. Eddie Duke and Miss Vincent was at his bedside, and the rest of the gang was outside the door arguyin' over which was the best undertaker in Frisco. I slipped away to a telephone booth and called up information. "Gimme the best doctor in California!" I says, flickin' a jitney in the slot. "For a nickel?" giggles the dame on the other end. "Stop it!" I says. "I got a man here that's liable to croak any minute--this ain't no time for comedy! Ah--what time do you get off?" "I never go out with strangers," she says, "but you got a nice voice at that. Where is your friend doin' his sufferin' at?" "Film City!" I tells her. "And my voice ain't got nothin' on yours. I don't want to give you no short answer, but can I get the doctor now?" "I got him waitin'," she says. "If I was you, I wouldn't let 'em fill your friend full of dope; fresh air and sunshine's got the druggist beat eighty ways! Good-by, Cutey--gimme a ring after the funeral!" "This is the Hillcrest Sanitarium," pipes another voice over the wire, very sedate and dignified. "And this is Johnny Green," I comes back, "manager of Kid Scanlan, the welterweight champ. We've throwed you people a lot of trade. Only a short while ago Scanlan flattened Young Hogan in two rounds, and Hogan was took there from the ring, remember? Well, I want the boss doctor there sent to Film City right away!" With that begins a argument that went about fifteen minutes, and which I finally win by a shade. It seems it wasn't the regular thing for the head doctor there to answer night bells and so forth, like a ordinary medico, and the goin' was rather tough for awhile. Three or four times, when I was ready to quit, this telephone dame, which was takin' it all in with both ears, cut in with advice and helpful hints till the guy on the other end had enough and says he'll come. The first thing that met my eye, when I got back to the Kid, was Eddie Duke's friend, the greatest doctor in the world. He was walkin' very fast away from the hotel and mutterin' to himself. I just had time to grab his arm, as he jumps in the buggy and reaches for the whip. "Will he live, doc?" I asks him. "Bah!" he snorts, jerkin' away from me. "The ignorant little pup!" He whales Old Dobbin with the whip and leaves me flat. I couldn't figure out what the Kid's education had to do with his health, so I beats it upstairs and all but fell over Eddie Duke. He's holdin' one eye and mumblin' somethin' about "roughnecks" and "ingratitude." I kept on through the crowd and into the Kid's room. Scanlan is still on the bed groanin', and beside him is the hotel clerk, thumbin' a almanac. "Wait!" pants the clerk, as I come in. "I'll have it in a second." He turns over a lot more pages and then he hollers, "Ah! Here we are--what did I tell you? 'First Aid to the Injured.'" He clears his throat and the Kid looks up hopefully. "Number one," reads the clerk. "_'First send for a physician!'_" He drops the book and dashes for the door. "Don't do nothing till I get back!" he yells. Scanlan starts to go after him, but moans and falls back on the bed. "I wish I had a gun!" he snarls. "That big boob has been here fifteen minutes tellin' me all he was gonna do for me as soon as he found it in the book! He--" "Didn't the doctor do no good?" I butts in, sittin' on the side of the bed. "Doctor?" says the Kid. "What doctor?" "Eddie Duke's friend," I tells him. "The old--" Scanlan leans up on his good arm. "Listen, Johnny!" he says. "I still got a wallop in my right! Don't kid me now or--" "What d'ye mean kid you?" I asks him. "Didn't the doctor--" "Doctor!" he interrupts me, slammin' down the pillow. "If that guy was a doctor, I'm Caruso! He comes in here where I'm practically dyin' and tries to sell me a book!" "Gimme it all!" I gasps. "He sits down at the bed," explains the Kid, "and takes a big, black book out of what I figured was his medicine chest. He holds it up and asks me if I see it and I says I did, thinkin' I had passed the first test easy. Then he says he wrote the book himself and it's full of hope and cheer or dope and beer--to tell you the truth, I don't know which it was on account of the pain. Anyhow, I let him get away with it, and he tells me to think of how lucky I actually am alongside of the Crown's Prince of Germany--and then he begins to read from that book! It seems it's a novel about faith bein' stronger than pain. By this time, I seen that he was either nutty or tryin' to kid me, so I cut him off by askin' him when he's gonna fix up my arm. He says he's doin' it now, and when he gets through, he'll leave the book which will be a total of twenty-five bucks. When I come to, I ask him how long he had been a doctor, and he gets sore and claims he's a healer of the Mystic Sliders or somethin' like that, and what do I mean by callin' him a doctor? Then I called him a few other things so's he wouldn't have no kick comin' and gave him the bum's rush out of the room. Eddie Duke starts to moan about me maulin' his friend, and--well, get him to show you his eye!" The door opens suddenly and Miss Vincent sticks the curls which all the shop girls is copyin' around the side of it. "It's the doctor!" she whispers. "Say!" pipes the Kid, grabbin' a pillow. "That old guy is game, eh?" "A fightin' fool!" I agrees. But this time a tall, solemn-lookin' guy breezes into the room and stares at me and the Kid with the same warm friendliness that a motorcycle cop regards a boob tryin' out a new auto. I figured he was the bird I had ordered by 'phone, and hit 1000 on the guess. He leans over the Kid, prods him around a bit, and then goes over him like he had lost somethin' and thought maybe he'd find it there. Then he straightens up and grunts. "Hmph!" he says. "This man is a nervous wreck! Completely run down--needs rest and diet. I have my car outside and can take him over to the sanitarium, if--are you a relative?" "His manager," I explains. "How about the arm, doc?" "Nothing!" he says. "Wrenched--that's all. Come--help him downstairs, I'll wait." I took out a five-case note. "What do we owe you, doc?" I asks him, hopin' for the best. "My consultation fee is fifty dollars!" he says, without battin' an eye. I staggered back against the bureau. "Every time you see me it's gonna set me back fifty?" asks the Kid, with tears in his voice. The doc gives him a cold nod. "Couldn't I take some treatment by mail?" pipes Scanlan, hopefully. "Cease!" I says, takin' out the old checkbook. "What's your name, doc?" "James," he says, "J. T. James." "What's the J stand for?" I asks, shakin' out the pen. "Jesse!" butts in Scanlan. "Heh, doc?" "Do you mean to insinuate that I'm robbing you?" says the doc, frownin' at him. "No," says the Kid, takin' the check from me and handin' it to him, "I don't blame a guy for tryin', but--" I shut him off and dragged him downstairs before they was any hard feelin's. We climbed in the doctor's bus and at the Kid's request, Miss Vincent come along with us. Then we went after the road record between Film City and the Hillcrest Sanitarium. I guess this doctor was born with a steerin' wheel in his hand, because we took some corners on that trip that would have worried a snake, and when he threw her in high, we breezed along so swift we could have made a bullet quit. Finally, we come to a great big buildin' all hedged off with an iron fence and if you've ever seen a souvenir post card with "Havin' a fine time. Wish you were here," on it, you know what it looked like. The doctor tells me and Miss Vincent to wait in the office, and he goes out with the Kid. In about fifteen minutes he's back and calls me over to a desk. They's a long piece of paper there and he says to sit down and fill it out, but, after one flash at it, I asked him could I take it home to work over, because my fountain pen was better on sprints than long distance writin' and this looked like a good two-hour job. He gives me another one of them North Pole stares and remarks that if the thing ain't filled out at once, the Kid won't be admitted to the sanitarium. "He's in now, ain't he?" I comes back. "Yes!" he snaps. "And he'll be out, if that paper isn't drawn up instantly!" Miss Vincent giggles and hisses in my ear. "They say the child is in London!" she pipes. "Sign that paper, curse you! We are in his power!" Well, I seen I had to do a piece of writing so I grabbed up that paper and let the fountain pen go crazy. I give the Kid's entire name, where he was born, what his people did to fool the almshouse, what was his mother's maiden name and why, whether he went to church or Billy Sunday, was he white and could he prove it, who started the war and a lot of bunk like that. The guy who doped out the entrance examinations for that hospital must have been figurin' on how many he could keep _out_. When I run out of ink, I took out a copy of the _Sportin' Annual_, tore off the Kid's record and pasted it at the bottom of the page. "How's that?" I asks, passin' it over. "Very well," he says, glancin' at it. "Mister Scanlan is in room 45. That will be one-fifty--a hundred and fifty!" "The price," I says, gettin' dizzy. "Not your weight!" "That's the price," he tells me. "A hundred and fifty a week." "I'm afraid the old bankroll is _too_ weak," I says,--"too weak for that, anyhow. Drag the Kid out of that bridal suite and let him sleep in the hall. I'll--" "Why, the idea!" butts in Miss Vincent. "You let him stay where he is, doctor. The money will be paid." Before I could say anything, the door opens and in comes the dame that poses for all the magazine covers, dressed like a nurse. I never was much on describin'--I probably wouldn't have got ten people to watch the battle of Gettysburg if I'd have been the press agent--but this was the kind of dame that all the wealthy patients fall in love with in the movies--yeh, and out of 'em! The little white cap on top of her head looked like a dash of whipped cream on a peach sundae, and if you wouldn't have blowed up the city hall for the smile she sent around the room, I feel sorry for you. She crosses over and, in passin' me, she begs my pardon and threw that smile into high. A hundred and fifty a week, eh? Well--I dives in my inside pocket. "May I have your check, Mister--eh--ah--" pipes the doc. "Green," I helps him out, "Johnny Green. Can you have a _check_? You said it!" I sits down and writes one out. "Why this is for three hundred dollars!" he busts out, lookin' at it. "Even so, brother," I grins, stealin' a slant at the Venus de California. "That's for me and the Kid. Gimme a room next to his and--" "Do you think this is a hotel?" he frowns at me. "I should care!" I tells him. "Let me in--that's all _I_ want!" With that the nurse remarks that the Kid is ready to see us, so me and Miss Vincent folleys her down the hall and she opens a door and calls in, "Visitors, Mister Scanlan!" "Yeh?" pipes the Kid in a show-em-the exit voice. "Ah--can I have a drink of--ah--water?" "Certainly," she says. "I'll bring it now." "Don't rush it!" says the Kid. "It might curdle! Wait till the attendance falls off a bit!" She laughs--and Miss Vincent didn't. "Oho!" whispers the pet of the movies. "Like that, eh?" We go in the room, and there's Scanlan layin' in the whitest bed I even seen in my life and lookin' about as miserable as a millionaire's nephew on the day his uncle dies. There's about three hundred pillows under his head and neck, his arm is all bandaged up and beside the bed is a table with a set of flowers on it. And then there was that nurse! "Pretty soft!" I says. The Kid grins and then twists around to Miss Vincent and groans. "Does it hurt much, you poor dear?" she says. "I wonder how I stand it!" pipes the Kid, keepin' his face from me. "Can I get you anything?" she asks him after a minute. "Well," answers the Kid, "if I did want something we could send Johnny for it." He looks at me meanin'ly. "Go out and git the right time!" he tells me. "And while you're at it--take lots of it!" I went outside and closed the door. I remembered bein' in a hospital once, where they was examinin' guys for nerves, and one of the tests was hittin' 'em in the knee with a book and watchin' if their legs flew out. I don't remember the name of the book, but I figured on takin' a chance. I breezed out to the desk in the hall and filled out one of them entry blanks about myself, and then I dug up the doctor. "Doc," I says, "I wish you'd gimme the East and West, there's somethin' the matter with my nerve. I know you can fix me up, if anybody can, because you got so much yourself." "Just what is the East and West?" he asks me. "Why, look me over!" I explains. "I wanna see what I need or should get rid of." He leads me in a little room to one side, and goes over me like a lawyer lookin' for a clause in a contract he can bust. He looks at my tongue till it begin to quiver from exposure to the air; he clocks my pulse at a mile, two miles and over the jumps; he stuck a telephone like you see in the foreign movies over my heart and listened in on the internal gossip for twenty minutes; he walloped me on the chest with the best he had and made me sing a song called "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!" Then he shakes his head and tells me to put on my coat. "You're one of the healthiest specimens I ever examined!" he says. "There's absolutely nothing the matter with you." "Well, that's certainly tough, doc," I tells him, "because I sure want to win one of them rooms like Scanlan has. I--wait a minute!" I hollers, gettin' a flash. "You didn't gimme the book test!" I hops over to the desk and grabs up a book off it. It was a big thick one called "Paralysis to Pneumonia," and was written by a couple of Greeks named "Symptoms and Therapeutics." I never heard of the thing before, and I wished it had been "Uncle Tom's Cabin" or somethin' like that, but I took a chance. "Here!" I says. "I don't know if this is the right one or not, but let's try it out on my knee, eh?" I seen he didn't make me, so I explains about the nerve test I seen where some of the guys throwed out their legs when hit, and some of 'em didn't. He gimme the laugh then, and tells me to look out of the window. I did and they's a terrible crash in back of me, but I kept lookin' out like he told me. Then he says all right, I can turn around, and, when I did, I see the book case has fell over on the floor. He claims if I had been nervous, I would have jumped eighty feet when it crashed down and as they is nothin' the matter with me, I might as well be on my way. Well, I was up against it--but only for a minute. That last crack of his gimme an idea. I makes a leap across the floor, grabs my heart and starts to shake and shiver like a bum in one of them "Curse of Drink" productions. "What's the matter?" he calls out. I looks wildly around the room, and I seen a fly upside down on the window-sill tryin' to get to its feet. "Oh!" I says. "I'm so nervous, doc, I'm shakin' like a crap-shooter. D'ye see that fly? Well, it must have fell off the window just then--it gimme an awful shock--y'know that sudden noise and--" He throws up his hands. "Come!" he tells me. "I'll assign you to a room." That's how I come to get mixed up with the Red Cross. Pretty soon they had the Kid's arm better than it ever was, but as they was still workin' on his nerves, we stuck around at the sanitarium. We're both on a diet, which meant that at each meal-time we was fed about enough food to nourish a healthy infant about a half hour old. The general idea of the stuff was along nursery lines, too--milk, eggs and baby fodder, three times a day. I was O.K. when I went in there, but in a couple of weeks I was the prize patient on account of them meals. They tell me I raved one night and bellered for a rattle, and Scanlan made the nurse tell him all about Jack the Giant Killer and Old Mother Hubbard. The place must have been run by a guy who believed in lettin' the dumb animals live, because you couldn't have got a piece of meat in there, if you begged 'em for it till you was black in the face. You could have milk and eggs or eggs and milk--that was the limit! One mornin' the orderly forgets himself and asks me what I want for breakfast. I thought they had let down the bars at last, and I all but jumped out of the bed. "Gimme a steak, French fried potatoes, coffee and hot rolls," I says. "Have the potatoes well done and the steak rare." "Rave on," he answers me. "Do you want the eggs boiled, fried or scrambled? Ain't there no particular way you like 'em?" "Not no more!" I groans, and falls back on the sheets. The only bright spot in the whole thing was Miss Woods, the nurse that caused me to enter the place. She used to come in every mornin' and make me play a thermometer was a lollypop and I held the thing in my mouth while she took my temperature and pulled a clock on my pulse. Then the orderly would come in and take the fruit friends had left for me, and I'd be all set for the day. When I kicked about the food, Miss Woods claimed I ought to be tickled to get eggs to eat, because they was very expensive on account of the late war. I says I didn't know they had been fightin' with eggs in Europe, and she laughs and says I'm delicious. She brought me in a book to read and on the cover it's all about the nights of Columbus. I didn't even open the thing, because what kind of nights could Columbus have had--they was nothin' doin' in them days. She asks me what my occupation was and says maybe she could arrange so's I could work at it while I was there to keep my mind off things. I says I _dared_ anything to keep my mind off of her, and she kinda frowns; so's to brighten things up I says before I come there I had been a deck steward on a submarine, and it gets a laugh. Then she says I looked like a bookkeeper, and I didn't know whether that was a boost or a knock, so I passed it off by sayin' I had a chance to be that when young, but had to give it up because I couldn't stand the smell of ink. After we have kidded like that for a while, I admits bein' Kid Scanlan's manager, and with that she suddenly runs to the door and closes it tight. She comes back on tip-toes, leans over the bed lookin' at me for a minute and then she asks me very soft would I do somethin' for her. I had got as far as offerin' to dive off the Singer Buildin' into a bucket of water, when she cuts me off and tells me to listen to her as they wasn't much time. She asked me had I ever noticed a big, husky, black-haired guy out in the exercise yard. I said I had. I remembered a big whale of a man, with the face of a frightened kid, walkin' up and down, up and down, all day long. Every now and then he'd stop and pick up a pebble or a handful of dirt and take it to one side where he'd examine it for half an hour. Then he'd throw it away and start that sentry thing again. Well, she said, this bird had been down to South America where he had discovered some kind of a mineral that had made him very rich and some kind of a fever that had made him very sick. He was at the sanitarium so's the doctors could keep a eye on him, the bettin' bein' about seven to five that he would go nutty, if some excavatin' wasn't done immediately on his dome. A operation will save him, but his parents won't think of it, and there you are. When she stopped, I told her that whilst I never had performed no operations before, beyond once when I pulled a loose tooth of Scanlan's between the second and third round of a fight, I would get somebody to sneak me in some tools and get to work on the big guy the first chance I got. She give a little squeal and says that wasn't what she wanted me to do, gettin' pale and prettier every minute. I seen I pulled a bone, so I asks her to come right out with it and whatever she said I'd do it or break a leg. "Then when Mr. Scanlan takes his exercise every day with the boxing gloves and punching bag," she says, "get him to persuade Arthur to join him. Arthur would do it for him quicker than he would for me or any of the doctors. He thinks we are all in league against him and he admires Mr. Scanlan--I've read it in his face as he watches him out in the yard. Arthur himself was a noted athlete before he went to South America. He might even box with Mr. Scanlan. That would lessen the tension on his mind and we might get him to see that an operation is--Oh! Will you do it?" she breaks off suddenly, grabbin' my hand. "Will I?" I says, holdin' on to that hand. "If Scanlan don't box him, I'll take him on myself!" "Oh, thank you--thank you!" she whispers, "I--" "That's all right!" I cuts her off. "Is--ah--is the big fellow any relation to you?" She blushed. Yeh--and I looked at her, forgettin' a lot of things about both of us that didn't quite match--and wished! I got everything I had together for one good try, bein' handicapped by the fact that I still had her hand and that room was goin' around like a top. And then, poor boob--I looked down at the hand I didn't have, wonderin' why she didn't answer me--and saw the answer on one finger. The darned cold, glitterin' thing seemed to sneer at me. I felt like I'd stopped one with my chin, and somethin' went outa me that ain't back yet. What? Well, a guy can hope, can't he? Say! That ring must have cost five hundred bucks--it was a pip! I grabbed a drink of that darned milk to steady myself, and I seen from the way she looked at me that she got me. "I see!" I says, lettin' go of the hand that belonged to friend Arthur. "He--and he went to South America, eh?" "Listen!" she whispers, bendin' over. "You know now what this means to me. If you'll help me, I'll do anything for you! Why--" I sat up in bed and grabbed her hand again. "Anything?" I asks her. She looks out the window, gets pale and grits her teeth. You could see she wished she hadn't said it, but she was game and was standin' pat. "Anything!" she says. "Then for the love of heaven!" I shoots out, "get me a piece of meat! This egg and milk thing is drivin' me nutty!" She wheeled around so quick the scared look was still on her face, and for a minute we both just looked. Then she give a kinda nervous little laugh, grabbed both my hands, squeezed 'em like a man--and blew! Oh, boy! I ain't no hard loser but-- Well, it wasn't no trick at all to get big Arthur to box with the Kid. He took to it like a chorus girl does to a telephone and what puzzled me was why none of them fifty dollar doctors hadn't thought of it before. I guess it was because they was nobody there husky enough to handle him by themselves, because Arthur packed a wallop in each hand that meant curtains, if it landed. Behind that was six-foot-two of bone and about two hundred and forty pounds of muscle. The Kid labored with him like a mother with a baby. He taught him how to duck, feint, jab, uppercut, swing, stall, rough in the clinches, everything he knew, and Arthur learned awful quick. So quick that we had to cut the bouts down to twenty minutes each, because the big guy didn't _know_ and he was _tryin'_ with every punch! The doctors told Scanlan to talk operation to him, and the Kid tried it once. Arthur stopped boxin' and looked at him so reproachful that Scanlan refused to mention it again. He said he looked just like a kid that come down Christmas mornin' and found no tree. Finally, me and the Kid packed up and kissed the sanitarium good-by, but every afternoon at three we went over and Scanlan put on the gloves with Arthur for a while, because I had give my word to his girl. Arthur got so he lived all the rest of the day and night lookin' forward to three o'clock in the afternoon. He snarled at the doctors, cuffed the orderlies, didn't know Miss Woods from the iron gate that kept him in there, but the minute Scanlan breezed into the yard with the gloves his face would be one big smile. This went on for three months--and then Miss Vincent stepped into the thing. She wanted to know where the Kid was goin' every afternoon at three o'clock, and like a simp, I told her the whole story. She thanks me with a odd look that I didn't get till that night, when the Kid comes tearin' in to our room at the hotel and slams the door. When he gets where he can make his tongue do like he asks it, he says it's all off between him and Miss Vincent. By usin' some judgment and four hours of time I find out that Miss Vincent thinks this stuff about the Kid boxin' Arthur is a lot of bunk and the Kid was really goin' back to the sanitarium every day to see Miss Woods. She has give that nurse the once over and then used some woman's arithmetic which makes two and two equal nine, get me? Well, one word led to another, and finally she tells him if he don't cut the sanitarium out, she's off him for life. That's a bad way to handle Scanlan. He's Irish and--you know! He told her we give our word and he was gonna box Arthur till they remodeled Arthur's skull, no matter what happened. Then Miss Vincent gets sensible and weeps. In a minute the Kid is on his knees, and she shows more sense than usual by chasin' him at that point. At the bottom of the stairs, Scanlan calls up and asks if he can kiss her good night. She tells him it's too late now, he has missed the psychological moment. That last was what had the Kid up in the air. He didn't know what it meant, except that it was a cinch she wasn't wishin' him good luck. That psychological thing was past me, too. I looked it up in the dictionary, and it was there all right, but it could have been in Russia as far as I was concerned, because the way it described it was over my head. The Kid finally puts it right up to Miss Vincent, and she tells him to find out for himself. "Go over to that trick sanitarium of yours, and ask Miss Woods," she tells him scornfully. "Maybe _she_ can tell you what it means!" But at two o'clock, when the Kid is leavin' for his daily maulin' bee with big Arthur, she comes along in her racin' car and asks him to go to Los Angeles with her. The Kid stalls and says he's just about got time to get over and give the South American entry a workout, although he'd rather take the ride with her than defend his title against a one-armed blind man. She frowns for a minute, and then she smiles and says hop in with her and she'll drive him over to the sanitarium. When they blowed in that night at seven o'clock, I seen the Kid looks kinda worried, while he's washin' the Golden West off his face and neck, so I ask him how Arthur is comin' along. Scanlan coughs a couple of times and then he says he don't know, because he wasn't able to get over there that afternoon--the first he'd missed since I promised the world's champion girl I'd assist her. While I'm still bawlin' him out, he claims it wasn't his fault, because the car broke down in the middle of California and they had to get towed back. I _will_ say I was sorry to find out that Miss Vincent wasn't above a little rough stuff! Oh, you ladies! The next day Genaro suddenly decides to take a scene in the Kid's movie, and as we was under contract we had to stay. The third afternoon, Miss Vincent gets a terrible headache and the Kid has to sit on the hotel porch with her, readin' out loud her press notices from the movie magazines. I kept out of it, but thinkin' about Arthur and that little nurse over there had me bitin' nails, and the next day I told the Kid if he didn't go out and trade wallops with Arthur, I was through as his pilot. I said that right out loud in front of Miss Vincent, lookin' her right in them famous baby-blue eyes of hers. But you can't figure women--she crossed me and tells the Kid to go and she'd go with him! We went out in her racin' car, with me ridin' on the runnin' board and thinkin' what a fine thing accident insurance was for a guy of moderate means. By dumb luck we missed crashin' into the scenery along the road and stopped outside the iron gates of the sanitarium. We had hardly got in the office, when from down the hall we heard what sounded like a race riot, and a couple of orderlies goes past us so fast that I didn't believe it could be done, although I seen 'em. The Kid runs down to where the noise was comin' from and I tagged along in the rear, stoppin' with him outside a big two-doored room, where from the sounds that crashed out from inside they was puttin' on a dress rehearsal of a race riot. While we stood there lookin' at each other, a familiar deep snarlin' voice roars out over the others--they was a scream, too, that made me neck and neck with the Kid as we busted in the locked doors and went sprawlin' inside. Oh, boy! A half dozen nurses and two or three doctors is lined up against the wall on the far side, crouchin' back of an operatic table and tryin' to force their bodies through the hard cement. The place looks like a cyclone had hit it, with the walls scraped and scarred and the floor covered with plaster and what not like the show-room of a junk shop. Half on the floor and half on a chair is Miss Woods. I hoped she had only fainted. In the middle of the room and backin' against the doors is a big, growlin', red-eyed killer that used to be Arthur. Most of his clothes is torn off where some of them poor little human bein's had tried to hold him, and over his head he's swingin' a iron pole he'd torn from the fancy front gate outside. Each time he swings, he comes nearer that bunch with nothin' between them and Heaven but a white enameled table. He didn't seem to notice Scanlan, who slid almost to his feet, and rightin' himself like a cat, stepped back to size the thing up. Then with a growl, Arthur chops at the operatin' table with the pole and crumbles it like a berry box. The women screamed--I think one of 'em fainted. The doctors spread in front of them, as Arthur raised the pole to finish the job. And then Scanlan, poppin' up from somewheres, jumps in front of Arthur, his face the color of that busted table, but his body as steady as the Rockies, as he plants himself there before the big guy, swingin' his head back easily before that tremblin' iron pole. The Kid throws his hands up in a fightin' position and dances from one foot to the other lookin' for a openin', like a guy with a pail of water tryin' to put out hell! Arthur hesitates, starin' wildly at the Kid, and then his face begins to change till it's almost human. He looks like he's tryin' to think. "Come on!" bawls Scanlan--loud, to keep the crack out of his voice. "Come on!" He dances around Arthur and makes a pass at him. "I got some new ones to show you to-day!" he yells. "Hurry up, or we--won't--have--time--to--mix it!" I remember the head doc told me afterwards it was because the big feller had been doin' that every day--boxin' with the Kid--for so long that it-- But what's that matter now? Arthur dropped that iron pole, put up his hands, grins like a baby and rocks the Kid with a straight left, while them nurses and doctors tumbled out of the room thankin' their different gods. Somebody carried out Miss Woods, too. I guess Scanlan never battled before like he did in the next ten minutes, because he was fightin' for the biggest purse he ever climbed in a ring for--his life! The big guy smashed him all over the place tryin' for a knockout like the Kid had taught him, crushin' his ribs in the clinches till Scanlan's breathin' cut me to the heart and rainin' wallops on him like a machine gun. Me? Oh, I didn't do much but root for the Kid. Y'see I was beside that operatic table when Arthur lammed it with the pole--some of it kinda glanced off and I stopped it with my head. A game little bantam of a doctor hopped around 'em, as they slewed over the floor, lookin' like a referee--but he was simply tryin' to slip friend Arthur a hypodermic while Scanlan kept him busy. Finally, the Kid staggers Arthur with a lucky right smash to the chin, and then a half a dozen left and rights to the body cut his size down to where the Kid could put all he had left in one swing--and it's all over. The little doc with the hypo gets busy, and, when we left the room, Arthur was headed for the operatin' pen--his trip havin' been interrupted by the slight excitement Scanlan had stopped! Well, me and the Kid was hustled upstairs to be fussed over, windin' up, you might say, where we started, in the hospital. After a time Miss Woods comes up and thanks us--at least she made a stab at it and weeps. The operation had been a success, and when Arthur could walk he was gonna reward Miss Woods for her lovin' care by marryin' her, and she looked like she thought that was enough--ain't women a scream? We was talkin' to the doctor, when Miss Vincent come in--stands in the doorway for a minute lookin' like a swell picture in a punk frame, and comes to the Kid with a yours-for-keeps look in her eyes. Scanlan throws up his head like he's just thought of somethin'. "Say!" he pipes through the bandages. "I know what that psychological moment thing is now--the doc has just been tellin' me. It seems," he says with a grin. "It seems I pulled one off here this afternoon!" THE END CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER'S WESTERN NOVELS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. THE WAY OF THE BUFFALO Jim Cameron builds a railroad adjacent to Ballantine's property, even though Ballantine threatens to kill him the day he runs it. BRASS COMMANDMENTS Stephen Lannon writes six commandments over six loaded cartridges set out where the evil men who threaten him and the girl he loves, may see them. WEST! When Josephine Hamilton went West to visit Betty, she met "Satan" Lattimer, ruthless, handsome, fascinating, who taught her some things. SQUARE DEAL SANDERSON Square Deal Sanderson rode onto the Double A just as an innocent man was about to be hanged and Mary Bransford was in danger of losing her property. "BEAU" RAND Bristling with quick, decisive action, and absorbing in its love theme, "Beau" Rand, mirrors the West of the hold-up days in remarkable fashion. THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y Calumet Marston, daredevil, returns to his father's ranch to find it is being run by a young woman who remains in charge until he accepts sundry conditions. "DRAG" HARLAN Harlan establishes himself as the protector of Barbara Morgan and deals out punishment to the girl's enemies through the lightning flash of drawn guns. THE TRAIL HORDE How Kane Lawler fought the powerful interests that were trying to crush him and Ruth Hamlin, the woman he loved, makes intensely interesting reading. THE RANCHMAN The story of a two-fisted product of the west, pitted against a rascally spoilsman, who sought to get control of Marion Harlan and her ranch. "FIREBRAND" TREVISON The encroachment of the railroad brought Rosalind Benham--and also results in a clash between Corrigan and "Firebrand" that ends when the better man wins. THE RANGE BOSS Ruth Harkness comes West to the ranch her uncle left her. Rex Randerson, her range boss, rescues her from a mired buckboard, and is in love with her from that moment on. THE VENGEANCE OF JEFFERSON GAWNE A story of the Southwest that tells how the law came to a cow-town, dominated by a cattle thief. There is a wonderful girl too, who wins the love of Jefferson Gawne. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 
42069	----	JANET HARDY IN HOLLYWOOD by RUTHE S. WHEELER The Goldsmith Publishing Company Chicago Copyright 1935 by The Goldsmith Publishing Company Made in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. "The Chinese Image" 13 II. Leading Rôles 20 III. The Wind Roars 33 IV. Little Deer Valley 47 V. The White Menace 58 VI. Desperate Hours 64 VII. Sanctuary at Home 72 VIII. Postponed Tryouts 78 IX. Big News 85 X. Victory for Helen 92 XI. A Famous Director Arrives 101 XII. On the Stage 112 XIII. Janet Steps In 124 XIV. Just Fishing 134 XV. Hollywood Bound 145 XVI. Thrilling Hours 155 XVII. On the Westbound Plane 161 XVIII. Hello, Hollywood! 173 XIX. Gorgeous Gowns 182 XX. At the Premiere 188 XXI. Screen Tests 196 XXII. Western Action 202 XXIII. On the Screen 210 XXIV. "Kings of the Air" 220 XXV. The Stars Vanish 227 XXVI. Bombs from the Sky 233 XXVII. The Showdown 244 Janet Hardy in Hollywood _Chapter I_ "THE CHINESE IMAGE" Winter hung on grimly in the Middle West that year. Late March found the streets piled high with snow and on that particular morning there was a threat of additional snow in the air as Janet Hardy, a blond curl sticking belligerently out from under her scarlet beret, hurried toward school. It was an important day for members of the senior class of the Clarion High School, for Miss Williams, the dramatics instructor, was going to hand out parts to read for the class play. For that reason, Janet walked more briskly than usual and she failed to hear footsteps behind her until another girl, running lightly, called. "Slow up a minute, Janet. I'm nearly breathless. I've been chasing you for more than a block." Janet turned to greet Helen Thorne, who lived half a block beyond her own home and on the same broad, comfortable thoroughfare. The girls fell into step, Janet slowing her pace until Helen could recover her breath. "What chance do you think we'll have of getting parts in the play?" asked Helen, her face reflecting her hopefulness. "Just as good as any of the rest," replied Janet. "I don't think there are any Ethel Barrymores in school and I wouldn't worry if there were. I won't be heart-broken if I don't get a part." "That's easy to say, but I'm afraid I'll be pretty much disappointed if I don't get one. You have the _Weekly Clarion_ to keep you busy." "It does that all right," conceded Janet, who was editor of the page of high school news which appeared once a week in the local daily paper, the _Times_, under the title of "The Weekly Clarion." The girls turned into the street which led up the hill to the high school, a sprawling brick structure which covered nearly a block. The original building had been started in 1898 and as the city had grown additions had been made, seemingly at random, until hardly any one knew how many rooms there were and it was not unusual for a new student to get lost. Janet was slightly taller than Helen. Her hair was a golden blond with just enough of a natural curl to make her the envy of most of the girls in school. Her blue eyes had a friendly, cheery look and her mouth had an upward twist that made it easy for her to smile. Helen was a complement to Janet, with dark brown hair, brown eyes and a dusky skin. Because of her brunette coloring, she inclined to gayer colors than her blond companion. It was half an hour before school when they reached the building, but a goodly number of seniors were already on hand and competition for rôles in the play would be intense. With 132 in the senior class, not many more than a score could hope to win parts. "There's so many it's going to be a discouraging business," said Helen as they went upstairs to the chemistry auditorium where the class was to meet. "If a lot of the others think that, it will be easy for us," smiled Janet. "Come on, tell yourself you're going to win a part and you will." "I want to for Dad's sake. He wrote that he would be home for my graduation and would attend all of the senior activities. So I've just got to make the play cast." "Keep up that kind of a spirit and you're as good as in," encouraged Janet, who secretly confessed that it was going to be quite a job to win a place in the play. The chemistry auditorium was well filled when they arrived. Almost every senior girl was there and at least half of the boys. Janet looked around the large room, gauging the mettle of the girls they would have to compete against. Well up toward the rostrum was Margie Blake, petite and blond and exceedingly vivacious. Margie was popular, confessed Janet, and probably stood a good chance of winning a part in the play for she had innate dramatic ability, while Janet, who had taken a leading rôle in the junior play, had been compelled to study each bit of action carefully. Near Margie was Cora Dean, a pronounced brunette, who had already announced that she intended to have a leading rôle, and Cora had a reputation of getting whatever she went after, whether it was a place on the honor roll or a part in one of the drama club's one act plays. "I'm afraid Cora will be after the part I try out for," whispered Helen. "She's good, too." "She's not a bit better than you are, and not half as pretty," retorted Janet. "But you don't always win play parts on your looks," said Helen. Just then Miss Williams, the dramatics instructor, hurried in. In one hand she carried a large sheaf of mimeographed sheets while in the other was the complete book for the play. Several plays had been tentatively considered, but final approval had been up to Miss Williams and she was to announce the title that morning as well as give out reading parts. The room quieted down as a few stragglers, coming in at the last minute, found seats at the rear. Miss Williams sorted the mimeographed sheets into piles and at exactly 8:45 o'clock she rapped briskly on the desk with a ruler. The dramatics teacher was pleasant and almost universally liked. She smiled as she looked over the seniors who had gathered. "It looks like we're going to have real competition for the play parts this year," she said. "I suppose, though, that first you'd like to know the name of the play." She paused a moment, then went on. "I've read all the plays the committee recommended carefully and my final choice is 'The Chinese Image.'" There was a ripple of applause, for a number of seniors, including Janet and Helen, had read portions of "The Chinese Image." Helen leaned toward her companion. "That's the play I've been hoping would be selected. There's a part I think I can win." "The leading rôle?" asked Janet. "Well, hardly, but it isn't a bad part." Miss Williams held up her hand and the buzz of conversation which had started after her announcement ceased. "I have had parts for every character mimeographed and each sheet gives sufficient reading material for tryouts. There are 23 rôles in 'The Chinese Image.' I'm familiar with the ability of almost all of you and if you'll come up as I call your names, I'll give you tryout sheets. The first sheet contains a brief synopsis of the play with the complete cast of characters and the second sheet has the part I want you to try for. You will also find the hours on the second sheet when I want you to go down to the gym for the tryouts." Janet had to confess that she was more than a little nervous as she waited for Miss Williams to call her name. Senior after senior was called up to the desk and handed his sheets. To some of them Miss Williams added another word or two, but she talked too low to be heard by the main body of pupils. As the tryout sheets were handed out, the seniors left the room for it was nearly assembly time. Helen looked anxiously at Janet. "I wonder if we're going to be called? There are less than a dozen left." "We'll know in a couple of minutes," replied Janet. "There goes Margie Blake. Wonder what part she'll get a chance at?" "One of the leads, you can be sure of that. And there's Cora Dean. I suppose Cora will get the part I try for. That happened in several of the one acts last year." "This isn't last year and Cora's a bit too temperamental. Well, we are going to be the last." All of the others had been called before Miss Williams spoke to Janet and Helen, and with a feeling of misgiving they advanced toward her desk. _Chapter II_ LEADING RÔLES Miss Williams smiled pleasantly as she looked up from the now slender pile of sheets with the tryout parts. "Afraid I was going to forget you?" she asked. "We were commencing to worry," admitted Janet, "for after all there's only one senior play." "Right. And I'm determined that 'The Chinese Image' be the best ever produced by Clarion High." The electric gong that heralded the opening of school banged its lusty tone through the hall. "Never mind about opening assembly," said Miss Williams. "I'll explain to the principal that I detained you." The dramatics instructor looked quizzically at Janet and Helen. "You make a good team, don't you?" "Well, we don't exactly fight," smiled Helen, "but there are times when we don't agree." "Of course. That's only human. What I mean is that when you get together with a goal in mind, you work hard to attain that goal. When Janet went out for editor of the _Weekly Clarion_ last fall, you were working hard for her to win." "I did my best," admitted Helen. "And it had a lot to do with my winning out over Margie Blake," said Janet whole-heartedly. "Which is just the kind of spirit I'm looking for to put across the senior play. I'll have to make a little confession or you'll wonder why I'm so intensely interested in the success of this special play. A dramatic producing company has made me a tentative offer, but their final decision will be made after one of their representatives has seen the senior play." "But that would mean leaving Clarion," protested Helen. "I'm afraid it would, and while I wouldn't like that, the opportunity offered by this company, if it finally develops, would be such that I just couldn't afford to reject it." "I suppose there isn't a whole lot of money in teaching dramatics in a high school," said Janet. "Not enough so I want to make it a life career," replied Miss Williams. "But this isn't getting along with my plan. Helen, I'm assigning you for a tryout for the leading rôle. Here's your part. Read it over carefully and be ready tomorrow afternoon at 4:15 o'clock." Miss Williams handed the mimeographed sheets to the astounded Helen. "They won't bite," she smiled. "But the lead? I never dreamed you would want me to try out for that." "Why not? It calls for a brunette with ability and brains and I think you answer that description." Miss Williams turned to Janet. "Here's your rôle, Janet. It's the second lead. You play a jittery little blond who hasn't a brain in her head and probably never will have." "Does that rôle fit me?" asked Janet, her eyes twinkling. "Well, hardly, but I think you'll have a lot of fun working on such a part. Margie Blake is going to try for it, also." "Who will be trying for the part you've assigned me?" asked Helen. "Cora Dean. I expect that with such competition both of you will be forced to do your best to win the part. Maybe it's a little mean of me to match you against each other this way, but I've got to have a superlative cast for the play." "You'll get it," promised Janet, "for Helen and I are going to do our best to win these rôles. Why Helen's father is planning on coming back for graduation week and Helen's got to make the play." "Is he really coming?" asked Miss Williams, almost incredulously, for the name of Henry Thorne was a magic word in Clarion. "He's promised, and both mother and I are counting on it. We haven't seen him since last fall." "Then I know one dramatics teacher who is going to be doubly nervous the night of the play. Just think of it--Henry Thorne, star director of the great Ace Motion Picture Company, watching a high school play. I'm afraid the cast may go all to pieces, they'll be so nervous." "But Dad's so entirely human," said Helen. "That's just the trouble. Because he's made a success in films, people think he must be some kind of a queer individual who goes around with his head in the air thinking he is better than anyone else. He's just like Janet's father and when he gets home he likes nothing better than getting his old fishpole out, digging a can of worms, and going out along the creek to fish and doze." "I suppose you're right, but his pictures have been so outstanding it seems that directing them must be some sort of a genius. I've never quite understood why you and your mother stayed on here, though." Miss Williams had often wanted to ask that question just to satisfy her own curiosity, but the opportunity had never opened before. "Dad's working under pressure on the coast, long hours and a terrific strain, and he says some of the things that are said about Hollywood are true. Most of the people are fine and hard working, but a small, wild crowd gives the rest a bad name and he doesn't want to take any chance on my getting mixed up with that bunch." "But you wouldn't," said Miss Williams. "I don't think so, but Dad thinks it best for us to stay here in Clarion and mother and I are happy here with all of our friends. Of course we don't see a whole lot of Dad, but when he does get home or we go out there, we have an awfully good time." Miss Williams glanced at her watch. "It's 9:10. You'd better go down to assembly. I'll explain why you were late. Don't forget, tryouts for both of you tomorrow afternoon and I'm counting on you to do your best." "We'll try," promised Janet, as they picked up the sheets with the tryout parts and left the chemistry auditorium. In the hall Helen, her dark eyes aglow with excitement, turned to Janet. "Just think; I've got a chance at the leading rôle. Of course Cora will probably get it, but at least Miss Williams is considering me." "Now let's stop right here," said Janet firmly, "and get one thing straight. You have a chance at the leading rôle." Helen nodded. "Cora has a chance at the lead." Again Helen nodded. "But," went on Janet, "you are going to win the lead." "Oh, do you really think so?" There was a tinge of desperation in Helen's voice. "I know you are." Janet spoke with a definiteness that she didn't quite feel, for Cora was a splendid little actress. But Helen needed some real encouragement and Janet knew that if Helen felt confident from the start half of the battle was won. The morning passed in a whirl of routine classes, but Janet found time to study her tryout sheets for several minutes. "The Chinese Image" was ideally suited for a senior play, with an excellent mystery story to carry the action. A whole lot of dramatic ability was unnecessary for the rapid tempo of the story would carry along the interest of the audience. The synopsis Miss Williams had prepared was brief and Janet read it twice. "The Chinese Image" centered about a strange little figure which had been brought back from China in 1851 by Ebenezer Naughton, then captain of one of the clipper ships which had sailed out of Salem for far-away ports in the Orient. The strange, squat little figure had remained in the Naughton family ever since for Captain Ebenezer, in his will, had stipulated that it must never be given away or sold. "When grave troubles befall my family, turn to 'The Chinese Image,'" he had written, "and therein you will find an answer." But the Naughtons had prospered and the will had been almost forgotten until the family came upon hard times and its fortune dwindled. Two grandsons of Captain Ebenezer, now heads of their own families, quarreled bitterly and in the ensuing family feud the image became involved. It finally fell to the lot of Abbie Naughton, the rôle played by Janet, to solve the mystery of the image, which she did in as thorough a manner as might have been expected of the light-headed Abbie. Janet chuckled over the lines she was to read in the tryout. The part of Abbie should be great fun, for Abbie did about every nonsensical thing possible and the giddier the part could be made, the better, decided Janet. Helen's rôle was more serious, for she was supposed to be in love with one of the boys of the other branch of the family and many were the trials and tribulations of their love affair. It was a delicate rôle, with much sweetness and tenderness, and it should prove ideal for Helen. Janet couldn't conceive of Cora Dean, who had a certain harshness about her, getting the part. But then, Cora was capable and she might be able to play the rôle to perfection. Just before noon the sky, grey since morning, turned a more desolate shade and the clouds disgorged their burden of snow. It was dry and fine and tons of it seemed to be coming down. Janet met Helen in the hall. "What about lunch?" "I'm going to stay at school and have mine in the cafeteria," replied Helen. "How about you?" "I don't relish the long walk home, but I didn't bring any money with me." Helen smiled. "You wouldn't accept a loan, would you?" "I might," conceded Janet, "because I'm more than a little hungry." "I've got fifty cents. That ought to buy enough food to last until we get home tonight." "But we're not going home," Janet reminded her companion. "Have you forgotten about the roller skating party at Youde's?" Helen flushed. "To tell the truth, I had. I've been thinking so much about the play I completely forgot the party." "Better not. It will be lots of fun." "I don't know whether I ought to go. If I do, I won't have much time to study over my tryout part." "There'll be an hour after school and you haven't more than two paragraphs to memorize." "I know them now," said Helen. "Then come on and go to the party. The bus is leaving school at five o'clock. We'll be at Youde's in an hour and there'll be a hot supper and the skating party afterward." "It's snowing hard," observed Helen, gazing out into the swirling grey. "You think of everything," expostulated Janet. "Of course, it's snowing, but the road to Youde's is paved part of the way. If it gets too thick we can turn around and come back." Both Janet and Helen had one open period in the afternoon which came at the same hour and they went into the library to study their tryout parts. Janet read her lines, stopping several times to chuckle over the nonsensical words which Abbie Naughton was required to say in the play. "This is going to be great fun," she told Janet. "How is your part going?" "It's a grand rôle, and lots of fun. I know the lines, but I'm supposed to be in love." "That shouldn't be a hard part then. You rather like Jim Barron, don't you?" "Yes, but what's that got to do with my part?" "I heard this noon that Jim was trying out opposite you." "Honestly?" "Honest true. Of course he may not get it." "Jim's a grand fellow." "Seems to me I've heard you say that before," chuckled Janet. "I have a hunch you'll get that part all right." Helen went through her rôle while Janet looked on with critical eyes, suggesting several minor changes which she thought would improve her companion's chances. The bell for the final class period sounded and they folded up their parts and hastened back to the assembly. Their last class for the day was honors English, a group of advanced English students who also served as the editors and reporters for the _Weekly Clarion_, writing and editing all of the high school news which appeared each Friday in the _Times_, the afternoon daily paper published in Clarion. It was the honors English class which was sponsoring the roller skating party at Youde's and Jim Barron, the sports editor, was in charge of the plans. There were seventeen in the class, including Cora Dean and Margie Blake, who wrote the girls' athletic news. Miss Bruder, the instructor, was small and dark, but somehow she managed to keep her high-tempered class under control. This was a mid-week period and the entire time was devoted to writing stories, which were turned over to Janet for final editing. It was Janet's task to write the headlines, a job at which she had become exceedingly proficient. Promptly at 3:30 o'clock the final bell sounded and writing materials were shoved hastily aside. Jim Barron stood up. "I'm counting on everyone being at the party. The bus will be here at five o'clock. We'll stop at Whet's drug store on the way out of town to pick up any of you who aren't here when we start. Remember, we're taking the money for the party out of the profit we've made from the _Weekly Clarion_ and it won't cost you a cent. Wear old clothes and plenty of warm ones. See you here at five." The class scattered, some of them remaining at school to finish up odd tasks, others hurrying home to change clothes and prepare for the party. "Going home?" asked Helen. "Right now. I'm certainly not going to fall down in these clothes while I'm skating. I've got an old tweed suit and boots I'm going to wear. Why don't you change to your corduroys?" "I thought I'd stay on and work on my part." "You know that almost to perfection now. Better get into some older clothes." Helen acquiesced and they donned their winter school coats and started down the hill toward home. The snow was still coming down steadily, as fine and dry as ever. "I'm glad there's no wind. This would drift terribly if there was," said Janet, kicking her way through the fine spume. _Chapter III_ THE WIND ROARS Janet was home in plenty of time to dress in leisure for the skating party. Her mother looked in once to make sure that she had plenty of warm clothes on. "I'm glad you're wearing that old tweed outfit. It's warm and at the same time nice looking." "Even though it's old, mother?" "Even though it's old. Tweed always looks nice and that's an especially pretty shade of brown. It goes so well with your hair. Wear your scarlet beret and don't forget the boots." "I won't," promised Janet as her mother started downstairs again. The Hardy home was pleasant, even though decidedly old-fashioned. There was a broad porch completely across the front of the house. The house itself was L-shaped, the base of the L having been added after the original structure was built. The exterior was shingled and creeping vines softened the sharper angles. Janet's room had a south exposure with two dormer windows that added to the many angles of the low-ceilinged rambling room. The wall paper was pink and white with gay farm scenes interspersed. Crisp chintz curtains were at the windows and a gay curtain hid the large, old-fashioned wardrobe at one end of the room in which she kept her clothes. Her dressing table was between the dormers with a rose-colored shade on the electric light. The bed, a walnut four poster, was against the wall nearest the hall. A gay, pink-tufted spread covered it. At one side was a small walnut stand with a shaded reading lamp. Hooked rugs, reflecting the cheery tone of the room in their varied colors, covered the dark, polished floor. Over in the far corner, where the roof sloped sharply, Janet had built a book case and stained it brown. It was filled with books, arranged in none too perfect order, showing the interest she had in them. But Janet had little time now to relax in the charm of her room. Parting the curtain of the wardrobe she found her tweed suit far to the back. Her boots were back there too, but they had been well oiled and were pliable. From a walnut chest of drawers which stood beside the wardrobe Janet drew woolen socks for it was an 18-mile ride to Youde's and they probably wouldn't be home until late. Janet dressed sensibly, woolen hose, heavy tweed skirt, a blue, shaggy wool sweater and her tweed coat. The crimson beret would be warm enough. She glanced at the clock. She had spent more time than she had anticipated, it was after 4:30 and Whet's drug store where they were to meet the bus was a good six blocks away. Janet hurried downstairs. "I've a cup of tea and some cookies all ready," her mother called. It would be after six o'clock before they ate and Janet drank the tea with relish. The cookies, crisp and filled with raisins, were delicious and she put several in the pockets of her coat. "I put your old fur coat in the hall," said Mrs. Hardy. "Your scarf's there, too." "Thanks mother. I'm certainly going to be too warm." Her mother went to the window. It was nearly dark and the snow still swirled down in dry, feathery clouds. "I almost wish you weren't going," she said, "but there doesn't seem to be any wind." "Oh, we'll be all right, mother. The bus is large and if the weather should get bad we could stay at Youde's until it clears. Remember Miss Bruder is chaperon and she's extremely sensible." "She needs to be with your crowd on her hands," smiled her mother, following Janet into the hall. Janet slipped into her old coat. It wasn't much to look at but it was warm and serviceable, one of those bunglesome coonskins that were so popular with college students at one time. She twisted her scarf around her neck, gave her mother a quick hug and kiss, and strode out of the house. Janet kicked along through the dry snow, walking rapidly until she reached Helen Thorne's home. There were no lights in the southeast room and Janet knew that Helen must be dressed for that was Helen's room. She whistled sharply, a long and a short, that penetrated the quick of the twilight. The porch light flashed on and Helen, sticking her head out, yelled, "I'm coming." Helen hurried down the walk, wriggling into a suede jacket. "Think that will be warm enough?" asked Janet, who felt very much bundled up in her coonskin. "I've got my corduroy jacket underneath and a sweater under that. I'm practically sealed up against the cold, but I'll run back and get my old coonskin." They swung along rapidly toward Whet's scuffing through the dry snow. "I like this," said Helen, breathing deeply. "The snow's grand and it isn't too cold. Wonder if they'll have any heat at Youde's?" "Oh, the dining room will be warm, but there's only a fireplace out in the room where we skate. Wraps will probably feel good there until we get well warmed up from skating." Out of the haze ahead emerged the blob of light that marked the neighborhood drug store. As they approached they could see two or three standing near the front door of the store. Ed Rickey, captain of the football team, jerked open the door. "Greetings, wanderers of the storm. Enter and be of good cheer." They stamped the snow off their boots and stepped inside. Cora Dean and Margie Blake were there. Boon companions, they were seldom apart. "Hello," said Margie, but there was no warmth in the greeting. "Hello," replied Janet. "You must think you're going to the north pole," put in Cora, as she looked Janet and Helen over coolly. "Well, not quite that far, but we believe in being sensible and warm," replied Helen, and Cora's face flamed, for both she and Margie, always trying to make an impression, were dressed in fashionable riding breeches of serge. They were pleasing to look at, but hardly the thing for comfort on a night when the temperature might drop almost to zero. Instead of coats they wore zipper sweaters of angora wool. Their boots were fashionable, but light, and would be of little use in withstanding any severe cold. "Here comes the bus," said Ed Rickey, who was bundled up in nondescript clothes. "All out that's going to Youde's," he bellowed, imitating a train caller. The bus ground to a stop in front of the store and the girls followed Ed across the curb. Jim Barron opened the door. The windows of the bus were heavily frosted for a heater was going full blast but the driver, a middle aged man, had a windshield wiper cutting a swath through the frost that formed on the glass in front of him. Miss Bruder spoke as they came in. "Everyone's here," announced Jim. "Find your seats. Next stop at Youde's." There was plenty of room in the bus for the vehicle had a capacity of thirty and there were only eighteen in addition to the driver. Most of them found seats well to the fore where they could feel the blast of warm air from the heater. Clarion was a sprawling city of 19,000, but in less than ten minutes they had left the street lights behind and were rolling along a smoothly paved highway. It was impossible to see out for the windows were frosted solid, but it was a merry crowd nevertheless. Ed Rickey, who had a fine bass voice, started in with a school song and the others soon joined him. Six miles outside Clarion they turned off the main road and swung over toward the hills which flanked the Wapsie river for it was along the banks of the Wapsie that Youde's Inn was located. Their progress was slowed here for the road had not been cleared by a snowplow. But the snow was less than five inches deep and the powerful bus forged ahead steadily. Almost before they knew it they were over the last hill and dropping down into the river valley. As the bus turned into the inn, floodlights in the yard were snapped on. A dog, barking eagerly, leaped forward to greet them. Ed and Jim were out of the bus first, assisting the others down. With Miss Bruder in the lead, they trooped toward the rambling, one story inn. Eli Youde, a coonskin cap on his head, was at the door. Behind him stood his wife, a buxom, motherly soul of forty-five. "Supper's on the table now," said Mrs. Youde as she greeted them. "The girls can take off their things in the room at the right; the boys go to the left." There were nine boys and eight girls in the honors English class, but with Miss Bruder it made an even number and she was so young and full of fun that she always seemed like one of them. Cora and Margie stopped before an old fashioned dresser to powder their noses and pat their hair into shape, but at a skating party these things were irrelevant to Janet and Helen and they hastened out to join the group in the dining room. One long table had been set. There were no place cards and the first to arrive took the choice seats, which were near a glowing soft-coal burner. Mrs. Youde, assisted by her husband, brought in steaming bowls of oyster stew. Three large bowls of crisp, white crackers were on the table, but huge inroads in them were soon made. Conversation died away as the stew was ladled down hungry throats. Before the bowls of stew had vanished, Mrs. Youde brought in two heaping platters of thick sandwiches. Janet found at least three varieties and was afraid to ask Helen how many she discovered. "This is ruining my weight, but I'm having a fine time," said Janet between bites and Helen nodded. After the sandwiches came pumpkin pie, great thick wedges of it with a mound of whipped cream on top and a slab of yellow cheese at one side. Ed Rickey yelled for help and when no one volunteered to jounce him up and down to make room for the pie, he managed to get to his feet and trot around the table several times. "I'm never going to be able to bend down and put on a skate," groaned Jim Barron, who had begged a second piece of pie and was now looking ruefully at the last crisp crust. He wanted it, but he didn't quite dare and with a sheepish look he pushed the plate away from him. "Perhaps we'd better sit around a few minutes before we start skating," suggested Miss Bruder. The suggestion was welcomed and while Mr. Youde carried armfuls of woods into the skating rink to fill the fireplace they told stories around the roaring fire in the heater. "I feel better," announced Jim a few minutes later. "In fact, I'll be courteous enough to help any of you weak damsels get your skates on. Let's go." With Jim in the lead, they trooped into the skating rink. The fireplace, along one wall and halfway down the rink, was roaring lustily as Mr. Youde piled it with fresh fuel. The skates were in boxes, numbered for size, and ranged in rows along the walls. Jim, Ed and one of the other boys did the fitting while the girls sat on a long bench. "Here's a pair that ought to be long enough for you," grinned Jim as he placed a skate under Janet's right foot. "Oh, I don't know that I'm such a clodhopper," smiled Janet. "Anyway, I'll bet I can beat you around the rink the first time." "It's a go," replied Jim, fastening the other skate. "Wait until I get the wheels under my hoofs." Janet stood up and tried the skates. Jim had found an excellent pair for her. They felt true and speedy. She tried a preliminary whirl. Her balance was good. Jim shot out onto the floor, tried to make a sharp turn, lost his balance, and sat down with a thud that shook the room. "First down," yelled Ed Rickey, who hastened to Jim's aid and entangled himself over Jim's outstretched legs. Ed also went down and shouts of merriment echoed through the room. "Ready Jim?" asked Janet when the husky senior was back on his feet. "Just as ready now as later," he replied and they shot away, Janet's feet moving swiftly as she got up speed. Jim had the longer legs, the more powerful strokes, but Janet was fast and light. That might overcome the advantage of her heavier rival. "Go on, Janet, go on!" she heard Helen shouting as they took the first turn. Jim was still ahead, but he was going too fast for a safe turn and he skidded sharply and lost speed at the next turn while Janet, her feet a twinkle of motion, shot ahead. Jim yelled in protest, but Janet only went the faster and flashed by the finish at least two yards ahead of the puffing Jim. From then on the rink buzzed with the roll of the skates as in couples and singly they sped around the room. Ed Rickey was a wizard on skates and after the first rush of skating, when some of them were content to sit on the benches near the fireplace, he gave a demonstration of fancy skating. Janet had never imagined Ed had that grace and sense of rhythm but the big fellow was remarkably light on his feet. Then they were back on the floor again, this time in a series of races Jim Barron had planned, some of them rolling peanuts the length of the rink and back and others skating around backwards in tandem races. In spite of the roaring fire, the room was cold and Janet felt the chill creep through her bones. She stopped skating and edged over close to the fireplace just as the bus driver came in and spoke to Eli Youde. The innkeeper departed at once with the driver and Janet heard the bang of an outer door as though it had been caught by the wind and closed violently. But there had been no wind when they came down into the valley to the inn. If the wind had come up, the snow might drift badly. She put that thought out of her mind, and rejoined the skaters. It was less than five minutes later when the innkeeper and the bus driver returned, striding down the center of the rink. Mr. Youde held up one hand and the skaters gathered around him. "Wind's coming up and the snow's starting to drift. May be bad in another hour or two. If you want to get home before midnight you'd better start now for it will be slow going up in the hills." "We'll start at once," decided Miss Bruder. "Get your wraps, everybody." Janet, some unknown fear tugging at her heart, hung back and spoke to Mr. Youde. "Is it perfectly safe to start the trip back?" she asked. "I guess so. That's a powerful bus. But you'd better start now before the wind gets bad. This snow is going to drift like fury before morning. I expect we'll be blockaded for a couple of days." Janet rejoined the girls in the room where they had left their coats. A horn sounded outside and they hastened to don their wraps. The floodlights in the yard flashed on and the group, bidding the Youdes cheery goodnights, hastened out to the bus. _Chapter IV_ LITTLE DEER VALLEY In spite of her warm clothing, Janet could feel the sting of the night air. It was much colder than when they had arrived. The snow seemed to be less, but the wind was shipping it in little eddies across the yard. With the heater running full blast, the bus was comfortable and they found seats well up toward the front. Miss Bruder counted them to make sure that everyone was on hand. Reassured, she told the driver to start the return trip. The windows were heavily frosted and it was like being in a sealed room, the only peephole being the small frame of glass which the windshield wiper kept clear. "What time is it?" Janet asked Helen, who had a wrist watch. "Nine forty-five. We're starting home early." Janet nodded, but she was glad they had made the start. It wouldn't have been pleasant staying at Youde's if they had been snowed in for the lonely inn had few comforts. The powerful engine of the bus labored as the big machine topped a grade out of the valley and they swung down into another. For five or six miles it would be one hill after another and Janet wondered if the snow was drifting down in the valleys. The road was little used and if the wind increased, it might make travel exceedingly difficult. But she dismissed that thought from her mind for the bus had heavy chains on the double wheels at the rear. The spontaneity which had marked their trip out was missing and conversation soon died away. Everyone was tired and willing to snuggle down into their coats. Janet must have been dozing for the heavy roar of the bus motor awoke her with a start. They were backing up. Then they stopped and the driver shifted gears. The bus leaped ahead, the throttle on full and the exhaust barking in the crisp air. Gradually their forward motion ceased and the wheels ground into the snow. Without a word the bus driver shifted instantly into reverse and they lurched backward. The driver stopped the bus, set the emergency brake, and dodged out into the night. "What's the matter?" asked Helen, who was almost hidden in her fur coat and deliciously sleepy. "I think we've hit a drift," replied Janet. "We ought to be almost home, though. It seems like we've been traveling for ages." "I expect we are," but Janet didn't feel the optimism that she meant her words to convey. If the wind had increased they might find themselves in a serious situation. The bus driver opened the door and stuck his head in. "One of you fellows come out and give me a hand with the shovels." Jim Barron, nearest the door, responded with Ed Rickey at his heels. After several minutes the bus driver came back inside and slowed the motor down to idling speed and the wave of heat from the heater diminished noticeably. With the motor barely turning over, outside noises were audible and Janet could hear the rush of the wind. Particles of the fine, dry snow were being driven against the window beside her. It was at least fifteen minutes later when Jim, Ed and the driver returned, red-faced and breathless from their exertions. The boys dropped into the front seats while the driver opened the throttle and sent the big machine lumbering ahead. The bus plunged into the drift, the chains on the rear wheels biting deep into the snow. Once they swung sharply and Janet gasped, but they swung back and with the engine taxed to the limit finally pulled through the drift. Janet saw Jim look around and she thought she detected grave concern in his eyes. Then he turned away and she was too far away to speak to him without alarming the others. The bus labored up a long grade, breasted the top of the hill, and then started down. It would be in the valley that trouble would come, for the snow would be heavily drifted. The big machine rocked down the slope, jolting its occupants around and bruising one or two of them. Janet heard Miss Bruder cry out sharply and turned around, but the teacher motioned that she was all right. Then the speed of the bus slackened, the wheels spun futilely, and their forward motion ceased. Almost instantly they were in reverse, but the bus slipped to one side and in spite of the full power of the motor, the wheels churned through the dry snow. The driver eased up on the throttle, looked significantly at Jim and Ed, and with them at his heels plunged into the storm again. Fortunately, he had tied several shovels to the bus before leaving Youde's and they were not without implements to dig themselves out. Janet could hear them working, first at the front and then at the rear and Helen, now thoroughly wide awake, looked at her in alarm. "It's getting colder in here," she said. "The engine's barely turning over; there isn't much heat coming out." "I know, but I mean the temperature outside must be dropping rapidly, and listen to the wind." But Janet preferred not to listen to the wind; it was too mournful, too nerve-wracking. What it whispered alarmed her for they were still some miles from the main road and there were few if any farms near. The bus driver returned and motioned to the other boys. "Give us a hand. We don't want to stay here a minute longer than necessary." The rest of the boys piled out of the bus, leaving the girls and Miss Bruder alone. "I'm nearly frozen," complained Margie Blake. "At least we might have obtained a good bus driver." "I don't think it's the driver's fault," interposed Janet. "We stayed too long at Youde's." "Then he should have told us the storm was getting worse. My folks will be worried half to death if we are hung up here all night." Janet admitted to herself that they would all have cause to worry if they had to stay in the bus all night, for she doubted if the supply of fuel would be sufficient to keep the engine going to operate the heater for that length of time and she dreaded to think of how cold it might get if the heater was off. Between the gusts of wind that swept around the bus they could hear the steady swing of the shovels biting into the snow. It was eleven o'clock when the driver came inside. His face was almost white from the cold and he beat his hands together as he took the wheel and eased in the clutch. With the motor roaring heavily Janet felt the power being applied to the wheels ever so gradually to keep them from slipping. The bus seemed cemented into the snow, but motion finally became evident. The wheels churned and they moved backward. Someone outside was shouting, but the words were unintelligible to all except the driver. He stopped while one of the boys scraped the frost off the window outside for the windshield wiper had frozen. Then, barely creeping ahead and with the bus in low gear, they moved through the snow, shouted commands keeping the driver in the right path. At last they were through the drift and the boys piled back into the bus, pounding each other on the back and clapping their hands to bring back the circulation. Miss Bruder called Jim Barron back. "Just how serious is this, Jim?" she asked. "Pretty bad. We're three miles from the main road and there isn't a farm within two miles. Only thing we can do is to keep going ahead and try to shovel through." "How about Little Deer valley?" "That's what we're worrying about. The wind gets a clean sweep there and I'm afraid we may not get through." "Can we turn back and stay at Youde's?" "Some of the road behind us would be as badly drifted as Little Deer valley," replied Jim. "I guess the only thing is to grind ahead and trust that the gas holds out." For a time they made steady progress, the bus rumbling along smoothly and the heater throwing out a steady blast of warm, dank air. Then they rolled down a gentle slope and onto the flat of Little Deer valley, which was more than half a mile wide. The driver stopped and went out to wade through the drifts. He came back to report that they might make it although in places the drifts were nearly up to the tops of the fence posts. "It's going to mean plenty of shoveling," he warned them. "We've got to go on," said Miss Bruder. "If we get stuck at least we're that much closer to the road. Perhaps we could walk to the main highway." Janet saw Jim glance sharply at Miss Bruder. Perhaps she didn't realize the seriousness of their situation, or perhaps she was masking her thoughts with those words. The gears ground again, the motor took up its burden, and they lurched ahead, churning through the deepening snow. The air was colder now. There was no warmth from the heater. Something had gone wrong with the motor or a pipe had frozen. No matter then. Getting through the drifts was uppermost in their minds. Gradually the straining progress of the bus slowed, finally stopped, the gears clashed, and they lurched backward several hundred feet. Then they plunged ahead again, burrowing deeper into the snow. "Everybody out to shovel," said the driver, snapping off the engine to save fuel. The boys hurried out into the cold and the girls huddled closer to each other. Margie and Cora, thinly clad for such a night, beat their arms almost steadily and stamped their feet in rhythmic cadence. Janet and Helen, heavily clothed, were still warm although the cold crept through their gloves to some extent. "I wonder how cold it is?" asked Helen. "I haven't any idea, but it feels like it was almost zero. Let's not think about it." "Try not to think about it," retorted Helen, and Janet admitted that her companion was right. There was nothing to think about except the cold and the snow. Of course there was the class play, but marooned in the middle of Little Deer valley with a howling blizzard raging was no time to think of class plays. The driver came back and stepped on the starter. The motor was slow in turning over. It must be bitterly cold, thought Janet. Finally the engine started and they plowed ahead a few feet, then finally churned to a stop. Outside the shovels clanged against the steel sides of the bus as the boys dug into the snow again. It was chilling, numbing work out there and Jim Barron tumbled through the door to stand up in front and beat his arms steadily. When he went out, Ed Rickey came in and the boys alternated. Margie whimpered in the cold and Janet felt sorry for her. "My coat's large. I'll come up and sit with you and Cora can come back here with Helen," said Janet. The other girls, thoroughly chilled, welcomed the change and Janet unbuttoned the voluminous coonskin and shared it with Margie, Helen doing likewise for Cora. Janet could feel Margie trembling as she pressed close to her. After a time the driver returned and started the motor again. They moved forward slowly, creeping along the trail the boys had opened with the shovels. Finally they rocked to a stop and the driver turned toward Miss Bruder. "It's no use. The drifts are three feet high and getting worse every minute." _Chapter V_ THE WHITE MENACE Miss Bruder looked at the girls, huddled together on the seats, desperately trying to keep warm. Outside the boys were bravely attempting to clear a path, but it was hopeless. "Perhaps we'd better get out and try to reach the main road on foot," she said. "I wouldn't advise that," replied the driver. "Some of the girls couldn't make it through the drifts. It must be well below zero now and the snow's still coming down bad." Just then Jim and Ed led the boys back into the bus, closing the door carefully after them. They were covered with fine snow and frost from their own breath. "I'm going to try and break through to the road," said Jim. "The rest of you stay here and try to keep warm. Whatever you do, don't leave the bus." "If anyone is going to try to make it to the paved highway, I'm going," spoke up the driver. "I've been over this road a number of times. I'll follow the fence line and get to a farm somehow." In spite of the protests of the boys, the driver remained firm, insisting that he, and he alone, could make the trip. "Keep the door shut and don't run the motor. The heater's out of order now and if you run the motor, carbon monoxide fumes may creep in. They're deadly." But that was an unnecessary warning for all of the boys knew the danger of the motor fumes in a closed compartment. Bundling himself up well, the driver plunged into the storm and Miss Bruder and her honors English class were left alone in the middle of Little Deer valley with the worst storm of the winter raging around their marooned bus. Jim turned off the headlights, leaving only the red and green warning lights atop the bus on. He snapped the switches for the interior lights until only one was left aglow for there was no use to waste the precious supply of electricity in the storage battery. If anything the whine of the wind was louder and it was exceedingly lonely out there despite the presence of the others. There was something about it that made Janet feel as though she were a hundred miles from civilization. She had not dreamed it would be possible to have such a sense of loneliness and yet be in a group of schoolmates. Jim Barron and Ed Rickey kept on the move, talking with some of the boys or attempting to cheer up the girls. "Better get up every few minutes and swing your arms and stamp your feet," advised Ed. "That'll keep the circulation going; otherwise you may suffer frostbite." Helen squinted her eyes and looked at her watch in the dim light shed by the single bulb. It was just after midnight. "Wonder if we'll be home by morning," she asked, turning back to Janet. "Let's hope so, though I'm not in the least bit hungry after the big meal we had at Youde's." "That seems ages away," replied Helen. "I'd almost forgotten the skating party." Margie, who had taken shelter under Janet's coat, spoke up. "It's all the bus driver's fault. We never should have left Youde's." "But none of us wanted to spend the night there," said Janet. "Of course we didn't dream the snow would have drifted this much." "The driver should have known," insisted Margie, and Janet thought her more than a little unreasonable, but then Margie was probably thoroughly chilled and likely to disagree with everything and everyone. The minutes passed slowly, dragging as Janet had never known they could. The cold increased in intensity and some of the other girls, not as warmly dressed as Janet and Helen, began to complain. "My feet are getting numb," said Bernice Grogan, a slip of a little black-haired Irish girl. "Better keep them moving," said Ed Rickey. "Here, I'll move them for you until the circulation starts back." Ed knelt down on the floor and took Bernice's boots in his hands, massaging her feet vigorously. Soon Bernice began to cry. "It's the pain. They hurt terribly." "Just the circulation coming back," said Ed, but Janet knew from the lines on his forehead that Ed was worried. "If any of the rest of you feel numb, just call out. We've got to keep moving or some of us may suffer some frozen parts before morning," he warned. Bernice, in spite of her efforts, couldn't keep the tears back, but they froze on her cheeks, so bitter was the cold. Jim Barron opened the door, and a rush of cutting air swept in. Then he was gone into the night and Janet could hear him wielding the shovel outside. It was five or six minutes before Jim returned and he looked utterly exhausted. "I've never seen such a night," he mumbled. "I'm afraid the bus driver didn't get very far." "Then we'd better start out after him," said Ed, getting to his feet. But Jim's broad shoulders barred the door. "We're going to stay right here. You can't even find the fences now. It would be suicide to start in the dark. The only thing we can do is keep as warm as possible inside the bus. I started throwing snow up around the windows. Some of you fellows give me a hand. We'll bank the bus in snow clear to the top and that will keep out some of this bitter wind." "But if you cover the bus with snow, they'll never find us when they come hunting us," protested Cora. "Just never mind about that," retorted Jim. "The only thing I'm worrying about now is keeping us from freezing to death." Jim's words shocked the girls into silence. _Chapter VI_ DESPERATE HOURS Freezing to death! The phrase was terrible in its import, yet the danger was very near and very deadly, for there was slight chance that the bus driver had gotten through to give a warning of their predicament. Even if he had Janet wondered if any searching party could brave the rigors of the night. Outside the boys worked steadily, coming inside in shifts, and then going back. They could hear the snow thud against the side of the bus as it was piled higher and higher and the sound of the wind gradually faded as the wall of snow protecting them from it thickened. The light from the single bulb was ghostly now. The battery seemed to be weakening. Helen looked at her watch. It was just one o'clock when the boys came in, beating their hands and knocking the frost from their breath off their coats. Jim was the last one in and he closed the door carefully after him. Bernice was crying again and Ed, though half frozen himself, bent down and massaged her feet. Miss Bruder was white and shaken for it was more than she could cope with and she turned to Ed and Jim to pull them through the emergency. While Ed worked with Bernice's feet, Jim spoke to the group. "We might as well face this thing frankly," he said. "We're in an awful jam. It must be fifteen or twenty below right now. The snow has stopped, but the wind is increasing in strength and the snow is drifting badly. It may be hours, perhaps a day, before we're discovered." He paused and watched the conflicting emotions on their faces, then plunged on. "We've banked the bus with snow to keep out the worst of the wind, but it's going to be terribly cold just the same. We've got to keep moving, keep up our spirits. If we don't----" But Jim didn't finish his sentence. There was no need for they all knew what would happen once they became groggy and sleepy. "I'm going to start with a count and I want all of you to beat your feet in time with me. That'll jar your whole body and warm you up a little." Jim started counting and soon the whole group was stamping their feet methodically. Even Janet had not realized how cold she was. Her feet had felt a little numb, but under the steady pounding against the floor they started to tingle, then burn with an intensity that brought tears to her eyes where they froze on her lashes. "I'm nearly frozen," chattered Margie, huddling closer to Janet. "If it wasn't for your coat I'd be like an icicle by this time." They kept up the motion with their feet for at least five minutes, and Jim called a halt then. "Everyone feel a little warmer?" he asked. "My hands are still cold," said one of the girls, but Janet was too stiff to turn around and see who was speaking. "Then here's an arm drill for everyone," said Jim, starting to swing his arms in cadence. When that exercise was completed, most of them could feel their bodies aglow as the blood raced through their veins. Ed started to tell funny stories and though he did his best, their own situation was so tragic that nothing appeared humorous. But he kept them interested, which was the main thing. Helen was the first to break the now monotonous flow of Ed's words. "Stop, Ed," she said, her voice low and tense. "Shake Miss Bruder, quick!" Ed turned suddenly to the teacher, who had been sitting back of him. Her head had fallen forward on her chest and her arms hung limp. The husky senior picked her up and brought her back under the light, the rest crowding around him. Then Janet took charge. Miss Bruder's eyes were closed, but she was breathing slowly. "I believe she's half frozen. She was sitting where a constant knife of air was coming in around the door," whispered Jim. "Get busy and massage her." Janet, with Helen helping her, stripped off Miss Bruder's thin gloves. Her hands were pitifully white. Ed scooped up a handful of snow where it had sifted in around the door and used it to rub Miss Bruder's hands while Janet and Helen massaged the upper part of her body and her face. It was five minutes before the teacher responded to their frantic efforts. Then her eyes opened and she tried to smile. "I must have dozed for a moment," she whispered. "Don't talk," said Helen. "Rest now." "Is everyone all right?" insisted the teacher. "Everybody's here," replied Jim, who was keeping a close eye on Bernice, who seemed the most susceptible to the cold. Ed pulled Janet to the rear of the bus. "This thing is getting serious," he whispered. "Some of the girls won't be able to stand it until morning unless we're able to keep them warmer. Jim and I have sheepskins. We'll put them down on the floor and you girls get down and lie on them. Huddle together and cover up with your own coats. Your body heat should keep you warm and we'll be moving around and talking to you so none of you will get too drowsy from the cold." "But you can't do that. You and Jim will freeze," protested Janet. "Freeze? I guess not. We're too tough for that. Besides, I've got all kinds of clothes on under this sheepskin." Janet finally agreed to the plan and Ed explained it briefly. Miss Bruder hesitated, but the others overruled her. Jim and Ed placed their heavy canvas, sheep-lined coats on the floor and the girls laid down on them like ten pins, huddling together and putting their own coats over them. "Get just as close as you can so you'll keep each other warm," counseled Jim, who, minus his heavy coat, was busy swinging his arms and legs. In less than five minutes the girls were ready to admit that the plan was an excellent one, for they were quite comfortable under the mound of coats and Janet made them keep up a constant flow of conversation, calling to each girl every few minutes. Up in the front of the bus they could hear the boys moving steadily and stamping their feet. How long they had been under the pile of coats Janet couldn't guess, but suddenly there was a wild pounding on the door of the bus. She managed to get her head out from under the coats in time to see Jim open the door. "Everyone safe?" cried someone outside. "We're all right," replied Jim and then Janet saw her father looking down at the huddled group of girls on the floor of the bus. His face was covered with frost, but he brushed past the boys and knelt beside her. "All right, honey?" he asked. "A little cold," Janet managed to smile. "How did you get here?" "Never mind that. The first thing is to get out of here and where you'll be safe and warm." Other men poured into the bus. Janet recognized some of them. Ed's father was there. So was Jim's, Cora's and Margie's. Someone had a big bottle of hot coffee and cardboard cups. The steaming hot liquid, bitter without sugar or cream, was passed around. Janet drank her cup eagerly and the hot beverage warmed her chilled body. Extra coats and mufflers had been brought by the rescue party. "Get as warm as you can. It's going to be a cold ride to the paved road," advised her father. They were soon ready and once more the door of the bus was opened. Outside a powerful searchlight glowed and as they neared it Janet saw a large caterpillar tractor. Behind this was a hayrack, mounted on runners and well filled with hay. "Everybody into the rack. Burrow down deep so you'll keep warm." Janet's father counted them as they got into the rack, yelled to the operator of the tractor to start, and then piled into the rack himself. With a series of sharp reports from its exhaust, the lumbering tractor got into motion, jerking the rack and its precious load behind it. _Chapter VII_ SANCTUARY AT HOME It was nearly an hour later when the tractor breasted the last grade and rolled down to the paved road where a dozen cars, all of them warmly heated and well lighted, were strung along the road. Anxious fathers and mothers were on hand, including Janet's mother and Mrs. Thorne and they welcomed their thoroughly chilled daughters to their bosoms. Janet's father shepherded them into their own sedan where despite the sub-zero cold the heater had kept the car comfortable. Then they started the final lap of their eventful trip from Youde's home. Helen and Janet sank back on the cushions of the capacious rear seat, thoroughly worn out by their trying experience. Janet's father, one of the most prominent attorneys in Clarion, slipped in behind the wheel, slamming the car door and shutting out the biting blast of air. There were other cars ahead of them and they made no attempt at high speed as they rolled back into the city. "How did you ever find us, Dad?" asked Janet. "You can thank the bus driver for that. Somehow he got through to a farmhouse. He was almost frozen, but he managed to tell them the story and they phoned word in to us." "Who thought of the tractor and hayrack?" asked Helen, warm once more. "It was Hugh Grogan, Bernice's father. He sells the caterpillars. Good thing he did or we'd never have gotten through." "It was a good thing for Bernice, too. She was about all in," said Janet. When they reached the Hardy home, Janet's mother insisted that Helen and Mrs. Thorne come in and have a hot lunch before going to their own home. While the girls took off their coats and Mr. Hardy put the car into the garage, Mrs. Hardy bustled out into the kitchen where she had left a kettle of water simmering on the stove. Lunch was ready in short order, tea, peanut butter sandwiches, cookies and a large bowl of fruit. Janet and Helen had ravenous appetites and the sandwiches disappeared as though by magic. "How cold is it, Dad?" asked Janet. "Twenty-two below." "The wind was awful," said Helen, between bites at a sandwich. "I know. It was pretty fierce going across country in the hayrack. The boys must have used their heads for someone banked the bus with snow." "That was Jim Barron's idea. He and Ed Rickey kept us moving and talking most of the time, but we forgot Miss Bruder. She was in a draft and almost froze to death without saying a word to anyone." "That scared us half to death," put in Helen, "but the boys massaged her hands with snow and Janet and I massaged the upper part of her body until we could get the circulation going again. I think she'll be all right, but probably pretty sensitive to cold for the rest of the winter." "But the winter's almost over. Here it's late March. Who'd ever have thought we'd have a storm like this," said Janet. "If I had, I can assure you that you'd never have made the trip to Youde's tonight," promised her father. "It was one of those freak storms that sometimes sweep down from the Arctic circle and fool even the weather men. By tomorrow the temperature will shoot up and the snow will melt so fast we'll probably have a flood." The girls finished every sandwich on the plate and drank two cups of tea apiece. It was five o'clock when they left the table. Mrs. Thorne and Helen started to put on their coats, but Janet's mother objected. "Your house will be cold and our guest room upstairs is all made up. Janet and I will lend you whatever you need. We'll all get to bed now." Janet got warm pajamas for Helen and then went to her own room. Warm and inviting in the soft rays of the rose-shaded lamp over her dressing table, it was a sanctuary after the exciting events of the night. A wave of drowsiness assailed Janet, and it was with difficulty that she unlaced and pulled off her boots. Somehow she managed to crawl into her pajamas and roll into bed, but she was asleep before she could remember to turn off the light. Her mother, looking in a few minutes later, pulled the blankets up around Janet's shoulders, opened the window just a crack to let in a whiff of fresh air, and turned off the light. Janet slept a heavy and dreamless sleep. When she awakened the sun was streaming in the windows and from the angle she could tell that it was late. But in spite of the knowledge that she would probably be extremely late in getting to school, Janet was too deliciously comfortable to move rapidly. After stretching leisurely, she got out of bed and closed the window. The radiator in her room was bubbling gently and she slipped into bed to wait until the room warmed up. Vivid thoughts of what had happened during the night rotated in her mind, the cold, the wind, the snow--the terror of waiting in Little Deer valley for the rescue, hoping but not knowing for sure that they would be reached in time to save them from the relentless cold. Someone opened Janet's door and peered in. It was Helen, who, on seeing that her friend was awake, bounced into the room. "You look pretty live and wide awake after last night," smiled Janet. "I'm not only that, I'm ravenously hungry," said Helen, "and if you had been out in the hall and caught a whiff of the breakfast your mother is preparing you would be too." "What time is it?" "Well, you can call it breakfast or lunch, depending on whether you've had breakfast. For me it's breakfast even though the clock says it's just a little after eleven." "You're seeing things," retorted Janet, throwing off the covers and hurrying toward her wardrobe. "I wouldn't be surprised if I am, but your mother says it is after eleven and I'll take her word for it. I'll run down and tell her you'll be along within the hour." "That isn't fair. You know it won't be more than five minutes. I always dress faster than you do." _Chapter VIII_ POSTPONED TRYOUTS Helen went down stairs and Janet hastened to the bathroom where she made a hasty toilet. Back in her room she fairly jumped into her clothes, gave her hair one final and hurried caress with the brush, and then went down stairs. Mrs. Thorne, who had breakfasted earlier with Janet's father and mother, had gone home, so Helen and Janet sat down to the breakfast Mrs. Hardy had prepared. There was grapefruit to start with, then oatmeal with dates in it, hot, well-buttered toast, strips of crisp bacon and large glasses of milk. "Feel all right this morning, Janet?" her mother asked, looking a little anxiously at her vibrant and energetic daughter. "Fine, mother. I slept very soundly. Last night seems almost like a nightmare." "It was a nightmare," said her mother, sitting down and picking up a piece of toast to munch while the girls ate their breakfast. "I've never seen your father so worried. He was almost frantic until Hugh Grogan suggested they try to get through with one of his big tractors. They held a council of war right here in the front room and I've never seen as many nervous and excited men in my life. Talk about women getting upset, why they were worse than we ever think of being." She smiled a little. She could now, but last night it had all been a very grim and very near tragedy. "You'll have to write an excuse for me," said Janet between munches on a crisp slice of bacon. "Not this time. I phoned the superintendent and he said that everyone in honors English was excused from school today." "Wonder if we'll have the tryouts for the class play this afternoon?" said Helen, who until that moment had been devoting her full energies to the large bowl of oatmeal. "There's one way of finding out," replied Janet. "I'll phone the principal's office and see if it has been taken off the bulletin board." Janet went to the phone in the hall and called the schoolhouse. When she returned her face was aglow. "No school, no tryouts--what a day and what to do?" "You're sure about the tryouts?" Helen was insistent, for winning the leading part meant so much to her. "Sure as sure can be. They've been postponed until Saturday morning at 9:30 o'clock when they will be held in the assembly." "Then that will give me plenty of time to study my part thoroughly," said Helen. "But you know it now. Why you had it memorized, every word and phrase, yesterday afternoon," protested Janet. "I know I did yesterday, but last night scared it completely out of me. I can't even remember the opening lines." "Maybe it's a good thing. We'll both start over and this afternoon we can rehearse upstairs in my room." "Grand. I've got to go home and help mother for a while, but I'll be back by 2:30 o'clock and we'll start in." Breakfast over, Janet went to the door with Helen. The day was bright and almost unbelievably clear. The temperature was rising rapidly, the wind had gone down, and their experience of the night before seemed very far away. Rivulets of water were starting to run down the streets and before nightfall the gutters would be full of the melting snow and slush. Janet found a multitude of little things to do around home to help her mother and the first interruption came with the ringing of the telephone. Her mother answered, but then summoned Janet. "It's the Times," said Mrs. Hardy. Janet took the instrument and recognized the voice of the city editor of the local paper. "I need a good first person story of what took place inside the bus, Janet," said Pete Benda. "Can you come down to the office and write a yarn? You've had enough experience with your high school page to do the trick and do it well." "But it all seems so far away and kind of vague now," protested Janet. "Listen, Janet, I've got to have that story." Pete was cajoling now. "Haven't we done a lot of favors for your high school page?" "Yes, but--." "Then come down and write the story. I'll save a good spot on page one for it." Janet hung up the telephone, feeling a little weak and limp. Pete Benda was insistent and she would have to go through with it. "The Times wants me to come down and write a first person story of what happened last night," she explained to her mother. "I didn't want to, but Pete Benda, the city editor, just insisted. He's been so good about helping us out on the school page when we've been in jams that I couldn't say no." "Of course not, and you'll do a good piece of writing. No don't worry about it. Run along. I'll have a little lunch ready when you get back." Janet put on her coat, but paused at the door and called to her mother. "If Helen comes before I get back, tell her I'll be along soon." Janet enjoyed the walk to the Times office for the air was invigorating. The Times was housed in a narrow two-story building with its press in the basement. The news department was on the second floor with the city editor's desk in front of a large window where he could look the full length of the main business street of Clarion. Pete Benda, thin and too white-faced for his own good health, saw Janet come in. "Here's a desk and typewriter you can use," he said. "I'm counting on having that story in less than an hour. You'll have to come through, young lady." Janet flushed at Pete's appellation, for the city editor of the Times was only a little older than she. Oh well, perhaps Pete was twenty-two, but she could remember when he had been in high school, playing football, and one of the best ends in the state. Janet rolled some copy paper into the typewriter and looked rather blankly at the sheet. It was hard now to concentrate on the events which had been so tragically real the night before. If she could only get the first sentence to click the rest would come easily. She tried one phrase. That wouldn't do; not enough action in it. Ripping the sheet of paper from the typewriter, she inserted another and tried again. This was better. Perhaps it would do; at least she had started, and the words came now in a smooth flow for Janet could type rapidly, thanks to a commercial course in her junior year. Pete Benda, on his way to the composing room, looked over her shoulder and read the first paragraph but Janet, now engrossed in the story, hardly noticed him. Pursing his lips in a low whistle, a trick that he did when pleased, Pete went on about his work. Janet finished one page and then another. Even a third materialized under the steady tapping of her fingers on the keyboard. Then she was through. Three pages of copy, three pages of short, sharp sentences, of adjectives that caught and held the imagination, that gave a picture of the cold and the apprehension of those in the bus, of the relief, almost hysterical, when rescue came. Janet didn't read it over. It was the best she could do. If Pete wanted to change it that was all right with her. She put the three sheets of copy paper together and placed them on his desk. Then she slipped into her coat and went down stairs. She had finished the story well within the limit set by the city editor and she turned toward home and the rehearsal she and Helen had planned for the afternoon. _Chapter IX_ BIG NEWS Janet had gone less than half a block when she heard someone calling to her. Looking back she saw Pete Benda leaning from an upper window of the Times office. He was waving Janet's story in his hand. "Great story, Janet," he shouted. "I'll send you a box of candy. Thanks a lot." Janet smiled and waved at Pete. It was just like the impetuous city editor to lean out his window and shout his thoughts at the top of his voice to someone down the street. But she was glad to know that the story met Pete's approval. But as for the candy. Well Pete was always making promises like that. If he had kept them all he would have needed a private candy factory. Helen was waiting when Janet reached home and she waved a letter at her friend. "It's from Dad," she cried. "He says he's about through on the picture he's making at present and will be home without fail for my graduation. Wants me to send him the dates of the play, of the banquet and of everything. Also wants your Dad to make sure the fishing will be good and to line up a good plot where he can find plenty of worms." "That's splendid news. I'm so happy," said Janet, who knew how much Helen missed her father's companionship at times, for when he was in Clarion they were almost inseparable. But Janet realized that Mr. Thorne was exceedingly smart in keeping Helen in Clarion rather than taking her west with him to the movie city where she would be subject to all of the tensions and nervous activity there. Here in Clarion she was growing up in entirely normal surroundings where she would have a sane and sensible outlook on life and its values. "I phoned your Dad, and he says he'll have to start hunting good creeks just as soon as the snow's off." "That kind of puts Dad on the spot, for he's got to deliver on the worms and the fishing," smiled Janet. "Oh, well, Dad doesn't care so much about getting any fish. He just likes to get out and loaf on a sunny creek bank and either talk with your Dad or doze. He calls that a real holiday." Janet went upstairs and got the mimeographed sheets with the synopsis of the play and the part she was to try out for. After the drama of last night, that of "The Chinese Image" seemed shallow and forced. The rôle of Abbie Naughton, who was more than a little light-headed and fun loving until a crisis came along, was comparatively easy for it called for little actual acting ability and Janet was frank enough to admit that she was no actress. Helen, trying for the straight lead, carried by Gale Naughton, had always liked to think that she had real dramatic talent and Janet was willing to admit that her companion had more than average ability. At least Helen was pretty enough to carry the rôle off whether she had any dramatic ability or not. Coaching each other, they gave their own interpretations of the parts which they were trying for. An hour and then another slipped away. The brightness faded from the afternoon and Janet turned on a reading light. "I think we've done all we can for one day. If we keep on we'll go stale. Let's forget the tryouts for a while." "You can," retorted Helen, "but I've simply got to win that part. What would Dad think of me if I didn't?" "I don't believe he'd think any the less of you," smiled Janet, "but I'll admit it would be nice for you to win the leading rôle and I'll do everything I can to help you." "Of course, I know you will. It was awfully small of me to say that." The doorbell rang and Janet answered it. A boy handed her a package. "It's for Miss Hardy. She live here?" "I'm Janet Hardy." "Okay. I just wanted to be sure this was the right place." "This looks interesting," said Janet, returning to the living room with the large box. Her mother, who had heard the doorbell, joined them. Janet tore off the wrapping, opened the cardboard outer box, and pulled out a two pound box of assorted chocolates. On top of the box was a clipping torn from the front page of the Times. Janet stared hard at the clipping, hardly believing her eyes. There was her story with her name signed to it. "Why Janet, your name is on this front page story!" exclaimed her mother. "What's all the mystery?" demanded Helen, and Janet explained, rather quickly, about her summons to the Times office. "Pete Benda said he liked the story and was going to send me a box of candy, but I thought he was joking. You know he's always telling people he's going to send them candy." "This is no joke," said Helen as Janet opened the box and offered candy to her mother and to Helen. "In fact, I'd like a joke like this about once a week." "Yes, but I wouldn't like an experience like we had once a week," retorted Janet. Helen's mother phoned that they were having an early supper and Helen picked up the tryout sheets, put her coat over her shoulders, and started for home. "If I disappear, it's just that I've been swept away in the flood," she called as she hurried out. Janet looked after her. Helen wasn't far from wrong. With the rapidly rising temperature, the afternoon sun had covered the sidewalks and filled the street with rushing torrents of water. Another day and there would be no sign of the storm of the night before. Mrs. Hardy called and Janet went into the kitchen to help her mother with the preparations for the evening meal. "I heard you rehearsing this afternoon," said her mother, "and I wouldn't set my heart too much on winning one of those parts." "I won't," promised Janet. "Of course I'd like to be in the senior play, but I won't be heart-broken if I don't win a part." "Perhaps I was thinking more about Helen than you," confessed Mrs. Hardy. "She's so much in earnest that failure would upset her greatly." "I know it, but I can understand why Helen wants a part and I'm afraid I'd be just as intent if my father were the ace director for a great motion picture company. I suppose I'd think that I should have dramatic ability to be a success in his eyes." "That's just it," said Mrs. Hardy. "Helen doesn't need to get a part in the play. When he comes home, he likes nothing better than being with his wife and Helen. You know he never goes any place." "Except fishing with Dad." "Oh, pshaw. They don't fish. They dig a few worms and take their old fishpoles along some creek that never did have any fish. It just gets them outdoors and away from people who might want to bother Henry Thorne." "Well, no matter, Helen has set her heart on winning the leading rôle and I'm going to do everything in my power to help her along." _Chapter X_ VICTORY FOR HELEN The rest of the week slipped away quickly. The harrowing experience in Little Deer valley became a memory and the seniors concentrated upon winning rôles in the class play. By Saturday morning the snow had vanished, the temperature was above freezing and the grass was starting to turn green--such are the miracles of the early spring. Janet and Helen rehearsed their tryout parts so many times that Janet found herself mumbling her lines in her sleep. Most of the seniors assembled promptly at 9:30 o'clock that morning for the tryouts. A few of them, feeling that they had no chance, did not come, but Janet noticed that Margie and Cora were well to the front of the room where Miss Williams would be sure to see them. "I want you to do your best this morning for on your work now depends whether you will have a place in the play," she warned them, and Janet felt a little twinge. School was near an end and the senior play was her last chance. Of course it wasn't as important to her as it was to Helen, but it would be nice to have the part of Abbie, for Abbie was such a delightfully irresponsible character. Miss Williams called for tryouts for minor rôles first and Helen sent an anxious glance toward Janet and nodded toward the hall. They slipped out of the assembly quietly and Helen voiced her fears. "Perhaps I'd better try for one of these minor parts as well as for the lead. Then if I don't get to play Gale Naughton, I may win another rôle." "I wouldn't," counseled Janet. "Concentrate on the main part. I think you'll make it all right." "I wish I had your confidence." "I'm not confident about winning a part myself, but I'm sure you will," replied Janet. "Let's go back and watch the tryouts." "Perhaps I ought to go over my lines again?" "Nonsense. You can even speak them backwards. If you work on them any more you may do that, which would be fatal. Let's see the mistakes of the others and then we'll know we aren't the world's worst actresses." Miss Williams was conscientious. She wanted every boy and girl who felt he had a chance to have the utmost opportunity and she worked with them carefully. At noon she was fairly well down the cast, but the four major rôles remained, two for the boys and two for the girls, including the parts of Gale and Abbie Naughton which Helen and Janet sought. "We've been at this long enough," announced Miss Williams as the noon whistles sounded down town. "Everyone take a rest, have lunch, and be back here at one o'clock. Then we'll go on until we finish. For those who have been assigned parts, the first rehearsal will be Monday night at 7:15 o'clock. I'll expect you to have your first act lines memorized." The group broke up, some of them going home to have lunch and others stopping at the luncheonette of a nearby drug store. Janet and Helen were among this group, which included Cora and Margie. The latter, seated with two companions, appeared confident that they would win the leading rôles, but Janet overheard a spiteful remark by Cora. "Of course, I haven't the pull Helen has, for her father's a famous director," she said, and Janet saw Helen's face flush. "That's isn't fair," said Helen. "You know Dad wouldn't use any influence to get a part for me." "So does Cora. She's saying that just to be mean." When they reassembled it was a small group, Jim Barron, Ed Rickey and two other boys who were trying for the male leads, Cora, Margie, Helen, Janet and Miss Williams. The instructor worked with the boys first and it was evident that Jim and Ed were to have the major parts. In less than half an hour they were assigned, Ed getting the lead and Jim the second rôle. If Janet won the part of Abbie, Jim would be playing opposite her. That would be fun, for Jim was wholesome and pleasant. After the boys had departed, Miss Williams turned to the girls. "Now we're down to the two major parts, for the play hinges on the characters of Gale and Abbie." She looked at the four hopeful, anxious faces. "I want Cora and Margie first. Take your places and give me an interpretation of the action you think should go with the lines you have memorized." Cora, dark-eyed and confident, stepped to the platform. Margie, a wispy, blonde girl, followed. Both girls used excellent diction, spoke clearly and with feeling, but somehow Cora's work lacked a convincing touch. Perhaps she was trying too hard and Janet felt her spirits rising. Helen should walk away with the rôle unless she got scared when she stepped on the platform. But Janet was more than a little concerned about Margie. The blonde senior was doing an excellent job, putting just the right amount of enthusiasm into the rôle. There was nothing forced. Every word and gesture seemed spontaneous and lines that had sounded silly in their own rehearsals were very logical and convincing when they came tumbling from Margie's lips. Janet smiled grimly. Of course she wanted the part, but even more, she wanted Helen to win the rôle of Gale. Cora and Margie finished the part Miss Williams had assigned, and looked anxiously toward the dramatics teacher. "That was very nicely done," said Miss Williams. "Janet and Helen next and put plenty of feeling into your interpretations." From the platform Janet could look down on Cora and Margie. There was a thin sneer on Cora's lips and Janet felt Helen, standing close beside her, tremble. "Ready?" she asked. Helen nodded. Janet's lines opened their brief tryout rôles. She spoke them clearly, but somehow the spark needed to add vigor and brilliance was lacking. She was thinking too much about Helen. The lines and action snapped to Helen and she picked them up instantly. Janet thrilled. Helen had forgotten Cora and Margie. She had forgotten even Miss Williams. She was living her part. She was Gale Naughton, the dark, lovely heroine of "The Chinese Image." The lines came smoothly and without effort. Then they were through, a little breathless, their hearts beating rapidly. Janet was the first to turn toward Miss Williams and before the instructor spoke, she knew Helen had made a deep impression with her interpretation of Gale. "Splendid. I liked that very much," said Miss Williams, who was not given to compliments. "If you'll be good enough to wait a few minutes, I'll be back." "Will you announce the winners then?" asked Cora, her dark cheeks flushed with excitement and her brown eyes glowing. "Yes," promised Miss Williams, hurrying from the room. "Why do you suppose she left to make her tabulations?" asked Helen, her voice low. "Probably didn't want us to know just how she rated us. She's got a percentage system all her own she uses in casting parts. It won't be long now," said Janet. "The sooner the better. I'm all fluttery inside." "Maybe you think Cora and Margie aren't. They can't even sit still." Which was true. Cora and Margie were walking restlessly up and down the far side of the assembly, looking anxiously toward the double doorway through which Miss Williams would return. Five minutes slipped away. Then another five and it stretched out into fifteen minutes before the quick footsteps of the dramatics instructor could be heard in the hallway. Involuntarily Cora and Margie joined Janet and Helen at the front of the large assembly room. Miss Williams came in briskly, a slip of paper in her right hand, and Janet, who was nearest, saw two names written on the slip. "Sorry I kept you so long, but I'm trying to be very fair in making the final selections," explained Miss Williams. "Go on, go on," burst out Cora. "Who won?" Miss Williams frowned. "Well, I'm sorry, Cora." The dark-haired senior interrupted her sharply. "You mean I didn't win?" "I mean that Helen gave a more convincing interpretation of the part. She gets the leading rôle." Cora's eyes flashed. "I might have known that. Too bad I don't have a father with some influence." Cora picked up her coat. "Come on, Margie. We've just wasted our time." "I'd stay if I were you, Margie," said Miss Williams. "What I have to say should interest you." And in those words Janet knew the decision. Helen had the lead and Margie was to get the second rôle. She was out, but at least she could take it without creating a scene like Cora. _Chapter XI_ A FAMOUS DIRECTOR ARRIVES Miss Williams looked at the three girls remaining and she spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. "I regret that Cora took that attitude," she said, "for there was no influence used in my selection of Helen for the lead. She was much better in the tryout than Cora." Then the instructor turned to Margie. "You did a nice bit as Abbie," she went on, "and I want you to take that rôle. Janet was practically as good as you were on the lines, but you seem a little more like the character. You're thinner and you flutter around more than Janet, and Abbie is a very fluttery sort of a person." Margie grinned. "In other words, Abbie is a dizzy sort of a gal and I'm that type." "Call it that if you want to," smiled Miss Williams. "Do you want the part?" "And how!" "Very well. I will expect you and Helen to have your lines for the first act well in hand by Monday night." Miss Williams, followed by Margie, left the room and Helen turned to face Janet. "I'm sorry it turned out this way. I'd rather you had won a part." "I'm not," said Janet, and she said it honestly, for a part in the senior play had meant so much more to Helen. She knew she had done her best, but she had to admit that after all Margie was better suited to the rôle than she. The air softened. April came and went, and the senior play neared its final rehearsals. Miss Williams drove the cast without mercy for on the success of the play would depend her own opportunity for advancement. Helen, working every spare moment, became tired and irritable. "I'll be glad when it's all over," she said. "I never dreamed it would be so hard." "You'll be well repaid when the play is given," said Janet, who had been assigned to the stage crew. In this capacity she attended almost every rehearsal and she couldn't help watching Margie go through the lines of Abbie. It was a delightful part, easy to handle, and so breezy and irresponsible. Costuming took several nights, for Miss Williams was meticulous. Then came the dress rehearsals, the first on Monday night. The play would be given Friday. On the following week came the junior-senior banquet and then graduation and the end of school days. Janet, watching the play in rehearsal each night, came to know the lines of almost everyone in the cast for the lighting of the show was in her charge. It was up to her to get just the right amount of amber in the afternoon scene and just the right amount of blue to simulate moonlight for the evening scene from the rather antiquated banks of lights on each side of the stage. Brief letters and a telegram or two had come from Helen's father, assuring her that he would arrive in ample time for the presentation of "The Chinese Image." Janet's father had found a small plot at the rear of their own large lot which yielded an ample supply of worms at almost every spadeful and Indian creek, two miles north of Clarion, was said to abound with bullheads that spring. On Wednesday night, after a long and tiring rehearsal, Janet and Helen walked home through the soft moonlight of the late May evening. "I haven't heard from Dad today. He was going to wire what train he would arrive on. It looks like he won't be in until the morning of the play." "That will be plenty of time. He can stay on longer after the play's over," said Janet. "It won't be plenty of time if he has to do any more retakes on his last picture. His letters have sounded awfully tired." "Let's walk on down to Whet's for an ice cream soda. The walk will do both of us good and the soda will be refreshing," said Janet. Helen agreed and they walked leisurely, breathing deeply of the flower-scented air; for it was a perfect evening. From far away came the rumble of heavy trucks on a through street, but on their own there was an air of peace and contentment. "Dad will like this when he finally gets here. He always seems to throw off his cares when he's back home." "Which is why he anticipates coming home so much," added Janet. "But it can't go on this way forever. He needs mother and I'll be going away to school next fall." "I wouldn't worry about that until after graduation. There'll be plenty of time to discuss those matters then." Janet felt somewhat like a very fatherly old man giving advice to a very young girl and she smiled to herself. At the neighborhood drug store they dawdled over their sodas, thoroughly relaxing after the strenuous hours of rehearsal. On the way home they again walked leisurely, discussing little things about the play that appealed to them. Helen's mother, waiting on the porch, called to them the moment they came in sight. "Hurry up, Helen. I've a telegram from your father." Helen ran across the lawn with Janet close behind. "He's coming, isn't he, mother?" And to Janet there was something pitiful in Helen's extreme anxiety for she was so desperately intent upon having her father see her in the leading rôle in the class play. "He's coming tonight, dear. He wired saying that he would be on the transcontinental plane which stops at Rubio at midnight. Janet's father and mother are going to drive us over. You girls had better clean up a bit. We're leaving right away." "I'm so happy," said Helen. "I was afraid it was a message saying he wouldn't be able to come." Janet hurried on home. Her father had the large sedan out in the driveway and her mother was bustling about the kitchen, making stacks of thin sandwiches. "Why the sandwiches?" asked Janet. "I've never known the time when Henry Thorne wasn't hungry. He's been that way ever since he was a little boy and his wife is too excited to think about that. We'll have them all over for lunch after we get home." "But it will be late. Way after one o'clock and Helen ought to be in bed. She has been keeping terrific hours with the rehearsals." "It won't do her a bit of harm this time. Being with her father will do her more good than anything else. Wrap these sandwiches up and put them in the breadbox so they'll keep good and moist. Then slice some lemon for the ice tea and put the slices back in the ice box. We'll stop and get some ice cream on our way in to town." They hurried around the kitchen until Janet's mother noticed the disarray of her daughter. "For land's sake, Janet, you're a sight. Working with the scenery and lights again at school? Well, hurry upstairs and clean up. Then slip into that pale green print that makes your hair look golden. We'll be ready in five minutes." Janet forgot her fatigue and raced upstairs, splashed water on her flushed cheeks, followed that with a few hasty dabs of a powder puff to take the shine off her skin, and then went to her own room where she put on fresh, sheer hose and the green print that was so becoming. Her hair, with its natural curl, needed only a quick brushing to bring out the highlights. Down in the driveway her father pushed the horn button and her mother called. "We're ready, Janet." But so was Janet and she hastened downstairs and joined them. The sedan was one of those extra-broad stream-lined cars with room for three in the front seat. "You and Helen can sit up front with me while your mother and Mrs. Thorne are in the back seat," said her father. "Coming back we'll put the Thornes in the back where they can visit to their heart's content." The car rolled down the drive and her father turned and stopped the large, low machine in front of the Thorne home. Half a dozen lights were turned on downstairs and the house fairly glowed with light. Helen and her mother came down the walk, Helen in a pink, fluffy creation that set off her dark coloring to its best effect. "You're pretty enough to look like a would-be movie star trying to make an impression upon a famous director," whispered Janet. "Maybe I am," smiled Helen as she slipped into the front seat. "Everybody ready?" inquired Janet's father. "I don't want to get half way to Rubio and have one of you women remember that you've left something important at home." "You do the driving and we'll worry about what's been left at home," replied Mrs. Hardy with a chuckle. The big machine rolled away smoothly and when they turned onto the main state road to Rubio, John Hardy stepped on the accelerator and they fairly flew down the straight, white ribbon which unrolled before their blazing lights. The speedometer climbed steadily, fifty, sixty and then seventy miles an hour, and the needle hung there except when they swung around one of the broad, well-banked curves. Then it dropped to fifty. The rush of cool air was refreshing and Janet and Helen sank back in the broad, comfortable seat. When the lights of Rubio glowed ahead Helen spoke. "It hardly seems possible that Dad will be here in a few minutes. It's been months since I've seen him." "Then you'll enjoy seeing him all the more. What fun you're going to have the next few days." "I hope it will be several weeks for I think Dad needs a good rest. He's done three big pictures in the last year." They rolled through Rubio to the airport, which was just beyond the city limits. The clock over the hangar pointed to 11:50 and Janet's father guided the sedan to a stop in the parking area behind the steel fence. "I'll find out if the plane's on time," he said, and went over to the office. Janet thought she could hear the faint, faraway beat of an airplane, but the noise of another car turning into the parking space drowned it out. "Come on folks. The plane will be here in a minute," called Mr. Hardy. They hurried out of the car and followed John Hardy through the gate and onto the ramp. In the west were the red and green lights of an incoming plane. Suddenly the field burst into a flood of blue-white brilliance as a great searchlight came on. Like a ghost, the huge, twin-motored plane glided down its invisible path and settled easily onto a runway, little clouds of dust coming up from the crushed rock as the machine touched the ground. With its motors roaring a lusty song of power, the monoplane waddled toward the concrete ramp. The pilot swung it smartly about and the ground crew blocked the wheels and rushed the landing stage up to the cabin door as the pilot cut the motors. The propellers ceased whirling just as the stewardess opened the door. "There's Dad!" cried Helen and she ran toward the plane with Janet at her heels. _Chapter XII_ ON THE STAGE Henry Thorne was the first passenger to alight from the east-bound plane. Tall, well-built, with a close-clipped mustache and iron gray hair that curled a bit around his temples, he was a man's man. Helen threw her arms around her father and he gave her a tremendous hug. "Golly, I'm glad to see you, hon," he said. "Where's mother?" "She's coming. She couldn't run as fast as I," explained Helen, breathless with excitement. Mrs. Thorne, her face flushed with happiness over her husband's coming arrived and they embraced affectionately. Then Mr. Thorne saw John Hardy and Janet and her mother. "Say, this is great of you to come over. I feel like a visiting celebrity, or something." "You're very much a celebrity," smiled Janet. "Not to you," he replied. "Well, let's start home. I've only this light traveling bag." "Does that mean you won't be able to stay long?" asked Helen anxiously. "I should say it doesn't. I can live for six months out of a traveling bag. Oh, of course, I wouldn't look like Beau Brummell, but I'd be acceptable in average circles." The Thornes occupied the back seat and Janet and her mother sat in front. The big car purred smoothly and Janet's father sent it humming away on the trip back to Clarion. Janet got only snatches of the conversation that was going on in the rear seat. She was anxious to listen, but it wouldn't have been very polite to have done so obviously. Anyway, Helen would tell her most of the news the next day. From the few remarks she overheard, she realized that Henry Thorne was exceedingly happy to be home, and that the last year had been a strain even though all of his pictures had been money makers. The lights of Clarion were in sight when he leaned forward and spoke to Janet's father. "Get any worms located, John?" "Plenty of them and right in my own back yard. You can dig to your heart's content." "How about the fishing?" "I haven't tried it myself, but the boys say there are lots of bullheads in Indian creek. Remember it?" "I'll never forget the time we were hunting rabbits and walked across the ice of the creek. It wasn't frozen thick enough and we dropped through into water waist deep. Going home was the longest, coldest walk I've ever taken." "It wasn't very pleasant," nodded Janet's father. "Did you hear about the experience of the girls?" "Haven't read a paper for weeks. I've been going day and night on retakes for the last picture. What happened?" They slowed down for the edge of Clarion and Janet's father, briefly and vividly, recounted the events of that harrowing night in the storm and bitter cold of Little Deer valley. "I should have known about this," said Henry Thorne quietly. "Why didn't someone wire me?" "I thought of it," said Helen's mother, "but it all happened so quickly. Then, after the girls were safe at home I thought wiring you would only prove disturbing and I knew you were going to the limit of your strength and endurance anyway." "Perhaps you're right," he conceded, sinking back in the rear seat. "My, but it's great to be home." John Hardy swung the car into the drive and they rolled up the grade to the porch. "Pity you couldn't take a man to his own door," chided his friend. "All right, I will if you want to miss the lunch that's waiting." They bantered good naturedly, for John Hardy and Henry Thorne had been companions since boyhood. Now their correspondence was haphazard and infrequent, but each anticipated their visits together. Janet hastened to the kitchen to help her mother with the lunch, placing the delicious, thinly cut sandwiches on a large silver platter. There was a heap of them, but it was late and they were all hungry. Her mother stopped halfway to the dining room, a stricken look appearing on her face. "I completely forgot to stop on the way home and get ice cream." Janet looked at the clock. It was 1:15 a. m. "I'm afraid it's too late to find any place near here open. We'll make out anyway with sandwiches, cheese wafers and tea." "There's some chocolate cake left over from yesterday," said her mother. "Then I'll put that on. We'll have plenty." They bustled about and almost before they knew it Janet was out on the porch announcing that lunch was ready. The Hardys sat on one side of the table and the Thornes on the other, the conversation shifting back and forth. The pile of sandwiches dwindled rapidly, tea cups were refilled two and three times and Henry Thorne was noticed taking at least two slices of the thick, delicious chocolate cake. John Hardy accused him of taking three slices, but this he denied strenuously. "If I'm to be accused of eating three slices of cake, I'm going home," he announced. "And I won't be back until there's more cake." "I'll get up early and bake a fresh one. It will be ready by noon," said Janet's mother. "That'll be just about the time I'm getting up. Come on folks. We've got to get some sleep tonight." Goodnights were said quickly and with Henry Thorne in the lead, the visitors departed for their home. Janet helped her mother clear away the dishes. It was too late to wash them and they were hastily stacked in the sink. "How do you think Henry looks?" asked John Hardy coming into the kitchen. "He's too tired and looks like he's been going on nervous energy for simply days," replied Janet's mother. "I got the same impression. If we can manage to make him forget that strenuous business of his, of making successful motion pictures he'll be able to build himself up." "He'll find plenty to interest himself in the graduation program," said Mrs. Hardy, "and if you take him on some fishing and loafing expeditions along the creek he'll get a fine chance to relax." "Unless they send a rush call from the coast for him to return at once like they did a year ago just after he had settled down to a fine vacation. Well, staying up and talking doesn't help the situation. Scoot for bed, Janet. It's a good thing you aren't in the class play, what with keeping such late hours as this." Up until the afternoon of the play Janet saw very little of Helen's father. He was over to the house once, but Helen informed her that he had been sleeping and taking long drives around the countryside with her mother. "They have so very much to visit about," explained Helen, who was worn thin by the strain of the last rehearsals. The night before it had been midnight before they rang down the curtain. Janet had been up equally as late for her work on the meager lighting equipment kept her on the job as long as the cast rehearsed. On Friday afternoon they made a final check of sets and lights and costumes and Miss Williams rehearsed one or two of the minor characters who had been causing more trouble than the leads in getting their lines in just the way she wanted them. The gymnasium was filled with row upon row of chairs. The old curtain which shielded the stage had been refurbished and looked quite presentable in spite of the landscape scene which it depicted. Someday Janet hoped the school would be able to buy adequate stage equipment. The stage was large enough, but the sets were pitifully few in number and all of them several years old. They had been changed a little here and there by the stagecraft class, but underneath you could detect the same flats and doors and windows of other years. It was five o'clock before they finally straggled away from the gym and the call for the entire cast and stage crew was 6:30 o'clock for Miss Williams wanted everyone on hand early. Janet had seen the instructor conferring with a rather distinguished looking man that afternoon and guessed that he was the representative of the producing company, there to see the production and make the final decision on offering a job to Miss Williams. Janet, in spite of the fact that she was only a member of the stage crew, found it hard to eat even though supper that night was especially delicious and her mother, although silent, looked at her reprovingly. Helen arrived before supper was over and Janet was surprised to see her so calm. Perhaps her father had been coaching her on composure. Janet folded up a clean smock, tucked it under one arm, and joined Helen. "Good luck, girls," said her father. "We'll wait for you after the show and all have a lunch down town to celebrate the event." "Do you know where your folks are going to sit?" asked Janet. Helen shook her head. "Dad wouldn't tell me; thought if I knew I would be looking for them and it might make me nervous." "This is the first time a high school class has ever performed before a famous Hollywood director," said Janet. "Oh, don't think of Dad in that way. Now that he's back home he's just a neighbor and he wants to be thought of in that way." "All right, but you can't keep the cast from remembering that an ace director is in the audience tonight." "I suppose not. I only hope it won't make them too excited and upset." "How about yourself?" "I had been wondering up until tonight. But now I've made myself realize that he's just Dad and that makes all of the difference in the world. Sort of gives me the confidence that I need for I know that if I make mistakes he'll understand. I wish you were going to be Abbie." "Well I'm not, and you'll get along all right with Margie. I think she's really been working hard." "Oh, she's worked hard enough, but somehow she doesn't seem real in the character." "You mean I'm just crazy and silly enough to make a very real Abbie?" chided Janet. Helen's face flushed quickly. "You know better than that. Margie is light-headed enough for the rôle of Abbie, but she lacks some spark of sincerity that's needed, for after all, you know, Abbie finally solves the riddle of the Chinese image and pulls out the string of priceless pearls which saves the fortunes of the Naughtons." The cast and stage crew reported on time and Miss Williams checked each of them in. She devoted her own energies to making up the principals while several other teachers, fairly adept in dramatics, helped with the makeup of the minor characters. Janet put on her smock and checked the lighting instructions which had been mimeographed and placed it beside the small switchboard. Actually she knew them all by heart, but she wanted to be sure there would be no mistake; no dimming of the lights when they should be brightened nor a sudden blackout in the middle of a love scene. Margie Blake came up from one of the dressing rooms. She was glorious in salmon-hued taffeta and golden slippers. Margie, fully aware of the striking picture she made, walked slowly across the stage, which had been set for the opening scene, the garden of the Naughton home. Ed Rickey was standing nearby and Janet saw his eyes widen as they took in the beauty of Margie and her costume. And Janet felt her own heart tighten. Here she was in a smock, with her hands none too clean, no wonder that Ed had eyes only for Margie. One of the sky drops was hanging unevenly and Miss Williams sent one of the boys in the stage crew up into the loft to adjust the lines and even the drop. The dramatic instructor stood in the middle of the stage motioning for first one end of the drop and then the other to be lifted or lowered. Suddenly there was a cry from the loft and Janet, looking up, saw one end of the heavy drop sagging. It hung there for a moment. Then there was the sound of rending wood and the drop hurtled down toward the stage. Miss Williams leaped backward instinctively, but Margie, seated on a garden bench, didn't have a chance. Janet tried to shout a warning, but the cry jammed in her throat. Margie looked up and Janet caught one terror-stricken look on her face. Then the drop thudded to the floor, a tangle of painted canvas enveloping Margie. _Chapter XIII_ JANET STEPS IN Ed Rickey was the first to reach Margie. With desperate hands he tore away the pile of canvas, splintered wood and snarl of rope. Jim Barron, who had rushed from the dressing room with his makeup only half on, helped Ed lift Margie to a nearby bench. Then Miss Williams took charge. Margie was breathing regularly, but her eyes were closed. There was a nasty bump over her forehead and her dress looked like it might have been run over by a ten-ton truck, for a mass of dust and grime had come down with the drop. The boy who had been in the scene loft scrambled down. "The pulleys let go!" he cried. "Honestly, Miss Williams, I couldn't help it." "Of course not, and I don't think Margie is badly hurt. She'll come around in a minute or two." Someone brought a glass of water and Miss Williams raised Margie's head and forced some water between her lips. After a time Margie opened her eyes. "Where was the storm?" she mumbled. Then, recognizing the anxious faces of the members of the cast about her, struggled to sit up. "What hit me?" she demanded thickly. "The pulleys gave way and a drop came down," explained Ed. Margie tried to stand up, but sat down abruptly. "My head," she moaned. "It feels ten sizes too large." "Carry her downstairs," Miss Williams said to Ed and Jim. While the boys were obeying instructions, Miss Williams went to a telephone and summoned a doctor. It was 7:15 o'clock then and the curtain was set for eight. In just forty-five minutes the show must go on and Margie had a splitting headache and her costume was ruined at least for the night. When Doctor Bates, the school physician arrived, it was 7:30 o'clock and Margie, stretched out on a couch in the girls' dressing room, was holding cold cloths on her head. Doctor Bates' examination was quick but thorough. "Mild concussion, I'd say. She must go to bed at once and remain there, perfectly quiet, for at least twenty-four hours." Margie struggled to her feet and was as promptly returned to the couch by the doctor, who forced her to choke back her words. "Sure, I understand," he said. "You've got a part in the play and you've got to go on. That's the tradition of the theater. But this isn't a theater. This is a high school play and young lady you're not going to risk serious injury to yourself by doing any such thing as attempting to appear in this play. I'm going to take you home right now." Doctor Bates, who usually had his way, helped Margie out to his car. It was a tearful and protesting Margie, but Miss Williams joined in insisting that she go home and there was nothing else for her to do. By the time Margie was on her way home the first rows of the gym were filling with spectators and Miss Williams, a look of desperate intent upon her face, called the cast together on the stage. "We've got to go on for this means so much to me and to you. Try and forget, if you can, what has happened to Margie. Do everything you can to help the girl I'm going to push into Margie's rôle. If she stumbles on her lines or forgets them, fake until you can pick it up again." Then she swung toward Janet. "Can you get anything from home you can wear for the first act--something very light and pretty. You'll be able to wear the costumes intended for Margie in the other two acts." "You mean you want me to step in and take Margie's rôle?" asked Janet. "That's exactly what I mean. You've got to do it. You're the only one who knows the lines." "But I'm afraid I'll make a terrible mess of things; I'll spoil the whole show." "You can't, Janet, you can't." There was desperate entreaty in Miss Williams' words. "I've heard you repeating Margie's lines to yourself at rehearsal. You know them all and you know the action. Just imagine that you were originally picked for the rôle. You can handle it, I know." "Come on, Janet. This is our chance. We'll be playing together tonight. I need you to steady me." It was Helen speaking, saying she needed Janet to steady her. Janet smiled to herself. She would be the one who would need bolstering. Miss Williams came up. "I've found one of the boys with a car. He'll take you home and bring you back with a costume for the first act. I don't want to hold the curtain unless absolutely necessary." "I'll make it," promised Janet. There was no one at home and she rushed upstairs and dove into the large wardrobe in her room. She had been wondering all the way home what to select. Probably that pale green silk print. She'd only worn it once or twice, and never to anything at school. Janet seized the dress, slipped out of the smock and everyday dress she had worn under that, and wiggled into the cool, crisp silk. Stockings and shoes were changed in a flash. Pausing just a moment before her mirror, she brushed her hair vigorously until the light caught all of its natural golden glints. Then she ran down stairs, breathless from the rush. It was two minutes to eight, just two minutes before the curtain was scheduled to go up, when Janet reached the stage. Miss Williams was pacing nervously when she hurried on, but she stopped instantly and eyed Janet approvingly. "Splendid, dear, splendid. We'll start on time. If you forget some of the lines, just make up a few sentences until you can recall them. The rest of the cast will help you carry along." Helen, dark and radiant, came out of the wings. "You need a little more color on your cheeks. You look as pale as a ghost." "I feel pretty much like a ghost," confessed Janet as they slipped into a dressing room where Helen adeptly applied a touch of rouge, used an eyebrow pencil sparingly, and then finished the makeup with just enough lipstick to accentuate the charm of Janet's lips. "Everybody ready?" It was Miss Williams, calling the cast together for a final checkup. Fortunately Janet would not go on until the middle of the first act. It would give her an opportunity to regain her full composure, to get into the swing of the play, and to brush up on any lines she was afraid she might forget. The music of the high school orchestra, which was playing in the pit out front, reached a crescendo and died away. Janet faintly heard a wave of applause for the efforts of the orchestra. Then the girl who had taken her place at the switchboard dimmed the house lights, shoved the switch that sent the electricity surging into the footlights, and the curtain started up. There was that little breathless pause before the action of the play began. Then Helen, the first character on the stage, started her lines. Clearly, confidently, she spoke, and Janet's fears for the play, fears for any mistakes of her own, melted away. Helen was going magnificently, perfectly at ease and seemingly living the very rôle of Gale Naughton. Janet slipped into the mood of the play. It wasn't hard for she had attended every rehearsal and knew the lines of almost every character. On the other side of the stage Miss Williams, the prompt book in her hands, was obviously pleased. Then came a cue that awoke Janet from the pleasant glow. She was on next. With hands that fluttered just a little she picked up a mirror on the tiny dressing table in the wings and made sure that her hair was right. It was time for her to go on, a rollicking, bouncing sort of entrance that one would expect from gay, light-hearted Abbie Naughton, and Janet did it perfectly. The blaze of light from the footlights shielded her from the audience. She didn't need to care what they were thinking. All she needed to do was to go through her part, playing it to the utmost. Later she would know what the audience thought, but then it would be too late to matter. Janet and Helen had a fast exchange of lines, Helen reproving Janet for her gayety when the family funds were so low. They carried that hard bit of repartee off successfully and when the conversation swung to another character, Helen whispered under her breath. "You're grand, simply grand. Keep it up." "Double the compliment for yourself," replied Janet, her lips barely moving yet the words were audible to Helen. The first act was over suddenly. The curtain came down, smoothly, silently, and as it bumped the floor a gathering wave of applause echoed throughout the gym. Miss Williams nodded and the curtain went up again, the members of the cast smiling and bowing. Then came the rush for the second act. The stage must be reset and the girls, especially, had to put on new costumes. Miss Williams stopped Janet in the wings. "Margie's costumes for the last two acts are laid out in the dressing room. I'm sure they'll fit." Then she laughed. "They'll have to, Janet. We can't stop for a costume, can we?" "Not after the first act," replied Janet. But Margie's costumes did fit. It was as though they had been made for Janet. The action of the play moved more rapidly, swirling closer and closer around the Chinese image on its pedestal in the garden. Finally came the third act with Janet, clumsy, jubilant Janet, accidentally knocking over the image, which burst open when it struck the stage floor and there, inside the figure of clay, was the secret of the image and the continued comfort of the Naughtons--a ruby, so perfect, so beautiful, that it was worth an exceedingly large fortune. Before Janet knew it the curtain came down for the final time and on its echo came a sustained wave of applause. First the cast, then Miss Williams, and then the cast, answered the steady calls for their appearance. When Janet and Helen, coming out hand in hand, took a bow, the applause reached a new peak and then died away as the audience, satisfied as having paid tribute to the two stars of the show, prepared to leave the spacious gymnasium. There was the usual crowd on the stage, parents and friends rushing up to congratulate members of the cast and over in one corner Janet saw Miss Williams signing her name to a paper that looked very much like a contract. Without doubt the dramatics instructor had earned her contract with the producing company. "I'm tired," announced Helen, in a very matter-of-fact manner. "I suppose I am, too, but I'm still far too excited to realize it," replied Janet. "Here come the folks." Her father and mother, closely followed by Helen's parents, were pushing their way through the crowd. "I'm mighty proud of you two," said John Hardy as he gave each of them a hug. "I'm more than that," chuckled Helen's father. "I'm tempted to sign them to contracts and take them back to Hollywood with me." _Chapter XIV_ JUST FISHING Henry Thorne's words echoed in Janet's ears as the girls changed their costumes in the dressing room. Of course he must have been saying it lightly, paying them a pleasant compliment for their work. She forced herself to dismiss it from serious consideration. They changed quickly, hung up their costumes, and hurried out to join their parents for Henry Thorne was entertaining at dinner down town. "What was the idea of telling us you were in charge of lighting when you actually played the second lead?" Janet's mother asked after they had left the gym and were rolling down town in the car. "But mother, I told the truth. I was in charge of lighting until about twenty minutes before the curtain went up. Then one of the drops broke away and fell on Margie. She suffered a minor concussion and it was up to someone to step in and take the part or the show would have flopped right then and there before the curtain went up." "You mean you stepped in cold and handled the second lead?" asked Henry Thorne, turning around in the front seat to gaze incredulously at Janet. "But it wasn't hard. You see I tried out for that rôle and then I attended every rehearsal. Of course I sort of lived the character I tried out for. I missed some of the lines tonight, but the others knew I might and they covered up for me." "Well, I'll be darned. I thought you had been rehearsing it from the first and had told us you were on lights just to surprise us," said the famous director. "Anyway, you did a swell job. Maybe I will take you back to the coast with me." "Now Henry," protested his wife, "don't start saying things you don't mean. You'll get the girls all excited and then you'll have to rush away to start work on another picture and you'll forget all about your promises to them." "Probably you're right mother, but they're smart, good looking girls, even if one of them is my daughter, and heavens knows we could use some really smart, level-headed girls in one of my companies." Janet's father wheeled the car in to the curb in front of the restaurant where they were to have dinner and in the bustle of getting out of the car conversation switched to another topic, but Henry Thorne's words persisted in sticking in Janet's mind. Henry Thorne had planned and ordered the supper himself. It was a man's meal and Janet and Helen, now tremendously hungry after the strain of the play, enjoyed it to the utmost. First there was chilled tomato juice and in the center of the table a heaping platter of celery, olives and pickled onions that they ate with relish through all of the courses of the dinner. Then came great sizzling steaks, thick and almost swimming in their own juice, french fried potatoes, a liberal head lettuce salad, small buttered peas, hot rolls and jam. And after that there was open-face cherry pie and coffee for those who cared for it. "So this is your idea of a meal, Henry?" asked his wife, surveying the welter of dishes on the table. "Well, perhaps not every day and every meal, but once in a while I'd say yes. This is my idea of a meal." "I think it's been grand," spoke up Janet's mother, "especially since I didn't have to do any work toward it." "That does make a difference," conceded Mrs. Thorne, "but I'd hate to think of Henry's waistline if he had a meal like this every day." Conversation turned to neighborhood issues and talk of the town, for Henry Thorne maintained a tremendously active interest in the affairs of his home city. When they finally started home, it was well after one o'clock, but routine school days for Janet and Helen were at an end. Exams were over and there was only the junior-senior banquet and then commencement. Janet slept late the next morning and it was after ten o'clock when her mother finally awakened her. "Helen and her father just phoned they are coming over. I thought you might like to go with them. After they get some worms out of the back yard they're going fishing. I'll put up a lunch." Janet hurried into her clothes and met Helen and her father as they arrived. Henry Thorne was armed with an ancient cane fishpole, had on a venerable straw hat, cracked but comfortable shoes, old overalls and a blue shirt. "I think he's thoroughly disreputable looking," said Helen, laughing at her father. "Granted, my dear, but I'm most thoroughly comfortable, which is the main thing. I wouldn't trade this old fishing outfit for the best suit of clothes in the world." Janet showed them a corner of the back lot that promised to be productive of worms, and then went in the house for her own breakfast. She ate on the kitchen table while her mother packed a basket of lunch to be taken by the anglers. It was a grand morning for a fishing expedition and especially if those going fishing really didn't care whether they caught any fish or not. Just before they left Janet's father arrived and hastily changed into old clothes. "Want to go to the creek in the car?" asked John Hardy. "Not on your life. We're walking, both ways," grinned Henry Thorne, and the men, the cane poles over their shoulders, started for the creek. Helen carried the can of worms and Janet took the lunch basket. Indian creek was a pleasant stream, meandering through the rolling hills north of Clarion. Its waters were clear, alternating in quiet pools and swift little riffles over its gravel bed. The air was mild and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. They went up the creek for more than a mile before Henry Thorne found a pool that looked like it might have a few bullheads. The foliage overhead was thick and the water here looked almost turgid, far different from the clear stream which danced along its bed farther down. The men baited their hooks and Janet and Helen sat down to watch the fishermen. Helen's father got the first bite, but he failed to land his fish. After that there was a long interval when the fishermen failed to talk and the fish failed to bite. Then the bullheads all seemed hungry and Janet's father was the first to land one, but Henry Thorne was right behind him with a larger catch. "Cut a willow stick for a stringer," said Helen's father, tossing a knife to her, and Helen, knowing exactly what was needed, found a forked willow and trimmed it down. In less than an hour they had eleven bullheads on the willow stick. "That's plenty," decided Janet's father. "There's no use spoiling the fun by taking more than we need. Shall we have them for supper tonight at my place?" "Nothing doing. We'll have them right here. Remember when we were kids and used to clean them along the creek, put them on a stick, and try and cook them over a fire?" Janet's father nodded. "That's what we're going to do right now. We'll clean the fish while the girls get some dry sticks and build a fire." Thus they had their noon meal, bullheads off the spit, crisp and hot, with just a sprinkle of salt on them, sandwiches and fruit from the basket, and cool, sweet water from a nearby spring. Henry Thorne, his appetite appeased, his mind and body relaxed, stretched out on the grass and looked meditatively into the creek. "What a life this would be--no strain, no thoughts of tomorrow, no temperamental stars to worry about, no stories to doctor, no budget to watch." "But after what you've had this would tire in a few weeks. Why, you're thinking about getting back into the harness right now," said Janet's father. Henry Thorne flushed guiltily. "Caught that time," he admitted. "Sure I was thinking about getting back on the job. I'm too much of a work horse, I guess." "But you'll stay until after graduation, won't you?" asked Helen anxiously. "That's one thing you needn't worry about," promised her father. "I'm thinking now of what's going to be best for you after high school days are over; whether you and mother will prefer to stay here in Clarion or would like to come west with me. You're pretty much of a young woman now, Helen, and from the play last night, quite a capable little actress." "Not much of an actress, I'm afraid, Dad, but I did want to be in the class play because you were coming home and I wanted you to be proud of me." "I was very proud of you, dear. Just how proud you'll never know, and I've been trying to think of something I could do that would show you just how pleased I was over the work you and Janet did in the class play." They were silent for a time, all of them enjoying the quiet charm of the afternoon. Henry Thorne puffed slowly on a venerable pipe while Janet's father dozed, his hat pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun. The embers of their fire turned black and then grey as they cooled. Janet thoroughly enjoyed relaxing on the creek bank. School days were almost over and she couldn't help wondering what the summer and the coming year would hold in store for her. Of course there would be college in the fall, but just where had not been determined. It was generally understood at home, though, that she would be allowed to make her own choice providing it was anywhere near within reason. Janet knew that Helen's plans were very uncertain. Her friend wasn't even sure that they would continue to make their home in Clarion. Just then Henry Thorne knocked the ashes out of his pipe and squinted at the sun. "Better be starting home," he said. He picked up a small stick and tossed it at Janet's father, who awoke with a start. "Come on sleepy-head. Time to go." Janet finished packing the few utensils that went back into the lunch basket while the men wound up the lines on their fishpoles. They started home, walking leisurely in the warm afternoon, the men leading the way. Half a mile down the creek they came upon a farm boy, riding bareback. The horse was a beautiful, spirited animal, and the lad rode with amazing grace. They paused for several minutes to watch the horse and rider until they finally disappeared over a nearby hill. "Can either of you girls ride?" Henry Thorne asked the question almost sharply. "A little, but not much nor very well," confessed Janet. "I belong in the same class," added Helen. "Is there any place in town where we can find good horses and a good instructor?" Helen's father shot the question at John Hardy. "Hill and Dale farm keeps a fine string of horses. I'm sure I could arrange for instruction there." "I'll go with you this evening and we'll see what can be done. I want the girls to become proficient at riding as soon as possible." "But what's the idea?" asked Helen. "Just another quirk of mine," smiled her father. As soon as they reached home Henry Thorne urged Janet's father to accompany him to see about riding lessons for the girls and just before dinner returned. "Your first lesson will be at eight o'clock to-morrow morning," he announced. "Look up some old duds that won't be hurt if you fall off." "But how about the girls?" demanded his wife. "They'll have to take a chance on that," he smiled. _Chapter XV_ HOLLYWOOD BOUND Janet remained awake for some time that night, wondering what the significance of Henry Thorne's decision to have her and Helen learn to ride, and ride well, could be. Finally she gave it up as a bad job, realizing that he would tell them in his own good time. Graduation week passed in a mixed whirl of events, with the junior-senior banquet and actual graduation exercises interspersed between the long hours passed at Hill and Dale farm where Janet and Helen underwent an intensive series of lessons on horsemanship. Both girls were agile and anxious to learn, and both soon came to enjoy the riding thoroughly. Their instructor, an older man, found them eager pupils and Helen's father encouraged them at each lesson, for he went with them on every trip to the farm. Like the senior class play, the graduation exercises were held in the gymnasium and Helen stopped for Janet. They were going on ahead of their parents for they had to be at school half an hour before the start of the program. "I hope I don't smell like a stable," smiled Helen, radiant in her crisp, white organdie dress. "We've been at the farm so much I almost say 'Giddap' every time I start to do anything." "I feel almost the same way. One good thing, though, I can sit down comfortably now and I couldn't after the first two days." When they came down from Janet's room, Helen's father and mother were there. "We're early, but I want to talk to your folks," Henry Thorne told Janet. "You youngsters run along and we'll be there in plenty of time." When they were on their way to school, Helen spoke. "Dad's been acting so mysteriously the last two days and mother seems to be unusually happy about something. This morning Dad put in a call for Hollywood, but he wouldn't talk from home; went down to a pay station. I asked mother what was up, but she said not for me to worry as long as she wasn't." "Perhaps he isn't going back west," suggested Janet. "You don't know Dad. I heard him mumbling just this afternoon about some kind of a story idea. You know he usually sits in on the final drafting of all of the stories he produces. I expect that as soon as graduation is over he'll start back." "Has he said anything more about taking you with him?" "Not a word lately and that's what I'm puzzled about. Neither Dad nor mother have talked about what I'm to do next fall. You know I'd like to go to school with you." "And I'd like to have you, Helen. I'll be lost if we aren't able to hit it off together. We've had such good times through high school and especially this last year." The final meeting of the seniors, as a class, was held in the assembly, the girls in their snow-white dresses and the boys all in their dark suits made a pleasing contrast. Some of them were visibly nervous while others remained unusually calm. To some it was a momentous event while others took it as the last step in a tiresome school career. Margie Blake, still white and feeling none too strong, was near the door when Janet and Helen entered. Janet started to speak, but Margie deliberately turned her back, and Janet, shocked and hurt, looked at her sharply. "Now why do you suppose she did that?" she asked Helen. "I wasn't going to tell you, but you might as well know," said Helen. "Margie is hinting around that she suspects you had something to do with the injury she suffered." "You mean that I contrived to have that piece of scenery fall on her just so I could get her part in the play?" "That's exactly what Margie's hinting. Of course she isn't saying that openly, but she doesn't give you much room to guess what she means." "Then I'm going to have a word with Margie right now. That's one thing I won't stand for." Janet's face was flushed and she was furiously angry when she confronted Margie. Margie's eyes widened and Helen thought she saw her hands tremble just a little. Perhaps she surmised that Janet was on the warpath and that she was the cause of it. "Margie, I've been told that you are insinuating I was responsible for the accident which forced you out of the play and gave me your place. Is that so?" Janet's words were low enough so that only Margie and Helen could hear, but there was a compelling force in them that would not be denied. "Why, no, that's not so. I never said you caused the accident." Margie stammered and flushed hotly. "You've no right to accuse me of this thing," she added defiantly. "I've a very good right if you are dropping hints about me and the accident the night of the play. If you've been doing that all I've got to say is that you're smaller than I ever dreamed you could be. You're simply below contempt." Janet whirled and left Margie with tears in her eyes. Helen paused a moment for Margie seemed about to speak. "I'm sorry about what I've said," Margie managed to say. "I guess I was a little indiscreet, but you tell Janet I won't say anything else." "I'll tell her and I think you'll be a very wise girl if you decide to let the whole thing drop," advised Helen, turning to rejoin Janet, who had gone to the other side of the room. The principal was giving his final words of instruction. "As your names are called for the presentation of diplomas, each of you will come from your places to the platform, receive a tube of paper, and return. After the exercises are over come to me in this room and I will present your real diplomas. If you can not come here after the close of the exercises, call at my office tomorrow." He paused a moment, then added, "and I should like to say that I am extremely proud of this class. I think it is the finest to graduate from Clarion High in the eight years I have been principal." "Which," whispered Helen, "is quite a compliment, if you ask me. It's the first he ever paid this class." "He sort of made up for the lack before by these last words," smiled Janet. Again they went onto the stage of the gymnasium, but this time not as actors and actresses in a play of make believe, but in the very serious business of graduating from high school. The gymnasium was filled with parents and friends of the seniors. The air was close, portending the storm that was to break later. Fortunately the program was simple, the address by the superintendent of schools lasting only fifteen minutes. Then the names were called and one by one they went forward and when they came back their high school days were over. It had been grand, being in school, decided Janet, and now she felt just a little scared. Life was ahead and life was so vast and uncomprehending and she knew it could be cold and cruel and merciless. They bowed their heads at the benediction, there was a final swell of music from the orchestra and the lights in the gymnasium glared. It was over and Janet, in that moment, felt years older. She was a high school girl no longer.... Parents and friends of the graduates crowded around them and Janet saw her father beckoning. "Get your diplomas," he called. "We'll meet you outside." Janet and Helen went up to the assembly where they turned in the paper scrolls which had been presented to them at the program. In return they received their real diplomas. Outside they found their parents. "We were tremendously proud of both of you," said Janet's mother. "You were by far the prettiest girls on the stage." "I'll cast my vote in support of that statement," put in Helen's father, "and that's from someone who should know a pretty girl when he sees one." They had planned a light supper at Thorne's and all of them enjoyed the walk home for the air was close. Dark banks of clouds, illuminated once in a while by flashes of lightning, were mounting higher and higher in the west. "Looks like we'll get a real one tonight," said Janet's father, and the others agreed. "Do you realize that the folks haven't given us anything for graduation?" whispered Helen. "Well, not exactly any concrete gift just now, but they've given me a lot of character and a sense of realization of the finer and honest things of life." "Oh, silly, of course I realize that, but Dad has been so mysterious today I know something is in the wind." When they reached Helen's home they sat down to an informal supper in the dining room. On two plates were envelopes, one marked "Janet" and the other "Helen." Helen's father was puffing rather furiously at his pipe as he watched the girls, their fingers clumsy from their haste, rip open the envelopes. Long green slips of paper, looking very much like railroad tickets, came out of the envelopes. Helen was the first to read hers. "Why, Dad," she cried. "It's a round trip ticket by airplane to Los Angeles." "So is mine," gasped Janet. "What does this mean?" Her father chuckling, nodded toward Henry Thorne. "I'd say that it meant a round trip to Los Angeles. Also, if you'll dig a little further into your envelopes, you'll find reservations for the westbound plane out of Rubio just one week from tonight." "But Dad, we didn't know anything about this," gasped Helen. "Of course not. It wouldn't have been a surprise," chuckled her father. "Seriously though," he added, "I liked your performances in the high school play and I've talked it all over with Janet's folks and with mother here. You're going back to Hollywood to spend the summer with me and this morning I contracted the production unit of our company which makes cowboy films and both of you are to have a chance in the cast of that picture. You're Hollywood bound, girls." _Chapter XVI_ THRILLING HOURS Janet was speechless and Helen was the first to give vent to her thoughts in words. "Oh, Dad, it's grand of you, but it doesn't seem possible." She looked at the ticket again, feeling it to see if it actually was real. Tears brimmed into Janet's eyes. "I'm so happy I could cry," she confessed. Then added quickly, "But I don't know how I can thank you." "Don't try now," smiled Henry Thorne. "I'll be more than repaid if you two make good in the western pictures I'm going to try to put you in." "But Dad, we've never had any experience like that," protested Helen. "We'll probably be awful flops." "Nonsense. It doesn't take much acting ability to get by in the 'horse operas' as we call them. You just act natural, look pretty, and you'll have all of the cowboys in the cast asking you for dates." Janet looked at her mother, wondering just how she had been won over to letting them go to Hollywood, even though Helen's father would be there to oversee things in general. Just then Mrs. Thorne spoke, pulling an envelope from a pocketbook. "You're not the only lucky ones," she reminded Janet and Helen. "I'm going along and see that you are properly chaperoned when these dashing cowboys ask you to go places with them." That explained to Janet why her mother had consented for with Mrs. Thorne along she would have little to worry about. "Does that mean we're going to leave Clarion for good?" asked Helen. "Well, hardly," boomed her father. "I'd be lost if I didn't have Clarion to come back to for a rest when I get fagged out and I don't know what the bullheads out in Indian creek would do without me. We're going to keep the place here for you never know when even a famous Hollywood director will start turning out poor pictures and once you hit the toboggan out there, it's hard to come back. I've been at it so long now, that another year will just about see me through. Then I'll want to retire to some quiet city and Clarion suits me." "I'm glad of that, Dad, for I've grown up here and it would be so hard to think of cutting all of the ties of friendship at just one sweep." "You won't have to do that, Helen, and maybe, if you two youngsters can't make the grade with our western company, you'll be back here before you know it." "But we're leaving in just a week. It doesn't seem possible," said Janet, half to herself and half to the rest. "The time will go before you know it," said her mother, "what with the packing we'll have to do and the new clothes to buy." "Now let's stop right there," put in Helen's father. "Packing is all well and good, but let's cut out the new clothes. Instead of loading the girls up with things here, we'll give Mother the money and she can let them have it in Hollywood when they see a dress in the shops out there that they want. I think they'll feel a little more in style in Hollywood clothes than in Clarion clothes in Hollywood." "I suppose they would," confessed Janet's mother, "but I'm afraid the money for Janet's summer clothes allowance won't go very far." "She'll be getting a regular salary each week and the company will furnish whatever costumes are needed for each picture." "Each picture," smiled Helen. "I like that Dad. How long does it take to make a picture?" "When I'm directing anywhere from six weeks to three or four months, but the western company moves pretty rapidly. They'll grind the average one out in two weeks or three at the most. They're after action and plenty of scenery." "Which explains why we were carted off to Hill and Dale farm and hoisted up on horses and jogged up and down for hours until I thought every bone in my body would be broken," said Janet. "Good guess. I've had this idea in mind ever since the night of the class play," confessed Helen's father. "If you think you're going to get out of the riding class the rest of the time you're in Clarion you'll be sadly mistaken. I'm certainly not going to show up on the lot and ask Billy Fenstow to take on a couple of girls who can't ride." "Who's Billy Fenstow?" asked Helen. "He runs our western unit. Billy writes most of the stories, does the supervising and directing and just about everything else about the picture. You'll like him. He's fat, forty, bald and lots of fun and if he likes you, he'll invite you to the Brown Derby for dinner." "What fun that would be," exclaimed Janet. "Why that's where all of the stars go." "You usually find a few of them eating there," admitted Helen's father. They talked for another hour, the girls, in their excitement, planning things that could never come true, but their fathers and mothers, indulging them the sheer joy of their mood, let them ramble on. It was nearly midnight when they finally pushed their chairs away from the table and the Hardys started for home. "I'll see you first thing in the morning," said Helen, "but I don't believe I'll sleep a wink." "I'm afraid I won't either," replied Janet, "but I'm so excited I don't care." On the way home she linked her arm with her father and mother and they walked slowly. "Happy?" her father asked gently. "Gloriously happy," replied Janet softly, squeezing her mother's arm. "Of course I want to go to Hollywood, but I'm going to miss both of you terribly." "We'll miss you, too. You know that," replied her father, "but it's an opportunity that comes to few girls. Don't be too disappointed if you fail to remain in the cast of that western picture. You're going out there for a lark and not with the serious intent of becoming a motion picture actress." Janet bit her lips. Of course her dad was right. She couldn't seriously hope to be a motion picture actress, but for just a moment she had found herself dreaming of real fame and fortune in Hollywood. Why it WAS just a lark, a sort of super vacation that only Helen's father could make possible for them. In the fall, after the summer on the film lots, they would probably come back to the middle west for Janet knew her father favored her entering the state university, Janet resolutely set her mind right. She must realize that it was to be only a vacation lark. Then she could come back happy and without regret when the summer was at an end. _Chapter XVII_ ON THE WESTBOUND PLANE The week following graduation was a hectic one for Janet and Helen. There were the riding lessons each day, their wardrobes to be gone over, new shoes and hose to be purchased and they finally decided that each of them needed at least two new dresses to last until they could get into the shops in Hollywood and select things they desired there. It was fortunate that Janet's father was a successful lawyer and Helen's a famous director or their personal pocketbooks would have been much thinner at the end of the shopping expeditions. Neither Janet nor Helen told their friends of their plans, but somehow the story got around that they were going to Hollywood and had already signed for rôles in a new picture. Some said they were to have parts in Henry Thorne's next production while others claimed the girls were going to be bathing beauties in a series of comedies. "Now wouldn't that make you boil," said Helen, as she related a conversation between Cora Dean and Margie Blake which she had overheard. "I was half way minded to step in and tell them the truth, but then I realized that was just what they wanted." They were sitting on the Hardy's front porch and the telephone summoned Janet inside. She called Helen to her a few seconds later. "It's Pete Benda of the _Times_. He says he's heard the story and if we won't confirm it he will print all of the rumors going the rounds, including the one that we're going to be bathing beauties. What shall I tell him?" "Tell him we're going to Hollywood with Dad for a vacation and if we get in any pictures we'll send him an autographed picture," suggested Helen, which Janet promptly did. "Pete isn't satisfied, but I guess he won't print all of the rumors," reported Janet as she hung up the telephone. "You can just bet that Cora and Margie ran up to the _Times_ office and filled Pete full of hot air," said Helen. "I thought maybe after we were out of high school things would be different. I'd like to be friendly with them for they can be delightful when they want to be, but both of them are still carrying a chip on their shoulders." There was only one more afternoon of fishing and loafing along the banks of the creek and John Hardy went with Janet, Helen and Henry Thorne on the outing. Their luck was with them again and they hooked a fine mess of catfish and fried them over an open fire. Through the late afternoon Janet and Helen talked incessantly of their hopes and plans while at a distance their fathers dozed along the creek bank. It was dusk before they started home, walking slowly through the twilight. "This is the last night at home," Janet's father reminded her. "Tomorrow night we go to Rubio and you take the west-bound plane for Hollywood." "It hardly seems possible, but it must be so," said Janet. "Everything is like a dream." "It will be until you actually arrive and start work in the studio." Janet's father was silent for several minutes. When he spoke again his voice was so low that it could not be overheard by Helen and her father, who were walking a short distance ahead. "I'm not expecting you to turn into a motion picture actress, but I want you to do your best out there. The change will be a fine vacation and when you're actually on the lot working before the cameras, give it everything you've got. That will add to the pleasure you'll have in later years when you look back on this summer." "I'll do it, Dad. I'll do the best possible job." "Sure, I know you will. It's going to be lonesome here," he added, "but the break had to come sooner or later." "But I'm not going away for good, Dad. Only for the summer." "Of course. You'll be home in the fall and we'll make plans for school then. Have you thought anything more about the university?" "Too bad I wasn't a boy, Dad, then I could have tried for football there." There was just a note of seriousness in Janet's voice for her father was an All-American halfback at Corn Belt U. and she knew he had always secretly been a little disappointed when she proved to be a girl, for there was no chance of a girl becoming an All-American halfback. "Football isn't everything," replied her father. "I'm satisfied," and he said it with a conviction that brought joy to Janet's heart. Through the evening hours Janet and her mother checked over the last minute packing. Trunks had been sent ahead by express and only the essentials were going to be carried in the bags they would take on the plane. Janet's luggage was attractive, but not expensive, for her father had never believed in undue waste of money. That night Janet found it difficult to get to sleep. Tomorrow night they would be winging westward at three miles or more a minute and by the noon of the second day would be landing at the Grand Central airport at Glendale, from where they could motor over to Hollywood. Finally sleep came and Janet dropped into the dreamless slumber of youth. It was mid-morning when she finally awakened as her mother shook her shoulders. "Time to get up," said Mrs. Hardy, "for there's much to be done today before you start for Hollywood." Janet leaped out of bed for in spite of all of the preparations they had been making through the last week there were a hundred and one small things that remained to be done. The hours fairly melted away. She made three or four trips down town on hurried errands and as many over to Helen's, where the same hurry and bustle prevailed. At dinner time her mother made her slow down. "Everything's done," she announced. "Of course you may have forgotten one or two things, but they aren't important, and they can be sent on later. Now you take it easy and enjoy dinner for this is the last one you'll have with your father and me for some weeks. My Janet, but we're proud of you," she added, with a happy smile. "I'm just afraid I won't make good; that's the only thing that scares me," confessed the usually self-reliant Janet. "Everything out there is going to be so strange and as actresses, I'm fearful that Helen and I will be about the worst that ever struck Hollywood." "Impossible," smiled her mother encouragingly, and after Janet mentally reviewed some of the pictures she had seen, she decided that quite likely her mother was right. Her father arrived home promptly and they passed more than an hour at a leisurely dinner, visiting about a score of different incidents, none of them important in themselves, but all of them important in that they kept them around the dinner table, prolonging their last dinner hour. Janet's father finally looked at his watch. "You'd better dress, dear. The westbound plane leaves Rubio at eleven o'clock and there's no reason to rush the trip over there." He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small case which he handed to Janet. "Here's a little present mother and I want you to have." Janet opened the case with hands that shook visibly. Inside was a tiny wrist watch with a thin, silver chain to go around her wrist. It was a beautiful creation of watchmaker's skill and Janet looked up with just a trace of a tear in her eyes. "It's wonderful, but you shouldn't have done this after giving me the trip to Hollywood." "You'll have to have something to keep time by so you can get to the studio on time. Maybe I should have gotten you an alarm clock," grinned her father. "I packed one in her trunk," smiled Mrs. Hardy. "Now hike and get into your things." Janet, tremendously happy and so thrilled she felt she was walking on air, hurried up to her room. After a quick bath, tapered off with a cool shower, she started dressing. Her outfit was new from the silken underthings to the sensible but attractive summer linen suit. The skirt, snug and well tailored, fitted beautifully and a small but bright blue tie added a note of color to her heavy, white silk shirtwaist. The night air was warm and Janet decided to carry her coat. There was no use in putting it on and getting it mussed until necessary. Standing in front of her dressing table, Janet looked around her room and a queer little lump caught in her throat. It was such a pleasant room; she would miss it, she knew, in the months to come. Then her father called and she caught up the small traveling bag she was to carry on the plane, snapped out the light, and hurried down stairs. "Step right along," her father warned, and they hastened into the car and rolled around in front of the Thorne home down the block. Henry Thorne, pacing up and down the porch, called to his wife and Helen, who appeared almost immediately. Both carried small overnight cases. As they came down the walk to the street, Henry Thorne turned off the lights in the house, locked the door, and followed them. Now that the time of departure was near there seemed little to say. They had talked of it for so many hours it hardly seemed possible that they were on their way. John Hardy sent his big car over the road at a smooth, effortless pace. The lights of Clarion dropped behind and they sped through the open country where there were only the occasional lights from farmhouses to mark the blackness of the night. Later there would be a moon. Tonight they were in the heart of the mid-west and to Janet it was almost incredible that by noon tomorrow they would be in the city made famous by the movies. When they reached the airport at Rubio several hundred cars were parked near the entrance for the coming and going of the night planes always brought out a crowd if they arrived before midnight. Henry Thorne, who had their tickets, took them into the office to have them validated. When he returned he announced that the plane would arrive in 25 minutes. "There's a good tail wind up high tonight and they're stepping right along," he explained. A field attendant took their bags and stowed them on a small luggage cart. They talked almost aimlessly and Janet suddenly felt very empty and more than a little afraid of what her reaction would be when she got into the plane and the ground started dropping away from her. Then a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd and she heard someone call. "Here comes the plane!" Out of the east twin stars suddenly appeared, coming rapidly and very low, and then she heard the steady beat of two powerful motors. Like some great bird of prey, a-wing in the night, the silvery monoplane swung over the field, circled sharply, and dropped down far out on the runway and rolled smoothly toward them, its propellers flashing in the bright rays of a floodlight which bathed the entire field in a mantle of brilliant blue. Janet watched the scene with fascination. The ground crew rolled a small platform up to the door of the passenger cabin and a girl, not much older than herself and dressed in a smoke grey suit with a jaunty overseas cap perched on a mass of brown curls, stepped out. After her came several passengers, alighting for a bit of air and to stretch their legs before settling down for the long flight over the plains and into the higher altitudes that would take them over the Rockies. Janet's mother hugged her hard. "We'll miss you, dear. Write often and remember to do your best if you get a chance in any pictures." "I will, mother," she promised. "Goodbye, Dad." "Goodbye, Janet. Hit the line hard." "I'll tackle it with all I've got." "I know you will," he said with a confidence that Janet wished she could have felt. Then Helen's father touched her arm. "Time to go," he said, and Janet and Helen walked toward the plane while the Thornes said a final word of goodbye to their old neighbors. "You have seats four and five on this side," said the stewardess as the girls reached the plane. Helen went in first with Janet close at her heels. The interior was much like a bus, thought Janet, and she found her seat unusually comfortable. Helen's father and mother took seats across the aisle from the girls and the stewardess came along and snapped on the safety belts. "You can take them off as soon as we're away from the field," she explained. The landing stage was pulled away, the starters hummed deeply as though struggling with stubborn motors, and finally the mighty engines burst into a deafening roar, but were soon throttled down. Lights in the cabin were turned low and Janet, pressing her face close to the small, round window, could see her father and mother standing on the ramp. She waved, and they waved back. Then the plane started forward, rolling smoothly along the concrete. When it came to the crushed rock runway it bumped slightly, but before Janet knew it they were in the air and when she looked down again, the field was several hundred feet below. She was actually on her way to Hollywood. _Chapter XVIII_ HELLO, HOLLYWOOD! Janet and Helen found that by leaning close together they could converse but with the steady beat of the engines in their ears, a sense of drowsiness soon overtook the girls and they relaxed in their chairs. Janet dropped into a deep sleep that was not broken until their plane dropped down at Cheyenne well after midnight to change pilots and refuel. Here the stewardess offered them a selection of fruit and Janet ate several oranges with relish. Then they were off again, meeting the sunrise east of Salt Lake City with the most glorious panorama Janet had ever seen unfolding beneath her eyes. After that they swung southwest in an almost direct line for Los Angeles, climbing dizzily over the Sierras and then dropping down into lower California. Helen glanced at her watch and Janet, still unused to her own, followed suit. They would be at the Grand Central airport in less than half an hour. Helen, leaning back, cried, "We're almost there," and Janet nodded happily. It seemed almost on the echo of Helen's words, although it was actually minutes later, when the plane wheeled and settled gently down on the runway of a huge airport. Janet, looking eagerly from the window, saw a group of cameramen standing at the gate which led to the field. There must be some celebrity on their own plane or on a ship due in soon. She scanned the passengers in their own cabin. None of them appeared unusually famous and she decided the cameramen were there to meet some other plane. A landing stage was rolled up the moment the plane stopped and the stewardess opened the door. "Take your time," said Helen's father. "We'll all be a bit stiff after this long ride. You girls want to look your best." Janet stood up and smoothed out her skirt. It had remained remarkably fresh and the heavy silk shirtwaist showed only a few wrinkles. Her jacket would cover that up and she got that garment down from the rack over her head. Helen, who had worn a brown silk suit, had fared almost as well, and after a hurried glance into the mirrors in their handbags, both girls pronounced themselves ready to see what Hollywood looked like. Helen's father and mother were out of the plane first with the girls close behind them. A uniformed airport employee nodded to Mr. Thorne. "I've had your bags put in your car," he said, and Janet saw the famous director hand over a bill. The cameramen were still clustered at the gate and instead of looking for the arrival of another plane, seemed to be watching them as they advanced. "Hi, Mr. Thorne," greeted one of them, a chunky little fellow half hidden behind a huge camera. "Have a nice trip?" "Fine, Joey. Couldn't have been better." "Get any fish?" another one called. "You guess," smiled Helen's father. "That's far enough," said the photographer called Joey. "Just line up with the girls in the middle. What's the idea trying to sneak in on us like this?" "What do you mean?" parried Mr. Thorne. "The Ace publicity office just tipped us off that you were coming in this noon with a couple of girls from the midwest and that you think they're a couple of great film possibilities. I don't call that playing very fair with us." "So the office phoned and said I was bringing in a couple of new stars?" "That's right. Now girls, smile a little. We won't bite even if the cameras do look big." Janet and Helen, more than a little perplexed by the sudden turn of events, couldn't help smiling while the photographers clicked their machines. Then several reporters, who had remained in the background until the photographers were through, pushed ahead. "Give us the dope, Mr. Thorne--who they are, where you found them, what you have in mind for them? Do you really think they're good?" "Good?" asked Henry Thorne slowly. "Good? They're two of the finest possibilities that ever struck Hollywood. Boys, you don't know how enthusiastic I am." "Think they'll be big box office?" one reporter asked. "As far as I'm concerned, they're box office attractions right now and they are going to be under my personal management and supervision." Janet chuckled quietly for she could see the trend of Henry Thorne's conversation. "Sure, sure, we'll admit they're good," said another reporter, "but who are they and where did you find them?" Henry Thorne paused a moment as though deciding a question of tremendous importance. "Well, gentlemen, of course I hadn't expected the office would tip you off on my arrival. I'd rather planned on slipping in quietly and giving these girls a chance to get used to Hollywood, but I suppose I might as well tell you now. I want you to meet my daughter, Helen, and her friend, Janet Hardy." Reporters and photographers stared. "You're kidding us!" one of them protested. "I'm very serious," replied Henry Thorne. "You boys let yourselves in for this. I've always played fair with you and you thought I was pulling a fast one on you so I let your imaginations run along for a while." "Then they're not new stars?" asked one photographer, who had taken unusual care to get some excellent shots. "I didn't say they weren't. Now here's actually the story. The girls graduated from high school last week and this trip west is a present to them. Both of them have brains, better than average looks, and both of them can ride. Billy Fenstow is going to put them into his next western, but whether they'll be any good is another question. I'm willing to bet that they will." The photographer called Joey looked at Janet and Helen critically. "I'll string along with you," he decided. "Those girls look like winners to me." "Thanks Joey. I'll remember that." "Any time you have a picture scoop," Joey retorted. The Thornes and Janet went on to a waiting sedan where a driver was ready to whirl them to the home Henry Thorne maintained in Hollywood. "That was quite an experience," grinned Helen. "We almost became celebrities." "Just another fool stunt of the publicity office, but I guess it didn't do any harm," admitted Helen's father. Half an hour's ride took them to a comfortable, sprawling bungalow set well back on a side street. "I've been living in an apartment, but when I got the idea of bringing you back with me I leased this place," Henry Thorne told his wife and daughter. "I've installed George, my negro cook, and there ought to be something in the way of lunch ready for us." The bungalow was delightful with a tremendous living room clear across the front and two long wings to the rear, one housing the dining room, kitchen and servants' quarters while the other contained a series of bedrooms with baths between. At the rear, flanked by a high hedge, was a medium sized swimming pool with a diving tower. "Dad, this is wonderful," exclaimed Helen. "I don't care now whether I ever get before a camera. I'll be happy right here, spending my days in that pool." Mrs. Thorne took charge, made instant friends of George, the smiling cook, and assigned the bedrooms, Janet and Helen sharing one large room with twin beds. It was at the very rear of the house with a door that almost opened onto the pool, which pleased the girls. "Clean up and we'll have lunch. George informs me that it will be ready in fifteen minutes," said Helen's mother. "How about a swim?" asked Helen. "What in?" asked Janet. "The pool, silly." "But I hear it's even against California laws to go in a pool in your birthday suit." "I forgot. Of course we'd put our suits in the trunk and I suppose it will be a couple of days before they arrive." After a more prosaic shower, they felt tremendously refreshed and the luncheon which George had prepared was delicious. "See about a maid at once to do the housework, mother," said Henry Thorne, "and with George to do the cooking you can have a little fun, too." "But I want something to do," protested Mrs. Thorne. "There'll be plenty just keeping track of Janet and Helen." "How would you like to attend a premiere of a new picture at the Queen's Court tonight?" he asked. "Fine," replied Helen, "but what's the Queen Court?" "It's the newest of the deluxe motion picture theaters here. You'll see a lot of stars. What do you say now?" "Count us in," declared Janet. "What'll we wear? Our trunks aren't here?" "Mother'll take you shopping this afternoon," promised Henry Thorne. "Or better, I'll take you around to Roddy at the studio." "I'm not a mind reader. Who's Roddy?" Helen asked. Her father looked at her in astonishment. Then grinned. "Sure, you wouldn't know Roddy. Well, he's a thin little fellow, almost bald, but he creates the most sensational clothes worn by the stars at our studio. His credit line on the screen is always signed Adoree, but that's just for publicity. Roddy wouldn't be a good name for a creator of ultra fashions." "You mean you'll have Adoree do dresses for us for tonight?" asked Helen. "You'd better not call him Adoree or he'll stick you full of pins. He's just plain Roddy around the studio." Janet's throat suddenly felt dry. Here, on her first day in Hollywood, she was to have a gown created by a famous designer and attend a premiere at the Queen's Court. _Chapter XIX_ GORGEOUS GOWNS Henry Thorne telephoned for an appointment with Roddy and then drove the girls to the studio. The Ace plant, one of the largest in Hollywood, was built in a rambling Spanish style. Where most automobiles were stopped at the main gate, Henry Thorne sent his car rolling right on through and the gatekeeper waved and smiled. He stopped at a small office and a boy hurried out. "Mr. Rexler wants to see you at once. It's about your next picture." Henry Thorne scowled a little as he said, "Tell him I'll be along in a few minutes." Turning to the girls, he explained, "Rexler is the general manager and I'll have to see him, but I'll take you to Roddy first." The creator of famous styles had his office and workshop in a rambling, one story white stucco building. Roddy looked just as Henry Thorne had promised he would and Janet thought a good, strong wind might blow the little man away. But she liked him instantly, for his eyes twinkled when Henry Thorne explained his mission. "And you'd like to have them look like real stars tonight?" he smiled. "That's the idea," grinned Henry Thorne. "Maybe the publicity office wasn't wrong in sending out the photographers and reporters this morning." Roddy stepped back and surveyed Janet and Helen with cold, analytical eyes. "Nice hair, even features, not too heavy and not too thin, trim ankles," he said, half to himself and half out loud. "I'll leave them with you, Roddy. I've got to see Rexler." "Another picture?" Henry Thorne nodded. "I hear they need another of your smash hits," said the designer. "You mean smash up or smash down?" "Up. You never do flops." "But I have." "That was years ago when I was only a tailor. Go along now," added Roddy. "I've work to do with these girls." He took them back into his private fitting room and called for silks and satins by the bolt. "Something vivid for you," he told Helen, taking a great bolt of crimson velvet and fashioning it around her with dexterous hands, pinning it here and there. Before Janet's eyes he created a gown, stepped back, shook his head, changed a pin or two, and surveyed his handiwork again. "Not perfect, but it will do for a hurry up job," conceded Roddy. Then, with a bolt of silver cloth, he quickly fashioned a waist length cape. "Not too much makeup tonight," he told Helen. "Just a touch of color to take off the pallor." Then he turned to Janet. "This will be a little harder," he told her. "Brunettes are always easier to design for than blondes, but I am glad you are not an artificial blonde." Janet smiled, but said nothing and Roddy called for various fabrics, finally deciding on a sheer, vivid blue and a cape of gold cloth. "For you," he told Janet, "more color in your cheeks. It will be needed with this blue. Use a blue band to tie your hair, but do not curl it any more than the natural wave it now has. Both of you carry white gloves and it will be better without bags. I shall be proud of you." Janet and Helen felt very much like fairy princesses as they left the designer's office. In less than an hour they had seen stunning gowns created. True, they had to be put together, but they did not doubt that this would be done in time, for Roddy had a certain magic in his hands and his energy seemed to flow out to the others who worked with him. They waited for a time for Helen's father to return and when he finally arrived there was new enthusiasm in his eyes. "I'll bet you're assigned to a new picture," said Helen. "Right, dear. I start work on the script tomorrow. The first draft is ready, but I always like to sit in on the finishing touches." "What's it going to be?" asked Janet. "The kind of picture I've always wanted to do, an epic of the air, a story of the air mail, but on broader, more sweeping lines than anything else ever attempted. We need one more big picture to bolster up the production schedule for next year and I've drawn the assignment." Helen's father was as happy as a boy with a new bicycle, and he hummed to himself half the way home. Suddenly he burst out. "I forgot all about your dresses. How did you get along with Roddy?" "He's grand, and we're all fixed up. Mine is crimson velvet and Janet's is some divine shade of blue. I have a silver cape and she has a cloth of gold cape. Oh, he planned everything for us, even telling us just how much makeup to use." "That's Roddy. He's a fine friend." They drove on in silence for a time before Helen's father spoke again. "I must be getting absent minded," he said as they turned into the drive at the bungalow. "I ran into Billy Fenstow at the administration building at the studio. He said to send you to see him tomorrow morning. He's going to start shooting on a new western next week." "Things," said Janet, "are happening too fast. We only arrived this noon and have already been fitted for gowns. Tonight we go to a premiere and tomorrow we meet a director who may give us places in his next pictures." "That's Hollywood for you," grinned Helen's father. _Chapter XX_ AT THE PREMIERE After a leisurely dinner that evening they enjoyed a quiet half hour beside the pool. "There's plenty of time; let's take a swim. The trunks arrived this afternoon and mother's found our suits," said Helen, and Janet seconded the idea at once. It had been a hectic day and the water would relax them. They had trim one-piece suits, Janet's of cool green and Helen's a sharp blue. For twenty minutes they splashed in the water or relaxed and floated just as the mood struck them. Finally Mrs. Thorne called. "It's less than an hour before we must start for the premiere," she said. Janet and Helen climbed out of the pool, rubbed themselves briskly with heavy towels, and hastened into their bedroom. Large boxes were at the foot of each bed and from them they drew the gowns which Roddy had created. Dressing that night was one of the thrills Janet would never forget. The costume was complete for just the right undergarments had been sent by the designer. The hose were the sheerest gold, with gold slippers to match, while Helen's accessories were silver. "How do you feel?" asked Helen. "Something like a fairy princess and it's hard to make myself believe that this is all real." "Then let's enjoy every minute of it. We may wake up and find that it is all just a dream." Janet looked at herself in the mirror. She was sheathed in blue silk, ankle length, with just enough of a slit in one side to show her dainty, silken ankles. Helen helped her tie a blue ribbon around her hair and watched while Janet applied rouge judiciously. "I imagine the lights will be bright as we go into the theater," said Helen, "so remember what Roddy said about the color." In turn Janet helped Helen, fastening the crimson velvet dress. Like her own, it was a sheath of material with Helen encased inside. "I'm not sure I'll be able to sit down. Dad may have to hire a truck and drive us to the theater in it. I'd hate to have this gown all mussed." "Mine looks awfully tight, but it feels very comfortable," confessed Janet. "Oh, I feel grand--simply grand." "About ready?" called Helen's father. They caught up their capes and threw them around their shoulders with just the right touch of abandon. Even the gloves had been provided in the boxes sent by Roddy. Mr. and Mrs. Thorne were waiting for them in the living room, Helen's mother looking very beautiful in a brown velvet gown while her father was distinguished in his dinner jacket. Henry Thorne caught his breath as he looked at the girls in Roddy's gowns. "I knew Roddy was a wonder worker, but I didn't know he could perform miracles. I'd hardly know you if I saw you any place else." "That's a real compliment, Dad," smiled Helen. "Here's something I thought you'd like to see." He handed a copy of one of the evening papers to them. On the front page was one of the pictures taken at the airport with Janet and Helen between Mr. and Mrs. Thorne. "Famous Director Brings Daughter and Friend West to start Their Careers in Movies," was the caption over the picture. Underneath the story said: "Moviedom will get its first chance to see Henry Thorne's daughter, Helen, and her companion, Janet Hardy, tonight at the premiere at the Queen's Court. Both girls are slated for movie careers if their screen tests turn out all right. Their initial rôles will probably be in a new western which Bill Fenstow is casting now and plans to put into production next week." "We look pretty much 'midwesternish' in that picture," observed Helen. "What if you do? There are too many Hollywood types. What we need in pictures is fresh faces on girls who have ability. Come on now, we've got to hurry or we'll be late." The big sedan was in the drive and Helen's father had summoned a driver he employed when he needed a chauffeur to drive them that evening. They turned out of the side street on which they lived into a main boulevard and whirled rapidly toward the Queen's Court. Janet, attending a movie premiere for the first time, felt her heart quicken as she saw the blaze of light which marked the front of the theater. The whistle of a traffic officer slowed them down and the driver was forced to produce a card before they were allowed to go past the police lines. The sidewalks were lined with people, anxious for a glimpse at some Hollywood notable. The car fell into line behind several others and Janet caught her first glimpse of the theater. It was magnificent white marble, with the entrance an open court and down this court the honored guests had to walk, running the gamut of the stares of hundreds who backed the police lines. Their car pulled up under a canopy. "Here we are, girls. Take your time and enjoy it. Don't be stiff. It's just like going to the Idle Hour back in Clarion," said Helen's father. He stepped out first, assisted Mrs. Thorne and then turned to the girls. Janet heard the master of ceremonies, standing at the microphone nearby, announce, "Henry Thorne, most famous of the directors for Ace productions, Mrs. Thorne, their daughter, Helen, and Janet Hardy." Janet stepped out into the glare of the floodlights. For just a moment a terrific wave of stage fright gripped her. Then she saw smiling, friendly faces, and she smiled back. Flashlights boomed as the photographers worked. The announcer beckoned to Henry Thorne. "Just a word, Mr. Thorne." But the director shook his head. "This is the girls' night," he smiled, shoving Helen toward the microphone. "All I can say," gasped Helen, "is that I'm tremendously happy to be here." "Thank you," said the announcer. "And now, Miss Hardy, please." "I like all of the smiles," said Janet simply, and a burst of applause came back from the crowd. "Well done," whispered Henry Thorne and they started down the long walk past the sea of faces. Janet felt supremely confident, perhaps it was just knowing that her gown and accessories were perfection, and more than one compliment on her costume came from the packed masses. In the grand foyer there were film stars on every hand, some of them stopping for a moment to talk, and as Helen's father introduced the girls to all of these, Janet thought she detected several frankly unfriendly stares from some of the actresses, who seemed to be little if any older than they were. Then the picture started. Actually Janet saw very little of it. She was too busy drinking in the beauty of the theater and straining to catch glimpses of stars who had arrived late. When they left the theater, various groups congregated in the foyer for brief visits and Janet saw a tubby little man, looking ill at ease in his dinner suit and mopping his bald head, struggling to reach them. He kept his eyes quite frankly on Janet and Helen as he neared them, but there was nothing offensive in his stare. He grabbed Henry Thorne's arm. "Say, Henry, are these the girls?" he demanded. "Hello, Billy. Sure. I want you to meet my daughter, Helen, and Janet Hardy." "Girls," he explained, "you want to be nice to this scamp. He's in charge of the western unit and it will be his decision on whether you get into the cast. In other words, meet Billy Fenstow." "None other and none such," grinned the affable little director. "Why didn't you tell me you had a couple of stars in tow?" he chided Helen's father. "Are you willing to take a chance on them and promise them parts right now?" The creator of western pictures looked a little surprised. "Well maybe not for sure. Tell you what. I'm going home and make some changes in my script. I'll build up some stronger parts for the girls. Can they act?" "Billy, I don't know. I saw them one night when I thought they could, but you'll have to find out for yourself. Now I'm going to take them home and see that they get some sleep or they won't be able to act." "I'm glad I met you tonight," said Billy earnestly. "See you in the morning," as Helen and Janet moved toward the car. He watched them through shrewd eyes, and if Janet could have turned around she would have noticed that Billy Fenstow was looking at her in particular. "I think she'll do," whispered the little director. "I think she's got just what I want for the new pix. Gosh, I wish this was morning." He jammed on his soft, black hat and went out in search of a taxi. _Chapter XXI_ SCREEN TESTS Despite the excitement of the premiere, Janet and Helen were up early. Mrs. Thorne, tired from the trip, decided to remain in bed until later and Helen's father had already gone to the studio, but not before leaving a note directing them on where to find Billy Fenstow. Helen scanned a morning paper for an account of the premiere. "Here's a paragraph about us," she exclaimed. "Listen." "I am," said Janet. "Two of the most stunningly gowned girls seen at the Queen's Court last night were Helen Thorne, daughter of Director Henry Thorne, and Janet Hardy, a friend from the midwest. It is rumored their gowns were special creations of Adoree. Both girls are to get film tests." "I must clip the picture in last night's paper and the story this morning and send them to dad and mother," said Janet. While Janet clipped out the items she wanted, Helen telephoned for a taxi and they were soon speeding toward the studio. The driver looked at them a little suspiciously as he slowed down at the main gate of the studio. Evidently he had seen too many girls like Janet and Helen get turned away, but Helen produced a note from her father which gained them instant admission. They paid the cab driver and a boy was assigned to direct them to Billy Fenstow's office. They found the director of the westerns at an office well to the back of the lot and he greeted them warmly. "We might just as well make a test the first thing," he said. "I've got a camera crew over on stage nine where there's an old interior that hasn't been struck. You girls any lines you can go through?" "Only from our senior play," confessed Helen. Billy Fenstow looked aghast. "That sounds pretty bad, but we'll try it." Stage nine was one of the smaller sound units on the Ace lot, but the director had a camera crew, the sound men and an electrician awaiting their arrival. He tested the lights quickly. "Just walk onto the set, do your lines and action, and forget about the rest of us," he said. "We'll take part of it, maybe." Janet's knees felt very weak and when she touched Helen's hand it was damp with a chill perspiration. "This is awful," whispered Janet. "I wish your Dad could be here." "I'm glad he isn't," said Helen fervently. "Go ahead, girls," urged the director, and Janet and Helen, who had already agreed on the scene, started their lines. The action and words were simple, but both of them were scared stiff and they acted like wooden people. "Wait a minute," said Billy Fenstow. "I'm human. I won't bite and I don't expect you to be world beaters. Now try that over and loosen up." Janet laughed a little and Helen found a handkerchief and wiped the palms of her hands. Both of them felt better. The lights brightened until it was impossible to see the camera crew; it was more like being on the stage of the gym with Miss Williams over in the wings with her prompt book in her hands. Both girls entered into the spirit of their bit the second time, talking and acting as they had the night of the class play. For the moment they forgot the camera crew and failed to hear the soft whirring of the camera as Billy Fenstow signaled the cameraman to pick up the sequence. They ran through the scene and the lights dimmed. Billy Fenstow stepped forward. "That was better. We shot it and I'll have it put through at once. There's a couple of others have a final word on the casting and they'll want to see the test." "When will it be ready?" asked Helen. "Tonight. Suppose you bring your father over at eight and we'll send it through with rushes of other stuff that's been taken today." "We'll be here," promised Janet. On their way out they overheard several electricians talking. "One of the kids was Henry Thorne's girl," said one. "What did you think of her?" "She's not bad looking, but their skit was lousy." "Yeh, I thought so too." Helen looked at Janet and for some reason or other, felt like laughing. Why hadn't her Dad warned them about the test? He should have given them something to rehearse that would have been impressive. It was nearly noon when they reached home and after lunch Janet sat down and wrote in detail of the things that had transpired since they left Clarion. In the letter she enclosed the picture and the newspaper paragraph. In the late afternoon Henry Thorne came home, tired but elated. "I'm delighted with the first draft of the script for the new picture." "Haven't you seen Mr. Fenstow?" asked Helen. "No, why?" "I'm afraid it wasn't so good." "Nonsense. You made out well enough. What did he put you through?" "That's just it," explained Janet. "He had us do a scene from the high school play and we felt like awful nit-wits." "I suppose so," conceded Helen's father. "When will the test be ready?" "Mr. Fenstow said to come over at eight. He said several others had to have a word about the casting." "Sure. The supervisors always want the last word." After dinner they drove to the studio, Mrs. Thorne accompanying them. Helen's father took them directly to the projection room. Billy Fenstow was waiting and half a dozen others were in the room. Most of them spoke to Henry Thorne and he introduced several to Janet and Helen, but Janet couldn't remember their names. Then the lights went out and they settled back into comfortable leather-upholstered chairs. Scenes from a number of pictures in production flashed before their eyes. Suddenly Janet and Helen saw themselves on the screen, moving and talking, and Janet dropped her eyes for a minute. To her it looked pretty terrible, but her voice was well modulated and pleasing. After that the lights came on and Henry Thorne went over to speak to Billy Fenstow. When he returned a few minutes later Janet couldn't even guess what the decision had been. "The action was punk," Helen's father said frankly, "but the supervisors liked your voices. You've got good faces and figures. In other words you report Monday morning and both of you go into 'Broad Valley,' Billy's next picture." _Chapter XXII_ WESTERN ACTION In the days intervening Janet and Helen found plenty to do. Billy Fenstow sent over scripts of his new western and they had a chance to familiarize themselves with the general theme of the play. The story, briefly, was the efforts of a band of ruthless men to gain control of "Broad Valley," a great cattle ranch which had been left to young Fred Danvers by his father. There was plenty of action, some gunplay, and a love theme in which Fred fell in love with the leader of the band of men who sought his property. The theme was as old as western pictures, but Billy Fenstow had a knack of dressing them up and making them look new. Janet and Helen reported at stage nine at eight o'clock Monday morning, Henry Thorne driving them over himself. He left as soon as they reached the lot. Nearly a score of people were clustered around the chubby little director and he nodded as Janet and Helen joined the crowd. Janet nudged Helen. "There's Curt Newsom, the western star. I'll bet he's got the lead." "He looks nice," replied Helen, "but older than he appears on the screen." A rather artificial blonde was seated at Billy Fenstow's right, idly thumbing through the sheaf of script from which the picture would be shot. Mr. Fenstow spoke sharply. "Attention everybody. All of you have had a chance to study the script; all of you should be familiar with the parts. We'll make plenty of changes as we go along, but in general you know what we're aiming at. We've got two weeks assigned for the shooting and that means we'll be done in two weeks, and not three." He looked around at each of them, then went on. "Curt Newsom goes into the lead as Fred Danvers and Miss Jackson will play the rôle of Ruth Blair, the girl he falls in love with." He ran on down the list. "The green cousins from the east who come to visit Bill will be played by Janet Hardy and Helen Thorne." Janet felt her heart bound. She actually had a part and it mattered little that it was an insignificant rôle. Bertie Jackson, the blonde in the chair, turned and looked sharply at the girls, then sniffed. "I should say they would be well qualified to play such rôles." Billy Fenstow caught the sneer in her voice and turned quickly. "You know, Miss Jackson, you don't have to work in this picture if you don't want to. There are plenty of blondes would jump at the chance to play this lead." "Oh, calm down, Billy. Just because one of the girls is Henry Thorne's daughter, you don't need to get on your high horse when I make a harmless wisecrack." But Helen had her own ideas about Bertie Jackson's wisecrack and she resolved to watch the pallid blonde. Bertie, if it served her own purpose, was quite capable of doing any number of mean tricks. The morning passed rapidly with costume assignments being made. There were a number of interior shots of the ranch house which would be necessary and these scenes had already been erected on stage nine. Janet and Helen would have their first scenes tomorrow, but they remained on hand to watch the first shots of the picture and to attempt to get acquainted with other members of the company. Most of them were friendly enough, but they seemed to feel that the girls had deliberately been put into the cast through Henry Thorne's influence and Helen voiced her belief quietly. "We've got to expect that," admitted Janet, "but we don't need to let it spoil all of our fun." Whatever she might have thought of Bertie Jackson from a standpoint of personality, Janet had to admit that the actress was a thorough workman and she went through her rôle in an easy and screen-appealing manner. In makeup Curt Newsom appeared much younger than the forty years he was willing to admit. The next morning Janet and Helen reached the lot early. Although not their first scene in the picture, the first one in which they were to be shot showed them arriving at the ranchhouse. Simple travelling costumes had been assigned by the wardrobe department, but Roddy stepped in and quietly added a touch or two that made them distinctive. Janet could almost hear Bertie Jackson hissing. It was an unheard of thing for Roddy to pay any attention to the costume worn by a minor character in a western or any other character in a picture of that type. "Your lines are simple, girls. You've just gotten out of a buckboard after a long ride from the nearest railroad station. You're tired and stiff and a little mad because Curt didn't come to meet you. Janet, remember that you're a little giddy and anything crazy you do will fit in all right." "She'll do plenty of that," said Bertie Jackson, under her breath. Billy Fenstow didn't believe in rehearsals. He told his people what he wanted, then asked them to do it, and started the cameras grinding. If it was too bad, he had to shoot it over, but if it was fair, he let it go, with the result that once in a while he got some exceptional shots. "All set, girls?" asked the director. Janet, her mouth dry, nodded. "Let's go. Camera!" They stepped into the range of the cameras, Helen in the lead and Janet, a rather vacant stare on her face, following. There was a bear-skin rug in front of the door and some way her feet became tangled up in it and she pitched forward, only the strong arm of Curt Newsom preventing her from falling. Curt, a veteran trooper, faked a line and Janet had enough presence of mind to come back with a cue. Then they went on with the scene, which was extremely brief, ending with a cowboy, laden with baggage, trying to get through the door. "Cut it," waved Billy. "What are you trying to do, clown this?" he demanded of the red-faced Janet. "No, Mr. Fenstow. You see, I slipped. I didn't mean to do it," she explained. "Well, whatever it was, it was a nice bit of action and I think we'll keep it. It ought to be worth a laugh or two." The next morning they left early by bus for a location back in the mountains. Billy Fenstow had every ranch possibility listed in a small black book and this was one of his favorites. He had used it several times, but a studio carpenter crew, by going out several days in advance, had changed the barns and corrals enough to disguise them. They arrived shortly before noon and a delicious meal was waiting for them. Janet and Helen had little to do for the next two days, most of the shots being confined to action on the range, with the camera, mounted on a special truck, racing ahead of the pounding horses while the broad valley resounded to volleys of blank shots as the cowboys, led by Curt Newsom, chased and were chased by the marauders. Then Janet and Helen got their chance in a comedy sequence called for their first riding. Neither of them felt any qualms until they were mounted. Then their horses seemed to explode and both girls hung on for their lives, their faces registering surprise in no uncertain terms. Helen lost her grip and flew through the air to land in an undignified position in a cloud of dust. Janet, either more fortunate or a better rider, clung on for another minute, then found herself dumped into the open water trough. Splashing furiously and sputtering at a great rate, Janet got her head above water. Her hair was plastered to her head and she was soaking wet. The camera crew, in spite of their roars of laughter, had kept grinding away. "Great stuff, Janet. You've got a natural born sense of comedy," chuckled Billy Fenstow as he wiped the tears out of his eyes. "It looks like I'm all wet as an actress," admitted Janet. "Oh, I don't know. Getting all wet may make you one," countered the director. "Get into some dry clothes. We're through with this sequence, anyhow." The days on location passed swiftly and in the main pleasantly. Curt Newsom took an interest in the girls, which only heightened Bertie Jackson's jealousy. He taught them several tricks about riding and they spent every extra hour in the saddle. One of the last sequences to be filmed at the ranch was one calling for a wild ride by Janet to take news of a raid on the ranch to the sheriff's office in a near-by town. With the camera crew in the truck ahead, the action started. Janet rode hard, but was careful to keep in camera range. Suddenly she felt her saddle slipping and she grabbed desperately at the mane of the galloping horse. Alarmed by the looseness of the saddle, the beast increased its stride and Janet, a stifled scream on her lips, plunged headlong. She felt the shock of the ground as she struck and then a mantle of merciful darkness descended upon her. _Chapter XXIII_ ON THE SCREEN Curt Newsom was the first to reach the unconscious Janet. He picked her up, almost without effort, and ran to the car in which Billy Fenstow had been following the action. "Step on it, Billy. This girl's had a bad fall," he said, and the director swung the car quickly and sped back toward the ranchhouse. Helen, mounted, galloped after them and the rest of the company, including the camera crew, trailed along. When Janet regained her senses she was lying on a bed in the ranchhouse with Helen, her face expressing her anxiety, bending over her. "What happened?" asked Janet faintly. "Your saddle came loose and you took a header," explained Curt. "How do you feel?" "Let me get up and take a few steps and then I'll tell you," replied Janet. "Better stay quiet for a few more minutes. We've got a doctor coming out to look you over," advised Billy Fenstow. "But I'm sure there's nothing really wrong with me, except perhaps I'm clumsy," replied Janet. Just then one of the cowboys tiptoed in and whispered something to Curt Newsom. Janet caught a flash of anger in his face as he turned and followed the cowboy outside. The doctor arrived within a few minutes and made a thorough examination for possible injuries. "Just a liberal supply of bumps and bruises," he decided. "Better take it easy for a day or two." "Well, that's that," Janet managed to smile when the doctor had departed. "I'm afraid I spoiled another sequence and you'll have to shoot it over." "I should say not," replied Billy Fenstow. "The camera got every bit of action and I'll work it in somehow. Any time I let a swell shot like that go unused you can write 'finished' after my name. Stay in bed the rest of the day. The schedule of scenes you were in is practically completed anyway." Helen was in and out the rest of the day for there were several shots in which she appeared and it was late afternoon when she came in to stay. "Curt Newsom is on the warpath," she said slowly as she sat down beside Janet. "Sore about my mussing up that scene?" asked Janet. "No. He's been looking at the saddle and says someone tried to kill you." Helen's voice was flat. Janet sat up in bed. "Someone tried to kill me?" she demanded. Tears welled into Helen's tired eyes. "Oh, this is all a mess," she cried. "We never should have come out here. There are too many intrigues and jealousies among those established." "Tell me just what you mean?" insisted Janet. Helen waved her hands helplessly. "Curt's found out that the saddle girth was almost cut through. That's the reason your saddle came loose and you were pitched out." "Does he have any idea who did it?" "If he does, he isn't saying anything, but I heard him tell Billy Fenstow that this is the last picture he'll work in with Bertie Jackson." "I wonder if that means he suspects Bertie?" Janet pondered. "You could take it that way if you wanted to, and personally I think Bertie is fully capable of some despicable stunt like that. I'm glad shooting on this picture is practically over. I've seen all of Bertie I ever want to." "It doesn't seem as though she would do anything like that, though," said Janet. "But, after all, Bertie's determined to get ahead and I expect she's wholly unscrupulous when she thinks anything or anyone may be blocking her way. But why should she pick on us?" "Because we came in as absolute greenhorns and got fairly good bits. She's afraid we may be pushed ahead too fast because of Dad's position with the company. I think it's all plain enough." "Perhaps you're right," conceded Janet. "I'll certainly watch myself when I'm around Bertie from now on." Janet felt much better the next morning. She was still stiff and sore, but was able to walk with only a moderate amount of discomfort. It was the final day of shooting for "Broad Valley" and a certain tenseness gripped the whole company. Billy Fenstow was determined to finish on time and they worked like mad through the long, hot hours. Janet had to do another riding sequence, and she went about it gamely, although every bone in her body ached as her horse galloped at a mad pace across the broad valley and into the rolling hills behind it. Then it was done. The picture was "in the can." Supper was served at the ranchhouse and after the meal, in the soft twilight of the summer evening, they piled into the bus that was to take them back to Hollywood. There was little conversation on the way back to the city. Some of them were completely worn out by the strain of working against time for the last few days and a number dozed as the bus, striking a concrete road, rolled smoothly and swiftly toward Hollywood. The days had been exciting and even thrilling for Janet and Helen--an experience they might never know again and both girls knew they would come to treasure the recent days highly. Janet wondered what would be in store for them in Hollywood. Would they win other rôles or were they through? It would depend on the verdict after "Broad Valley" had its screening before the studio executives. The lights of Hollywood glowed and they pulled up in front of the studio. Some of the actors and actresses had their own cars; others took busses and only a few signalled for waiting taxis. Janet and Helen were among these. Henry Thorne was waiting for them when they reached home. "All done?" he asked. Helen nodded wearily. "The picture is and we may be too." "Why?" "Won't it depend on how our work shows up whether we get any more rôles?" "Yes, I suppose so," said her father, "but I could push you into some minor parts in other films." "Now you're wrong, Dad. We don't want that any more than you would want to do it." "I guess you're right, dear. I did give you a boost with Billy and if you didn't make good on 'Broad Valley' there's little more that I can do." They were silent for a time. Helen's mother, who had been to a neighborhood picture house, came home and they went into the dining room where a cold lunch was ready for them. "I hear you had some unusual experiences," said Helen's father. "Oh, we had a few falls," admitted Janet. There was no use in voicing their suspicions about Bertie Jackson. The next four days were spent in sight-seeing around Los Angeles, in a trip to Catalina Island and several swimming expeditions at Malibu. Then came a call from Billy Fenstow. "We're screening 'Broad Valley' at the studio tonight," he informed them. "Better come on out. It's at eight." This was the news they had been waiting for, but now that the actual screening was to take place, both girls felt nervous and upset. Helen's father and mother insisted on coming with them, "to enjoy the triumph or share the sorrows." Henry Thorne smiled and Janet later wondered whether he had advance information on the outcome of the picture. The small auditorium in which the picture was screened was well filled that night with most of the members of the cast on hand, including Curt Newsom and Bertie Jackson. The lights were out and the picture started. Janet read the title: "'Broad Valley' with Curt Newsom and Bertie Jackson, directed by William Fenstow; produced by the Ace Motion Picture Corporation." Then came the cast of characters and well toward the bottom of the list she found her name. Her heart leaped and she held Helen's arm close. What a thrill it was to actually read her own name in the cast of characters of a film. Then the action started, the story of Curt Newsom's fight to hold title to his ranch. Almost before Janet and Helen knew it they were in the picture, the midwestern cousins arriving for a visit and in spite of herself Janet chuckled as she stumbled over the rug. It DID look wholly accidental. Then for a time they were out of the action, coming back again in the riding sequence in which Janet was dumped into the watering trough. This entire bit of action had been kept in the film and she heard several hearty chuckles as she went headlong into the trough. After that came the wild ride in which Janet was pitched from her horse and the final victory of Curt over his enemies. "Broad Valley" came to a close with Curt winning the affections of Bertie Jackson and Janet felt her distaste for the actress growing as she watched the final fadeout. The lights in the projection room flashed up and Henry Thorne turned to the girls. "Nice work," he said. "Do you really mean it, Dad?" asked Helen. "Of course I do, honey. I think both of you handled your parts very well and Janet added a couple of top notch comedy incidents." "They weren't intentional," Janet assured him. "Then that explains why they look so natural. Billy will be a sap if he cuts them out in the final version." "And I'm not a sap," said Billy Fenstow, who had quietly joined them. "How about my next western? Think you could stand a few more weeks in my company?" "Are you serious?" demanded Janet. "Enough so that I'm promising you parts right now. In fact, we'll pay you $75 a week instead of the $50 a week you got for this first picture. How does that sound?" "Not enough," put in Henry Thorne, "especially if the girls can give you some more comedy as good as the stuff they put into this one." "Now wait a minute," protested the little director. "I don't work on budgets that run up to half a million. I've got to watch my pay-roll." "I was only kidding, Billy. But honestly, the girls ought to be worth a hundred a week. You'll only use them a couple of weeks and that's pretty cheap." "I won't make any promises about a hundred a week," said Billy, "but you can count on another job if you want to join the company for my next western." "Then we're in right now," decided Helen, and Janet nodded her approval. _Chapter XXIV_ "KINGS OF THE AIR" The next morning Janet found an interesting paragraph in one of the morning papers, which had been written by a reporter who had attended the screening of "Broad Valley." "One of the pleasant surprises about this latest Billy Fenstow western was the work of Helen Thorne and Janet Hardy, two newcomers. Miss Thorne is the daughter of the famous director and Miss Hardy is a friend of hers from the middle west. Although playing minor rôles, both girls handled their parts well with Miss Hardy providing several of the best comedy touches seen in a western by this reviewer in some months. It is reported that both will be in the next western which the prolific Fenstow will produce." Janet read the brief comment three times, then clipped it out of the paper, wrote a brief note home, and sent the clipping to her folks. Later in the day they received their final vouchers from the studio for work on "Broad Valley." Altogether the two weeks work on the picture had netted them $100 apiece, more money than either of them had ever earned in a similar length of time. "No wonder girls come to Hollywood," said Helen as she looked at the check. "Yes, but remember that we're lucky. We didn't have to break down any barriers; we didn't have to make introductions. The way was all smoothed out for us. Look at those poor kids over at the casting office." Helen turned in the direction Janet pointed. Half a hundred young men and women were waiting patiently in a line before the window of the casting office. Most of them were rejected; only one or two were allowed inside. "That's what happens to the average seeker of fame in the films," said Janet. "So many, with some beauty and high hopes, come out here expecting to make a success, and then almost starve. Of course they get a bit once in a while, but it's hardly enough to buy their food much less their clothes and all of the other necessary things." "You're right, of course," admitted Helen. "If it hadn't been for Dad we'd never have had a look-in." They were having lunch that noon at the studio restaurant with Helen's father. They were waiting when he arrived. Accompanying him was a stranger. "Girls, I want you to meet Mr. Rexler, general manager of the company." The general manager, tall, thin and exceedingly nervous, greeted them cordially, then seemed to forget that they even existed for he talked business from the moment they reached their table until lunch was over. But in spite of that Janet and Helen enjoyed the hour. Some of the most famous stars on the Ace lot were lunching there that noon and Janet and Helen enjoyed watching them come in. The general manager, a man of quick thought and action, suddenly turned toward them. "I saw 'Broad Valley' the other night. Congratulations on a nice bit of work." The hour passed quickly, with Helen's father and the general manager continuing their conference in the executive's private office in the administration building. "Dad and Rexler are having trouble over the story for the new air picture," said Helen. "I heard him talking with mother just last night. They can't agree on the final version. Dad was going over it last night." "I'd like to read it," said Janet. "I'll get it for you if he brings it home tonight." That night Janet had her chance to scan the script of Henry Thorne's next picture. The tentative title was "Kings of the Air." The action was fast and stirring, the panorama of the story covering the entire transcontinental route of one air mail system and Janet could understand that there was material here for a really great picture. But there was something lacking--a crashing climax that would make the spectators grip their seats. Henry Thorne, watching Janet as she laid the script aside, spoke quietly. "If you can suggest a suitable climax you can just about name your own ticket on our lot," he said. "How about a race for a contract?" suggested Helen. "Too old; it's worn out." "Then why not have the plane going through with valuable papers which are needed for say," Janet paused, "a naval conference at Washington, on the outcome of which may hinge the fate of the world." Henry Thorne started to reject the idea, but halted. "Where did you get that idea?" "Something I read in a paper several months ago suggested it," admitted Janet. "Navy planes were racing across country with a naval envoy and they got held up somewhere in Wyoming on account of bad weather. You could have your mail plane take over there after the navy ship was grounded." "That would give the navy a black eye." "Some other solution could be worked out then," said Janet. "You know, that's not a bad idea. It would require some rewriting of the script, but we've got to have a terrific air race against time and the elements in this thing for a conclusion. I'll talk it over with Rexler in the morning." Then Helen's father changed his mind. "No, I'll talk it over with him tonight if he's home." He phoned the general manager's home, found Rexler there, and informed him he was coming over. "We'll see what he thinks of your suggestion," he flung at Janet as he hurried out the door. "Shall we wait up and learn the outcome of the conference?" asked Helen. "Just think if they should decide to work out a climax along the line you suggested." "I'm all for waiting up, but I'm afraid my suggestion is pretty weak," said Janet. At eleven o'clock Mrs. Thorne decided to retire and urged the girls to do likewise, but they insisted upon awaiting the return of Helen's father. Midnight passed and finally the clock struck one A. M. "I'm too sleepy to stay up any longer," admitted Helen. "Oh, wait half an hour more," urged Janet, and Helen agreed. It was 1:20 when Director Thorne reached home. There were hollows under his eyes and he looked unusually tired, but in his eyes burned a spirit of elation that fatigue could not beat down. Mrs. Thorne, in a dressing gown, joined them. "What's the decision?" asked Helen. "We're going to work out the climax along the line suggested by Janet," replied her father. "Rexler called two of the writers down and they're working right on through the night on a new treatment for the whole script. It must be done tomorrow noon. We're to start shooting next week. It means another bouquet for you, Janet." Janet blushed. "It was just luck." "No, it wasn't luck. It was good, clear thinking and the ability to recall a worthwhile incident. Incidentally, both of you are going into the cast of 'Kings of the Air'." "But, Dad, you can't mean that!" exclaimed Helen. "I mean just that," retorted her father, "and I wasn't the one who suggested it. Rexler insists that you be included. It's his way of trying to repay Janet for her suggestion." "Then that means we'll get another chance in a picture," said Janet, and she felt her heart beating like mad. "Indeed it does and you'll be in the biggest feature the Ace company is producing this year," Helen's father assured them. _Chapter XXV_ THE STARS VANISH Janet and Helen did get rôles in "Kings of the Air" and even though they were very minor parts, both girls were elated. They were cast as waitresses in the restaurant which served the pilots at the main western terminal of the air mail line. Almost every contract player on the Ace lot was in it, with a good, substantial rôle going to Curt Newsom, who was taken out of Billy Fenstow's western unit long enough to play the part of a bitter field manager. Even Bertie Jackson got a part as a gold-digger who was out to get all the information she could from the pilots and was suspected of selling secrets to a rival air line. Janet and Helen saw little of Helen's father for the next few days. He was immensely busy on the details of the production and a complete airport was set up out in the California desert for one of the major sequences would revolve around this lonely outpost on the air mail route. The sequences in which Janet and Helen were to appear were shot at Grand Central at Glendale, actually in the field restaurant and were among the first to be taken. Janet had only four lines and Helen had three. All of them were in a brief scene with Curt Newsom and his encouragement helped them through for it was hard work under the glare of a brilliant battery of electrics. What made it all the harder was that Mr. Rexler was with the company the day this particular sequence was shot, but somehow they managed to get through with it. After that they were free to stay with the company and watch the rest of the shooting schedule until Billy Fenstow called them back for his next western. It was during the second week of shooting that things started to go wrong. There were innumerable little delays that were maddening in themselves and when a dozen of them came, almost at the same time, even level-headed Henry Thorne showed signs of extreme exasperation. The cast was large and expensive and a dozen planes had been leased. The daily overhead was terrific and each day's delay sent the cost of the picture rocketing. When they went on location out in the desert Curt Newsom, lunching with Janet and Helen, gave voice to his fears. "This outfit is getting jitters," he said. "I heard this morning that one of the pilots found several of his control wires half way eaten through by acid. That's bad business." Janet, looking up from a dish of ice cream, spoke slowly. "Then that means someone is deliberately trying to cripple the company?" "It means someone is doing it. That flyer pulled out; refused to take his plane off the ground again and some good shots are already 'in the can' with his plane in it. Means they'll have to get another plane and fix it up like his or shoot over a lot of footage. Either one will be expensive." That night Henry Thorne called the company together. Their location was at the edge of the ghost town of Sagebrush, and members of the company were sheltered in the three or four habitable houses which remained. All of them had grumbled a bit, but there was nothing that could be done about it for the nearest town of any size was too far away to make the drive back and forth daily. Helen's father spoke plainly. "There have been a series of accidents," he said. "These have slowed up production and put us almost a week behind schedule. All of you know what that means on a picture of this size. I am convinced that someone in the company is aiding in this sabotage and I am giving fair warning now that this town will be patrolled at night and that all equipment will be watched. The guards are armed and have orders to shoot first and ask questions afterward." That was all, but it started a buzz of conversation that lasted nearly an hour. When the company finally broke up to go to quarters, Janet happened to be watching Bertie Jackson and she saw the blond actress, slip between two buildings and vanish into the night. Helen was some distance away and Janet, playing a hunch, followed Bertie at a safe distance. There was no moon, but the sky was studded with stars. The walking through the sand was hard going, but noiseless, and Janet, keeping low, could discern Bertie's silhouette. Suddenly the older actress stopped and whistled softly, a long, a short and a long whistle. The sound could not have carried back to Sagebrush and Janet, vaguely alarmed, waited. Almost before she knew it another figure joined Bertie and she could hear the two conversing, but she didn't dare move closer. The newcomer struck a match to light a cigarette and carefully shielded though it was, Janet was close enough to glimpse his face. It was that of a stranger. The match went out and the night seemed darker. Janet wanted to get closer, but as she moved forward she stumbled over something in the dark and plunged headlong into the sand. Before she could regain her feet she heard a muttered exclamation and knew she had been discovered. Then the thin beam from a shielded flashlight struck her face. Janet knew her only chance was to run for it and she tried to rise, but her feet were entangled in a tough creeper. "Look out! She may scream!" warned Bertie. Janet opened her lips to cry out, but before she could do it, the man with Bertie leaped forward and thrust a heavy hand against Janet's mouth. Suddenly the world went black, the stars vanished, and she dropped into the sand. _Chapter XXVI_ BOMBS FROM THE SKY It was later in the evening when Janet was missed. Helen thought her companion had gone to visit some other member of the company and it was well after ten o'clock when she became alarmed and started making inquiries. "Looking for someone?" asked Bertie Jackson, who seemed to be everywhere. "I haven't seen Janet for several hours." "Maybe she's got a date with a boy friend in the desert." "Janet hasn't any boy friend and she wouldn't be dating in the desert," snapped Helen. "Have it your own way," retorted Bertie, but as she turned away a sneer distorted her vapid face. Helen finally communicated her fears to her father. "I've gone over the entire camp and no one has seen Janet for at least an hour and none of them are sure it was that recent. I'm worried." Henry Thorne, busy working with one of the writers on a difficult bit of script that needed smoothing up half way dismissed Helen's fears with a wave of his hand. Then he stopped. "You're sure she's not in camp?" he asked. "I'm positive, Dad. Do you think anything terrible has happened?" "Of course not. She's probably walked out into the desert and has gone too far. I'll rout out some of the men and we'll start a searching party." Curt Newsom was one of the first to answer the call and he muttered to himself when he heard the news. "There's trouble brewing," he told Helen. "You stick close to me." "What do you mean, Curt?" asked Helen, her voice filled with anxiety. "I mean this picture promises to be too big and someone is trying to throw a wrench in the proceedings." "Some rival company?" "It could be that. I'm not saying, but I'm certainly going to keep my eyes open." Under the brisk commands of Helen's father, the ghost town awoke. Men who had been asleep were routed out, cars commandeered, and parties swept away over the desert in search of the missing girl. Curt Newsom, who had brought several horses with him, preferred to ride and Helen went with him. Curt saddled the horses and they swung away into the desert together. Across the almost level floor of the desert they could see the cars swinging in great circles. "They won't find anything," said Curt, and after that they rode on in a silence broken only by the steady shuffling of the horses through the sand. At intervals they stopped and Curt's great voice boomed through the night. "We'd better turn back to camp," the cowboy star finally advised. "Maybe some of the others have news." But when they gathered in the ghost town, Helen knew that the search had been fruitless. Each searching party brought back the same report--no trace of the missing Janet had been found. "Everyone try to get some sleep now," said Helen's father. "We'll resume the search at dawn." Helen went to the room assigned to her and lay down, fully dressed, to try and rest in the short interval before dawn. But sleep would not come and thoughts raced through her head. Something was decidedly amiss and, like Curt Newsom, she could now sense impending disaster to the company. Just what it was or how it would strike she could not determine, but a terrible uneasiness gripped her. Breakfast was served at dawn. Most of the women in the company were on hand to aid in the search, but Henry Thorne called only upon the men. Half a dozen cars were manned and they swung out again to comb the desert floor. "Let them go," said Curt Newsom to Helen. "We'll ride. If there are any tracks, we'll be able to follow them easier." The tall, well-built cowboy star swung into his saddle and they trotted away between two tumbledown houses of the ghost town. Shadows of the morning were long and heavy, for the sun was just topping the mountains, but Helen, riding close behind the cowboy, glimpsed a footprint in the sand. She reined in her horse and called to Curt, who whirled quickly. "Someone's been through here," she said, pointing to where the sand was fairly hard packed. "Anyone could have left a print like that," replied the cowboy star. "Your nerves are getting the best of you, Helen. Steady up." She smiled and they turned again toward the desert, riding at a steady pace and scanning the sand intently for anything unusual. They were less than a quarter of a mile from the old town when Curt pulled his horse up sharp and leaped from the saddle to bend down and scrutinize a tough creeper which had been pulled out of the sand. "Get down here, Helen. Here's something the others have missed." Helen dismounted and ran to Curt's side. In his hands he held a tough section of the creeper and his eyes were fastened on a brown stain. "What is it?" demanded Helen. "Looks like someone got caught in this and scratched," said Curt, trying to pass the remark off lightly. "You mean it might have been Janet?" "It might have been," agreed the cowboy star. "Look back toward the village. This is in a direct line and although you may not have noticed it, we've been following footprints all of the way. Two came out and only one returned." Helen looked at him, her eyes showing her fear. "Then someone in the company was responsible for Janet's disappearance!" she gasped. "Right," snapped Curt. "The first thing is to find Janet; then we'll catch up with whoever was responsible." "Hadn't we better tell the others?" asked Helen. "They're not used to tracking; I am." He grinned. "Even if I am a movie cowboy most of the time, I know a few tricks about the range and the desert. Come on!" They remounted and Curt led the way, scanning the ground closely. Even Helen, as inexperienced as she was, could see the signs now. Someone had left deep prints in the sand. "He was either an awful big man or he was carrying someone," said Curt. "One thing, he won't be able to go far." The trail led toward the hills back of the ghost town and it was evident that the man they were trailing had rested frequently. Curt saw another of those brown stains, but he made sure that Helen did not see it for there was no use in increasing her fears. The trail led on, perhaps half a mile altogether, and ended suddenly in a tiny depression where the sand was smooth and hard. Curt dismounted and made a minute survey of the bowl. The trail came in all right, but there were no tracks going out. In the center were two marks, about four inches wide and 12 or 14 feet long, but that was all. Beside one of these was a tiny smudge of black and Curt got down on his hands and knees and sniffed keenly. "What is it?" asked Helen. Curt shook his head. "Can't tell yet and there's no use in guessing." He mopped his forehead with a large bandana and scanned the heavens. The sun was blazing down and shortly the temperature in the little bowl they were in would be stifling. "We'd better get out of here," he said. "But Janet? Where can she be? We've followed the trail but it's simply vanished." The questions tumbled from Helen's lips. "I wish I could answer them all," said Curt. "Maybe I can later." They rode back to the ghost town at a brisk trot and Curt cornered Henry Thorne and told him of their discovery. Then he led a searching party of half a dozen into the hills back of the town while the other members of the company assembled for the day's work under the boiling sun. Helen attempted to join the searching party, but was told it was no place for a girl so she went with the company out into the desert where the airport had been laid out and a dummy hangar erected. Shooting went ahead on schedule until just before noon when someone shouted an alarm and they turned toward the ghost town. The remaining houses were rapidly being consumed by flames and before they could reach them there was no hope of saving anything, including a number of valuable cameras, sound equipment and hundreds of dollars worth of costumes. Henry Thorne fairly blazed for he knew now that a deliberate effort was being made to stop the production of "Kings of the Air." But before they had recovered from that disaster, another befell with startling swiftness. There was a dull boom from the valley and they turned to see a fast, black plane swinging over the set on the desert. A cloud of dust was rising near the hangar and as they watched, another explosion echoed in their ears. "That guy's bombing the set!" yelled a cameraman, leaping into a car. The third bomb was a direct hit and the hangar collapsed. Over to the right were half a dozen planes which were being used in the picture and the unknown flyer turned his attention toward these. "If he blows them up, we can figure a hundred thousand dollar loss right there," groaned Helen's father. But the unknown flyer had reckoned without the resourcefulness of Curt Newsom. The lanky cowboy, riding hard by in the hills, had heard the first explosion and the roar of an airplane motor. They saw him flash out into the desert at a mad gallop. "He's crazy; someone stop him!" cried Henry Thorne, but there was no one near enough to reach Curt. Helen saw him drag a rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. The flyer was apparently disdainful of the lone rider for he dropped another bomb. It missed the planes by only the narrowest of margins and the pilot of the black ship swung around for another try. He swooped toward Curt and waved jeeringly as Curt leaped from the saddle. They were too far away to hear the report of the rifle but they could see the little puffs of smoke from the muzzle. Suddenly the black plane heeled sharply, its motor sputtering. The pilot shot over the side, his chute billowing out and Curt, jumping back into the saddle, rode like mad toward the hills. The plane gyrated uncertainly, then dove toward the ground. It struck with a tremendous explosion as the bombs still aboard let go. Helen saw Curt whirl back into the valley and sweep down on the flyer, who had landed in a tangle of cord and silk from the parachute. All thought of resistance was gone from the flyer's mind and the cowboy captured him easily. By the time the others arrived, Curt had the situation well in hand. "I think a confession out of this guy will solve our troubles," said the cowboy star as Henry Thorne stared at the flyer. "What have you got to say for yourself. Who employed you?" demanded the director. The flyer was sullen. "I'm not talking. I want an attorney." Curt rocked back and forth on his heels. "So you won't talk?" He grinned, but it was a mirthless grin that struck terror to those who watched. Curt was living in real life the rôle he had played so many times on the screen. With a quick jerk his lariat was free from the saddle and before the flyer knew it, he was in the coils of the rope and his feet had been jerked out from under him. Curt swung into the saddle, twisted the rope around the saddle horn and looked down on the helpless man. "Going to talk?" The captive shook his head. Curt spoke to his horse and the magnificent sorrel moved ahead slowly, dragging the captive after him. After bouncing over the desert floor for a rod, the flyer cried for mercy. "I'll talk; I'll talk. Get this rope off quick." "And you'll tell us what you did with that girl last night and where we can find her?" The captive nodded emphatically and Curt shook the rope loose. _Chapter XXVII_ THE SHOWDOWN When Janet regained consciousness she was aware of a roaring that filled her ears. It was as though a great storm was sweeping down upon her. Then, from the motion, she realized that she was in an airplane. Her head ached terrifically and she made no attempt to move for several minutes. As her eyes became accustomed to a dim glow of light ahead she could distinguish the figure of a man at the controls in the small cabin they were in. Janet shifted her weight and the man turned instantly, focusing a flashlight on her. "Keep still or I'll crack you again," he warned and from the fierceness of his voice Janet knew that he would not hesitate to carry out his threat. The pulse of the motor lessened and she felt the craft sinking, to settle smoothly into a little circle of light. It was then that she learned they were in an autogiro. Her captor opened the door and ordered her out. Still with her head throbbing wildly, Janet managed to get out. There was a bad scratch on her left leg that had bled rather freely. To her anxious questions, the flyer gave only the same answer, "You'll find out later, maybe." Janet was forced to allow her hands to be tied behind her and then was led to a small shelter tent. There was a blanket on the ground and the flyer tossed another over her. "Don't make any attempt to escape," he warned. The portable electric light which had guided the autogiro down into the basin was snapped off and Janet passed the remainder of the night in desperate anxiety, wondering what was happening back at camp and the meaning of her abduction. With the coming of dawn she hoped to learn more about the camp, but she was doomed to disappointment for her captor appeared and dropped the canvas fly which covered the front of the tiny tent. It was well after daylight when she heard another plane approaching. It landed nearby and a few minutes later she heard men's voices, one of whom she recognized as that of the flyer who had brought her there. Then the plane which had just landed roared away and it was shortly after that when Janet heard a series of booming explosions. Suddenly her tent flap was jerked roughly aside and her captor, a stocky, heavy-set man with a mass of black hair, ordered her to her feet. Janet struggled to get up, but she was numb from being in one position so long. The man half cuffed her upright and then hurried her toward the autogiro. The motor of the queer looking plane responded instantly and they rose almost straight out of the valley, which Janet judged must be some distance from Sagebrush. As they gained altitude she looked across the desert. Although it was several miles away, it seemed almost a stone's throw to Sagebrush, hardly recognizable now with the flames still consuming the few structures left in the village. Janet saw that the set for the desert airport had been destroyed. But what was more important was the swarm of planes which were climbing off the desert floor. Like angry hornets they were buzzing around. Suddenly one of them shot toward the autogiro and the rest followed. Janet heard her own pilot shouting in anger, but the autogiro was slow and the movie planes were around it almost instantly. In the foremost was Curt Newsom and Janet felt her blood chill as she saw the rifle in Curt's hard hands. Under the warning muzzle of the gun, the autogiro settled toward the floor of the valley and in less than three minutes the other planes were down around it while cars raced toward them, clouds of desert dust rising in their wake. Bertie Jackson was in the first car and when she saw Janet her face blanched. Helen and her father were in the same machine. "Are you all right?" asked Helen anxiously, for Janet was white-faced and deep hollows of fatigue were under her eyes. "A little tired," confessed Janet. "What happened? Was this something in the plot I wasn't supposed to know about?" "Tell us where you've been and why?" said Henry Thorne, and Janet briefly related the events. She didn't like to do it, but there was nothing else she could do under the circumstances and her story implicated Bertie Jackson. "She's jealous, that's all," snapped Bertie. "The whole story is trumped up." Then Curt Newsom took a hand. "Let's look at this thing squarely. How much were you and these two flyers paid to slow up production on 'Kings of the Air'?" He shot the question at Bertie. "You're impertinent," she blazed. "Sure, but you're likely to go to prison. Setting fire to buildings is arson, you know." There was no humor in his words and Bertie looked from one to another in the group around her. Each stared at her with scornful eyes. Defiant to the end, she flung her head back, "Well, what of it?" she demanded. "Only this. You'll never work in another picture for anybody." It was Henry Thorne speaking, quietly and firmly, and Bertie turned away. The two flyers, the one who had abducted Janet and the one who had bombed the set, talked. Janet didn't hear the whole story, but she and Helen learned enough to know that another rival company was implicated. It was Bertie who had set fire to the dry old houses in Sagebrush and who had supplied the flyers with information on the plans of the company. When they finally returned to what little was left of the village, Henry Thorne spoke quietly to the girls. "Don't worry now," he assured Helen. "There'll be no more delays. We can erect another set on the desert without too much loss of time and we'll have to live in tents, but that is endurable." Turning to Janet, he surprised her. "Janet, I'm going to put you in Bertie's rôle. We'll shoot the scene in the field restaurant over again when we get back to Hollywood, but I need someone right now to step into Bertie's place and you can handle the part. What do you say?" "I'll do my best," promised Janet. "I know you will." Then Henry Thorne hurried away to attend to one of the hundred details that are the worry of a successful director and Janet and Helen faced each other. "It looks like 'Kings of the Air' is going on to a successful conclusion now," said Janet. "I'm so happy." "And I'm happy that you are getting Bertie's part. Do you suppose we're going to be able to keep on in the movies?" "That," smiled Janet, "is something I couldn't even guess. If we don't we'll go home this fall with the memories of the most thrilling summer any two girls could have had." They turned to rejoin the rest of the company, unaware of the further adventures in Hollywood and in New York which were to befall them before winter came. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Obvious typographical errors were corrected except for a few amusing ones. 
42740	----	available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 42740-h.htm or 42740-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42740/42740-h/42740-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42740/42740-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Google Books Library Project. See http://www.google.com/books?id=q5lUAAAAYAAJ FIND THE WOMAN [Illustration: _Clancy Dean, the heroine of "Find the Woman"---from the painting by Dean Cornwell_] FIND THE WOMAN by ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE Author of "Uneasy Street," etc. With four illustrations by Dean Cornwell [Illustration] New York Cosmopolitan Book Corporation MCMXXI Copyright, 1921, by Cosmopolitan Book Corporation.--All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian _To ETHEL PETTIT ROCHE_ _Let Philip win his Clancy,_ _As heroes always do;_ _To each his own sweet fancy--_ _My fancy is for you._ The Illustrations by DEAN CORNWELL CLANCY DEANE, THE HEROINE OF FIND THE WOMAN _Frontispiece_ CLANCY ROSE SLOWLY TO HER FEET--"UNLOCK THAT DOOR AND LET ME OUT----" 44 GRANNIS POINTED TO CLANCY--"ARREST HER, OFFICER," HE CRIED 146 "WHO'S GOING TO BELIEVE THAT KIND OF YARN?" CAREY DEMANDED 232 I As the taxi stopped, Clancy leaned forward. Yes; she'd read the sign aright! It was Fifth Avenue that she saw before her. Fifth Avenue! And she, Clancy Deane, of Zenith, Maine, was looking at it with her own eyes! Dreams _did_ come true, after all. She, forty-eight hours ago a resident of a sleepy Maine town, was in the city whence came those gorgeous women who, in the summer-time, thrilled her as they disembarked from their yachts in Zenith Harbor, to stroll around the town, amusement in their eyes. She looked to the left. A limousine, driven by a liveried chauffeur, beside whom sat another liveried man, was also stopped by the policeman in the center of the avenue. Furtively, Clancy eyed the slim matron who sat, leaning back, in the rear of the car. From the jaunty toque of blue cloth trimmed with gold, down the chinchilla-collared seal coat, past the edge of brown duveteen skirt to the short-vamped shoes that, although Clancy could not know it, had just come from Paris, the woman was everything that Clancy was not. As the policeman blew a whistle and the taxi moved forward and turned up the avenue, Clancy sat more stiffly. Oh, well, give her six months-- She knew well enough that her tailor-made was not the real thing. But it was the best that Bangor, nearest city to Zenith, could provide. And it would do. So would her hat that, by the presence of the woman in the limousine, was made to seem coarse, bucolic. Even her shoes, which she had been assured were the very latest thing, were, she suddenly knew, altogether too long and narrow. But it didn't matter. In her pocketbook she held the "Open Sesame" to New York. A few weeks, and Clancy Deane would be as well dressed as this woman to whom a moment ago she had been so close. Clothes! They were all that Clancy needed. She knew that. And it wasn't vanity that made her realize that her faintly angular figure held all the elements that, ripening, would give her shape that lissomness envied by women and admired by men. It wasn't conceit that told her that her black hair, not lusterless but with a satiny sheen, was rare in its soft luxuriousness. It wasn't egotism that assured her that her face, with its broad mouth, whose red lips could curve or pout exquisitely, its straight nose with the narrow nostrils, its wide-set gray eyes, and low, broad forehead, was beautiful. Conceit, vanity, egotism--these were not in the Clancy Deane make-up. But she recognized her assets, and was prepared to realize from their sale the highest possible price. She could not forbear to peep into her pocketbook. Yes; it was still there--the card, oddly enough, quite simply engraved, of "Mlle. Fanchon DeLisle." And, scrawled with a muddy pen, were the mystic words: "Introducing my little friend, Florine Ladue, to Mr. Morris Beiner." Carefully, as the taxi glided up the avenue, Clancy put the card back in the side compartment of the rather bulky pocketbook. At Forty-fifth Street, the driver turned to the left toward Times Square. She recognized the Times Building from a photograph she had seen. The taxi turned again at the north end of the square, and, a door away, stopped before what seemed to be a row of modiste's shops. "This is the Napoli, ma'am," the driver said. "The office is up-stairs. Help you with your bag, ma'am?" "Of course." It was with a quite careless air that she replied. She climbed the short and narrow flight of stairs that led to the office of the Napoli with as much of an air as is possible for any human to assume mounting stairs. A fat, jolly-seeming woman sat at a desk perched so that it commanded not merely the long, narrow dining-room but the stairs to the street. Although Clancy didn't know it, the Napoli, the best known theatrical hotel in America, had been made by throwing several old dwelling-houses together. "A room?" suggested Clancy. The stout woman nodded pleasantly. Whereupon Clancy paid and tipped her taxi-man. The landlady, Madame Napoli, as Clancy was soon to learn, shoved the register toward her. With a flourish Clancy signed "Florine Ladue." To append the town of Zenith as her residence was too much of an anticlimax after the "Florine Ladue." Portland was a bit more cosmopolitan, and Portland, therefore, appeared on the register. "You have a trunk?" asked Madame Napoli. Clancy shook her head. "Then the terms, for a room by the week, will be fourteen dollars--in advance," said _madame_. Clancy shrugged. Nonchalantly she opened her purse and drew forth a twenty-dollar bill. _Madame_ beamed upon her. "You may sign checks for one week, Miss"--she consulted the register--"Miss Ladue." "'Sign checks?'" Clancy was puzzled. _Madame_ beamed. Also, a smaller edition of _madame_, with the same kindly smile, chuckled. "You see," said _madame_, "my children--these are all my children." And she waved a fat hand toward the dining-room, where a few men and women were gayly chattering incomprehensible badinage to each other between mouthfuls. "But children are careless. And so--I let them sign checks for one week. If they do not pay at the end of one week----" Clancy squared her shoulders haughtily. "I think you need have no apprehension about me," she said stiltedly. "Oh, I won't--not for one week," beamed _madame_. "Paul!" she called. A 'bus-boy emerged from the dining-room, wiping his hands upon a soiled apron. "Take Miss--Ladue's bag to one hundred and eighteen," ordered _madame_. She beamed again upon Clancy. "If you like chocolate-cake, Miss Ladue, better come down early. My children gobble it up quickly." "Thank you," said Clancy, and followed the 'bus-boy porter up two flights of stairs. Her room, fairly large, with a basin for running water and an ample closet, and, as Paul pointed out, only two doors from the bathroom, had two wide windows, and they looked out upon Times Square. The afternoon was waning. Dots of light embellished the awesome Times Building. Back, lower down Broadway, an automobile leaped into being, poised high in the air, its wheels spinning realistically. A huge and playful kitten chased a ball of twine. A petticoat flapped back and forth in an electrically created gale. There was a wide seat before one window, and Clancy stretched out upon it, elbows upon the sill and her cheeks pressed into her two palms. Zenith was ten million miles away. She wondered why people had hoped that she wouldn't be lonely. As if anyone _could_ be lonely in New York! Why, the city was crowded! There were scores of things to do, scores of places to go. While, back home in Zenith, two days ago, she had finished a day just like a hundred preceding, a thousand preceding days. She had washed her hands in the women's dressing-room at Miller & Company's. She had walked home, tired out after a hard day pounding a typewriter for Mr. Frank Miller. Her aunt Hetty--she wasn't really Clancy's aunt--Clancy was an orphan--but she'd lived at Mehitabel Baker's boarding-house since her mother died, four years ago--had met her at the door and said that there was apple pie for supper and she'd saved an extra piece for her. After supper, there'd been a movie, then bed. Oh, occasionally there was a dance, and sometimes a dramatic company, fourth-rate, played at the opera-house. She thought of "Mlle. Fanchon DeLisle," whose card she carried, whose card was the "Open Sesame." Mademoiselle DeLisle had been in the "New York Blondes." Clancy remembered how, a year ago, when the "flu" first ravaged the country, Mademoiselle DeLisle had been stricken, on the night the Blondes played Zenith. She'd almost died, too. She said herself that, if it hadn't been for Clancy, when nurses were so scarce and hard to get, that she sure would have kicked in. She'd been mighty grateful to Clancy. And when she left, a fortnight after her company, she'd given Clancy this card. "Morris Beiner ain't the biggest guy in the world, kid," she'd said, "but he's big enough. And he can land you a job. He got me mine," she stated. Then, as she caught a glint of pity in Clancy's eyes, she went on: "Don't judge the stage by the Blondes, and don't judge actresses by me. I'm an old-timer, kid. I never could _act_. But if the movies had been in existence twenty years ago, I'd 'a' cleaned up, kid; hear me tell it. It's a crime for a girl with your looks to be pounding the keys in a two-by-four canning factory in a jerk Maine town. Why, with your looks--a clean-up in the movies--you don't have to be an actress, you know. Just look pretty and collect the salary. And a husband with kale--that's what a girl like you _really_ wants. And you can get it. Think it over, kid." Clancy had thought it over. But it had been one of those absurdly hopeless dreams that could never be realized. And then, two months ago, had come from California an inquiry as to her possible relationship to the late Stephen Burgess. Aunt Hetty had visited the court-house, looked up marriage records, with the result that, two days ago, Clancy had received a draft for seven hundred and thirty-two dollars and forty-one cents, one-eighth of the estate of Stephen Burgess, cousin of Clancy's mother. It wasn't a fortune, but Clancy, after a shriek, and showing the precious draft to aunt Hetty, had run up-stairs and found the card that Fanchon DeLisle had given her. She stood before the mirror. She pirouetted, turned, twisted. And made her decision. If she stayed in Zenith, she might, if lucky, marry a traveling man. One hundred dollars a week at the outside. Better to sink in New York than float in Zenith! And Fanchon DeLisle had been so certain of Clancy's future, so roseate in her predictions, so positive that Morris Beiner would place her! Not a regret could Clancy find in her heart for having, on the day after the receipt of the draft, left Zenith. Forever! She repeated the word to herself, gritting her teeth. "What's the matter, kid? Did he insult you?" Clancy looked up. In the doorway--she had left the door ajar--stood a tall young woman, a blonde. She entered without invitation and smiled cheerfully at Clancy. She whirled on one shapely foot. "Hook me up, will you, kid? I can't fix the darned thing to save my life." Clancy leaped to her feet and began fastening the opened dress of the woman. She worked silently, too overcome by embarrassment to speak. The blonde wriggled in her dress, making it fit more smoothly over her somewhat prominent hips. She faced Clancy. "My name's Fay Marston. What's yours?" "Cl--Florine Ladue," replied Clancy. "Y-e-s, it is," grinned the other. "But it don't matter a darn, kid. It's what others call you, not what you call yourself. On the stage?" "I expect to enter the movies," said Clancy. "'_Enter_' them, eh? Wish I could crawl in! I'm too blamed big, they all tell me. Still, I should worry, while Mr. Ziegfeld runs the 'Follies.'" "Are you in the 'Follies'?" asked Clancy. This was life! Fay winked. "Not when they're on the road, old thing. You got your job?" "Oh, I will!" said Clancy. Miss Marston eyed her. "I'll say you will. With a skin like that, you'll get anywhere under God's blue canopy that you want to go. That's the secret, Flo--Florine--skin. I tell you so. Oh, well, much obliged, kid. Do as much for you sometime." She walked to the door but hesitated on the threshold. "Like wild parties, Florine?" she asked. "I--I don't know," said Clancy. "Nothing rough, you know. I never forget that I'm a lady and what's due me from gentlemen," said Fay. "But--Ike Weber 'phoned me that his little friend was laid up sick with somethin' or other, and if I could bring another girl along, he'd be obliged. Dinner and dance--at the Château de la Reine. Jazzy place, kid. You'd better come." Clancy was thrilled. If a momentary doubt assailed her, she dismissed it at once. She could take care of herself. "I--I'd love to. If I have anything to wear----" She hesitated. "Well, unpack the old gripsack," grinned Fay, "and we'll soon find out." A moment later, she was shaking out the folds of an extremely simple foulard. Another moment, and Clancy was in her knickers. Fay eyed her. "Dance? Stage-dances, I mean. No? You oughta learn. Some pretty shape, kid. Here, lemme button this." For a moment, Clancy hesitated. Fay patted her on the shoulder. "Don't make any mistake about me, Florine. I'm the right kind of people for a little girl to know, all right." "Why--why, of course you are!" said Clancy. Without further delay she permitted Fay to return her service of a while ago and hook up the pretty foulard. II Ike Weber was waiting for them in the foyer of the Château de la Reine. During the brief taxi-ride up Broadway to the cabaret, Clancy had time to suffer reaction from the momentary daring that had led her to acceptance of Fay's invitation. It was this very sort of thing against which young girls were warned by pulpit and press! She stole a searching glance at her companion's large-featured face and was reassured. Vulgar, Fay Marston might be--but vicious? "No," she decided. And Weber's pleasant greeting served to allay any lingering fears. A good-natured, shrewd-eyed man, with uneven and slightly stained teeth, his expensive-seeming dinner jacket of dark-gray cloth, his dark, shining studs--Clancy could not tell of what jewels they were made--and his whole well-fed air seemed to reek of money. He waved a fat hand at Fay and immediately came toward them. "You're late, Fay," he announced. "But look what made me late!" laughed the blonde girl. Weber bowed to Clancy with an exaggerated gallantry which he had picked up by much attendance at the theater. "You're forgiven, Fay." "Florine, meet Mr. Weber," pronounced Fay. "Miss--Miss--kid, I forget your name." "'Florine' will do," said Weber. "It's a bear of a name. Call me 'Ike,' girlie." He took Clancy's hand between his two fat palms and pressed it. He grinned at Fay. "I'll let you do all my picking after this, Fay. Come on; check your things." Up a heavily carpeted stairway he forced a path for them. Clancy would have lingered. Pushing against her were women dressed as she had never expected to see them dressed. There were necklaces of pearls and diamonds, coats of sable and chinchilla, gowns that even her inexperience knew cost in the hundreds, perhaps the thousands. In the dressing-room, where she surrendered her plain cloth coat of a cheap dark-blue material to the maid, she voiced something of her amazement to Fay. The blond girl laughed. "You'll have all they got, kid, if you take your time. At that, there isn't one of them wouldn't give all her rags for that skin of yours. Did you notice Ike's eyes? Like a cat lookin' at a plate of cream. You'll do, kid. If Ike Weber likes your looks--and he does--you should worry about fur coats." "Who is he?" demanded Clancy. "Broker," said Fay. "With a leanin' to the stage. They say he's got money in half a dozen shows. I dunno about that, but he's a regular feller. Nothin' fresh about Ike. Don't worry, Florine." Clancy smiled tremulously. She wasn't worried about the possible "freshness" of a hundred Webers. She was worrying about her clothes. But as they entered the dining-room and were escorted by a deferential _maitre d'hôtel_ to a long, flower-laden table at one side, next the dancing-space, worry left her. Her shoulders straightened and her head poised confidently. For Clancy had an artistic eye. She knew that a single daisy in a simple vase will sometimes attract great attention in a conservatory filled with exotic blooms. She felt that she was that daisy to-night. In somewhat of a daze, she let herself be presented to a dozen men and women, without catching a single name, and then sank into a chair beside Weber. He was busy talking at the moment to a petite brown-haired beauty, and Clancy was free to look about her. It was a gorgeous room, with a queer Japanesque effect to the ceiling, obtained by draperies that were, as Clancy phrased it to herself, "accordion-plaited." At the far end of the dancing-space was a broad flight of stairs that led to a sort of curtained balcony, or stage. But it was the people at her own table who interested Clancy. The complete absence of formality that had marked their entrance--Weber had permitted them, after his escort to the dressing-room, to find their own way to the table--continued now. One gathered from the conversation that was bandied back and forth that these were the most intimate of friends, separated for years and now come together again. A woman from another table, with a squeal of delight, rose, and, crossing over, spoke to the brown-haired girl. They kissed each other ecstatically, exchanged half a dozen sentences, and then the visitor retired. Clancy heard Weber ask the visitor's name. "Hanged if I know! I seem to remember her faintly," said the brown-haired one. Weber turned to Clancy. "Get that?" he chuckled. "It's a great lane--Broadway. It ain't a place where you are _acquainted_ with people; you love 'em." "Or hate 'em?" suggested Clancy. Weber beamed upon her. "Don't tell me that you're clever as well as a bear for looks, Florine! If you do, I'll be just bowled over completely." Clancy shrugged. "Was that clever?" Weber chuckled. "If you listen to the line of talk around this table--how I knocked 'em for a goal in Philly, and how Branwyn's been after me for seven months to get me to sign a contract, and how Bruce Fairchild got a company of his own because he was jealous of the way I was stealing the film from him--after a little of that, anything sounds clever. Dance, Florine?" Back in Zenith, Ike Weber, even if he'd been the biggest business man in town, would have hesitated to ask Clancy Deane so casually to dance with him. The Deanes were real people in Zenith, even though they'd never had much money. But great-grandfather Deane had seen service in '47 in Mexico, had been wounded at the storming of Chapultepec; and grandfather Clancy had been Phil Sheridan's aide. That sort of thing mattered a whole lot in Zenith, even to-day. But Clancy had come to New York, to Broadway, with no snobbery. All her glorious ancestry hadn't prevented her from feeling mighty lucky when Mr. Frank Miller made her his stenographer. She'd come to New York, to Broadway, to make a success, to lift herself forever beyond the Mr. Frank Millers and their factories. So it was not disinclination to letting Ike Weber's arm encircle her that made Clancy hesitate. She laughed, as he said, "Maybe you think, because I'm a little fat, that I can't shake a nasty toe, Florine?" "I--I'm awfully hungry," she confessed. "And--what are these things?" She looked down at the plate before her, on which were placed almost a dozen varieties of edibles, most of them unfamiliar. Weber laughed. "Florine, I _like_ you!" he declared. "Why, I don't believe you know what a four-flusher is. This your first Broadway party?" "I never saw New York until this afternoon," she confessed. Weber eyed her closely. "How'd you meet Fay?" Clancy told him, told him all about the little legacy from the West, the breaking of the home ties. She mentioned that she had a card of introduction to an agent. "Well, that'll help--maybe," said Weber. "But it don't matter. You give me a ring to-morrow afternoon, and I'll make a date with you. I know about everybody in the picture game worth knowing, and I'll start you off right." "You're awfully good," she told him. Weber smiled; Clancy noted, for the first time, that the merry eyes deep set in flesh, could be very hard. "Maybe I am, and maybe I ain't. Anyway, you ring me--those are _hors d'oeuvres_, Florine. Anchovy, _salami_--try 'em." Clancy did, and enjoyed them. Also, she liked the soup, which Weber informed her was turtle, and the fish, a filet of sole. After that, she danced with her mentor. They returned to the table and Weber promptly began singing her praises. Thereafter, in quick succession, she danced with several men, among them Zenda, a mop-haired man with large, dreamy eyes, who informed her casually that he was giving the party. It was to celebrate, he said, the releasing of his twenty-fifth film. "You a friend of the big blond girl that you came in with?" he asked. "Why, she invited me!" cried Clancy. "Miss Marston--don't you know her?" Zenda grinned. "Oh, yes; I know her. But I didn't know she was coming to-night. My press-agent told me that I ought to give a party. He invited every one he could think of. Forty accepted, and about a dozen and a half are here. But that doesn't matter. I get the publicity just the same. Know 'em? I know every one. I ought to. I'm one of the biggest men in the films. Listen to me tell you about it," he chuckled. "Florine, you sure can dance." Like the rest, he called her by her first name. She was blushing with pride as he took her back to the table. But, to her piqued surprise, Zenda promptly forgot all about her. However her pique didn't last long. At about the salad course, the huge curtain at the top of the wide staircase parted, and the cabaret began. For forty-five minutes it lasted, and Clancy was thrilled at its elaborateness. At its end, the dinner had been eaten, and the party began to break up. Zenda came over to Weber. "Feel like a game?" he asked. "You know me," said Weber. Ensued a whispered colloquy between five of the men. Then came many loud farewells and the making of many engagements. Clancy felt distinctly out of it. Weber, who wished her to telephone him to-morrow, seemed to forget her existence. So even did Fay, who moved toward the dressing-room. Feeling oddly neglected, Clancy followed her. "What you doin' the rest of the evenin'?" asked Fay, as she was being helped into her coat. "Why--I--nothing," said Clancy. "Of course not!" Fay laughed. "I wasn't thinkin'. Want to come along with me?" "Where are you going?" demanded Clancy cautiously. She'd heard a lot about the wickedness of New York, and to-night she had attended a dinner-party where actresses and picture-directors and backers of shows gathered. And it had been about as wicked as a church sociable in Zenith. "Oh, Zenda and Ike and a few of the others are goin' up to Zenda's apartment. They play stud." "'Stud?'" asked Clancy. "Poker. They play the steepest game you ever saw, kid. Still, that'd be easy, you not havin' seen any game at all, wouldn't it? Want to come?" "To Mr. Zenda's apartment?" Clancy was distinctly shocked. "Well, why not?" Fay guffawed. "Why, you poor little simp, Mabel Larkin'll be there, won't she?" Clancy's expression indicated bewilderment. "Gosh! Didn't you meet her? She sat at Weber's left all evening. She's Zenda's wife." Clancy demurred no longer. She was helped into her coat, that seemed to have grown shrinkingly forlorn, and descended to the foyer with Fay. There Weber met them, and expressed delight that Clancy was to continue with the party. "You'll bring me luck, Florine," he declared. He ushered them into his own limousine, and sat in the rear seat between the two girls. But he addressed no words to Clancy. In an undertone, he conversed with Fay. Clancy grew slightly nervous. But the nervousness vanished as they descended from the car before a garish apartment-house. A question to Fay brought the information that they were on Park Avenue. They alighted from the elevator at the seventh floor. The Zendas and five other people--two of whom were girls--had arrived before them, and were already grouped about a table in a huge living-room. Zenda was in his shirt-sleeves, sorting out chips from a mahogany case. Cigar smoke made the air blue. A colored man, in livery--a most ornate livery, whose main color was lemon, lending a sickly shade to his ebony skin--was decanting liquor. No one paid any attention to Clancy. The same casualness that had served to put her at her ease at the Château de la Reine had the same effect now. She strolled round the room. She knew nothing of art, had never seen an original masterpiece. But once, in the Zenith Public Library, she had spent a rainy afternoon poring over a huge volume that contained copies of the world's most famous paintings. One of them was on the Zenda living-room wall. Fay, lighting a cigarette, heard her exclamation of surprise. She joined her. "What's wrong?" she asked. Clancy pointed at the picture. "A Landseer," she said, breathlessly. "Of course, though, it's a copy." "Copy nothin'," said Fay indignantly. "Zenda bought it for the publicity. Paid sixty-seven thousand for it." Clancy gasped. Fay smiled indulgently. "Sure. He makes about six hundred thousand a year. And his wife makes three thousand a week whenever she needs a little pocket-money." "Not really?" "Oh, it's true, all right. Why, Penniman, there, the little gray-haired man--he was an electrician in a Broadway theater five years ago. Griffin used him for some lighting effects in one of his films. Now he does nothin' _but_ plan lighting effects for his features, and he gets two thousand a week. Grannis, that man shufflin' the cards"--and she pointed to a tall, sallow-faced man--"was press-agent for another theater four years ago. He's half-owner of the Zenda films to-day. Makes a quarter of a million or so every year. Of course, Zenda gets most of it. Lallo, the man drinkin' the Scotch, was a bankrupt eighteen months ago. He got some Wall Street money behind him, and now he owns a big bit of the stock of the Lallo Exchange, a big releasing organization. Worth a couple of million, easy. Oh, yes; that Landseer is the real thing. 'Sh. Come over and watch 'em play, kid." Weber reached out his fat hand as Clancy came near. He patted her arm. "Stay near me, and bring me luck, Florine." The game had begun. It was different from any game that Clancy had ever seen. She watched eagerly. Zenda dealt five cards, one to each player, face down. Then he dealt five more, face up. "You're high," he said to Weber. Clancy noted that Weber's exposed card was a king. "I'll bet one berry," said Weber. He tossed a white chip toward the center of the table. "How much is that?" whispered Clancy. Weber laughed. "A berry, Florine, is a buck, a seed--a dollar." "Oh!" said Clancy. Vaguely she felt admonished. Grannis sat next to Weber. He gingerly lifted the edge of the first card dealt to him and peeked at it. Then he eyed the eight of diamonds that lay face up before him. "We are here," he announced jovially, "for one purpose--to get the kale in the middle of the table. I see your miserable berry, Ike, and on top of it you will notice that I place four red chips, red being the color of my heart." Penniman immediately turned over his exposed card. "I wouldn't like to win the first pot," he said. "It's unlucky." "How the lads do hate to admit the tingle of yellow!" Weber jeered. Lallo studied the jack before him. "Just to prove," he said, "that I am neither superstitious nor yellow, I'll see your two hundred, Grannis." "I feel the way you do, Lallo," said Zenda. He put five chips, four red and one white, in the middle of the table. Weber squeezed Florine's hand. "Breathe luck in my ear, kid," he whispered. Then, louder, he said: "Fooled you with that little berry bet, eh? Well, suckers, we're here for one purpose." He patted the king that lay face up before him with his fat hand. "Did your royal highness think I didn't show the proper respect to your high rank? Well, I was just teasing the boys along. Make it an even five hundred," he said briskly. He pushed four red and three blue chips toward the little pile. Clancy did some quick figuring. The blue chips must be worth one hundred dollars apiece. It was incredible, ghastly, but--fascinating. Grannis stared at Weber. "I think you mean it, Ike," he said gently. "But--so do I--I'm with you." Lallo turned over his exposed card. With mock reproach, he said: "Why, I thought you fellows were playing. Now that I see you're in _earnest_----" He winked merrily at Clancy. Zenda chuckled. "Didn't know we were playing for keeps, eh, Lal? Well, nobody deceived me. I'm with you, Ike." He put in his chips and dealt again. When, finally, five cards had been given each remaining player, Grannis had two eights, an ace and a king showing. Weber dropped out on the last card but Zenda called Grannis' bet of seven hundred and fifty dollars. Grannis turned over his "buried" card. He had another king, and his two pair beat Zenda's pair of aces. And Grannis drew in the chips. Clancy had kept count of the money. Forty-five hundred dollars in red and blue chips, and four dollars in whites. It--it was criminal! The game now became more silent. Sitting in a big armchair, dreamily wondering what the morrow and her card to Morris Beiner would bring forth, Clancy was suddenly conscious of a harsh voice. She turned and saw pretty Mabel Larkin, Zenda's wife, staring at Weber. Her eyes were glaring. "I tell you, Zenda," she was saying, "he cheats. I've been telling you so for weeks. Now I can prove it." Clancy stared at Weber. His fat face seemed suddenly to have grown thin. "Your wife had _better_ prove it, Zenda," he snarled. "She'll prove it if she says she will!" cried Zenda. "We've been laying for you, Weber. Mabel, what did he do?" His wife answered, never taking her eyes from Weber. "He 'made' the cards for Penniman's next deal. He put two aces so that he'd get them. Deal them, Mr. Penniman, and deal the first card face up. Weber will get the ace of diamonds on the first round and the ace of clubs on the second." Penniman picked up the deck of cards. For a moment, he hesitated. Then Weber's fat hand shot across the table and tore the cards from Penniman's grasp. There was a momentary silence. Then Zenda's voice, sharp, icy, cut the air. "Weber, that's confession. You're a crook! You've made over a hundred thousand in this game in the last six months. By God, you'll settle----" Weber's fat fist crashed into Zenda's face, and the dreamy-eyed director fell to the floor. Clancy leaped to her feet. She saw Grannis swing a chair above her head, and then, incontinently, as Zenda's wife screamed, Clancy fled from the room. She found her coat and put it on. With trembling fingers she opened the door into the corridor and reached the elevator. She rang the bell. It seemed hours before the lift arrived. She had no physical fear; it was the fear of scandal. If the folks back home in Zenith should read her name in the papers as one of the participants, or spectators, even, in a filthy brawl like this, she could never hold her head up again. For three hours she had been of Broadway; now, suddenly, she was of Zenith. "Taxi, miss?" asked the polite door-man down-stairs. She shook her head. At any moment they might miss her up-stairs. She had no idea what might or might not happen. A block down the street, she discovered that not wearing a hat rendered her conspicuous. A small closed car passed her. Clancy did not yet know that two-passenger cars are never taxis. She hailed the driver. He drew in to the curb. "Please take me to the Napoli," she begged. "Near Times Square." The driver stared at her. Then he touched his hat. "Certainly," he said courteously. Then Clancy drew back. "Oh, I thought you were a taxi-man!" "Well, I can at least take you home," smiled the driver. She looked at him. They were near an arc-light, and he looked honest, clean. He was big, too. "Will you?" she asked. She entered the car. Not a word did either of them speak until he stopped before the Napoli. Then, hesitantly, diffidently, he said, "I suppose you'd think me pretty fresh if--if I asked your name." She eyed him. "No," she said slowly. "But I wouldn't tell it to you." He accepted the rebuke smilingly. "All right. But I'll see you again, sometime. And so you'll know who it is--my name's Randall, David Randall. Good-night." She flushed at his smiling confidence. She forgot to thank him as she ran up the stairs into the Napoli. Safe in her room, the door locked, she sat down on the window-seat and began to search out her plan of action. Little by little, she began to see that she had no plan of action to find. Accidentally she had been present when a scandalous charge was made. She knew nothing of it, was acquainted with none of the participants. Still, she was glad that she had run away. Heaven alone knew what had happened. Suddenly she began to weep. The conquering of Broadway, that had seemed so simple an achievement a few hours ago, now, oddly, seemed a remote, an impossible happening. Some one knocked on her door. Startled, afraid, she made no answer. The door shook as some one tried the knob. Then Fay's voice sounded through the thin partition. "Hey, Florine! You home?" Clancy opened the door reluctantly. Fay burst into the room. Her blond hair had become string-seeming. Her make-up was streaked with perspiration. "Kid, you're a wise one," she said. "You blew. Gosh, what a jam!" She sank down in a chair and mopped her large face. "What happened?" demanded Clancy. "'_Happened?_' Hell broke loose." "The police?" asked Clancy, shivering. "Lord, no! But they beat Weber up, and he smashed Zenda's nose. I told Ike that he was a sucker to keep tryin' it forever. I knew they'd get him. Now----" She stopped abruptly. "Forget anything you hear me beef about, Florine," she advised harshly. "Say, none of them got your name, did they? Your address?" "Why?" "Because Zenda swears he's goin' to have Ike arrested. Fine chance, though. Ike and I are leavin' town----" "You?" The blond girl laughed harshly. "Sure. We been married for six months. That's why I said you weren't in no danger comin' along with me. I'm a married woman, though nobody knows it. But for that Larkin dame, we'd been gettin' away with it for years to come. Cat! She's clever. Well, kid, I tried to get you off to a good start, but my luck went blooey at the wrong moment. Night-night, Florine! Ike and I are goin' to grab the midnight to Boston. Well, you didn't bring Ike much luck, but that don't matter. New York is through with us for a while. But we should worry. Be good, kid!" She left the room without another word. Through the thin wall, Clancy could hear her dragging a trunk around, opening bureau drawers. This most amazing town--where scandal broke suddenly, like a tornado, uprooting lives, careers! And how cynically Fay Marston took it! Suddenly she began to see her own position. She'd been introduced as a friend of Weber's. _She_ couldn't discover a six-months-old husband and leave town casually. _She_ must stay here, meet the Zendas, perhaps work for them---- On this, her first night in New York, Clancy cried herself to sleep. And, like most of the tears that are shed in this sometimes futile-seeming world, Clancy's were unnecessary. Only one of her vast inexperience would have fled from Zenda's apartment. A sophisticated person would have known that a simple explanation of her brief acquaintance with Fay would have cleared her. But youth lacks perspective. The tragedy of the moment looms fearsomely large. For all its rashness, youth is ostrichlike. It thinks that refusal to see danger eliminates danger. It thinks that departure has the same meaning as end. It does not know that nothing is ever finished, that each apparently isolated event is part of another apparently isolated event, and that no human action can separate the twain. But it is youth's privilege to think itself godlike. Clancy had fled. Reaction had brought tears, appreciation of her position. III Clancy woke with a shiver. Consciousness was not, with her, an achievement arrived at after yawning effort. She woke, always, clear-eyed and clear-brained. It was with no effort that she remembered every incident of yesterday, of last night. She trembled as, with her shabby bathrobe round her, she pattered, in her slippered feet, the few steps down the hall to the bathroom. The cold water did little to allay her nervous trembling. Zenda, last night, had referred to having lost a hundred thousand dollars. That was too much money to be lost cheerfully. Cheerfully? She'd seen the beginning of a brawl, and from what Fay Marston had said to her, it had progressed brutally. And the mere departure of Ike Weber with his unsuspected wife would not tend to hush the matter up. Back in her room, dressing, Clancy wondered why Weber's marriage had been kept quiet. Fay had said, last evening, that "Weber's little friend" could not go to the party. Clancy had been asked to fill in. Why had Fay Marston not merely kept her marriage secret but searched for girls to entertain her own husband? For Fay, even though she was apparently quite callously and frankly dishonest, was not immoral, Clancy judged, in the ordinary sense with which that adjective is applied to women. The whole thing was strange, incomprehensible. Clancy was too new to Broadway to know many things. She did not guess that a girl only casually acquainted, apparently, with Ike Weber could help in a card game as his own publicly accepted wife could not. Miss Fay Marston could glimpse a card and nothing would be thought of it. Mrs. Ike Weber could not get away with the same thing. But Clancy had all of these matters yet to learn. Down in the dining-room, presided over by Madame Napoli and her buxom daughter, two shabby waiters stood idle. They looked surprised at Clancy's entrance. _Madame_ ushered Clancy to a table. "It's easy seen you ain't been in the business long, Miss Ladue," chuckled _madame_. "Gettin' down to breakfast is beginners' stuff, all right. At that, it would help a lot of 'em if they did it. You stick to it, Miss Ladue. The griddle-cakes is fine this morning." Clancy had a rural appetite. The suggestion of buckwheat cakes appealed to her. She ordered them, and had them flanked with little sausages, and she prepared for their reception with some sliced oranges, and she also drank a cup of coffee. Her nervousness had vanished by the time she finished. What had she to be concerned about? After all, she might as well look at last night's happenings in a common-sense way. She could prove that she arrived in New York only yesterday, that her acquaintance with Fay Marston--or Weber--had begun only last night. How could she be blamed? Still--and she twitched her shoulders--it was nasty and unpleasant, and she hoped that she wouldn't be dragged into it. The waiter brought her check to her. Clancy drew a fifty-dollar bill from her pocketbook. The waiter scurried off with it, and _madame_, in a moment, came to the table with Clancy's change. "Carryin' much money?" she asked. "Quite a lot--for me," said Clancy. "Better bank it," suggested _madame_. Clancy looked blank. She hadn't thought of that. She'd never had a bank-account in her life. But seven hundred dollars or so was a lot of money. She took the name and address of a bank in the neighborhood, and thanked _madame_ for her offer of herself as a reference. It was barely nine o'clock when she entered Times Square. The crowd differed greatly from the throng that she had observed last night. Times Square was a work-place now. Fascinated, Clancy watched the workers diving into subway entrances, emerging from them, only to plunge, like busy ants, into the office-buildings, hotels, and shops that bordered the square. The shops fascinated her, too. She was too new to the city, too unlearned in fashion's whimsicalities to know that the hats and gowns and men's clothing shown in these windows were the last thing in the bizarre. It was quite exciting being ushered into a private office in the Thespian National Bank. But when it came to writing down the name: "Florine Ladue," she hesitated for a moment. It seemed immoral, wrong. But the hesitation was momentary. Firmly she wrote the _nom de théâtre_. It was the name that she intended to make famous, to see emblazoned in electric lights. It was the name of a person who had nothing in common with one Clancy Deane, of Zenith, Maine. She deposited six hundred and fifty dollars, received a bank-book and a leather-bound folding check-book, and strolled out upon Broadway with a feeling of importance that had not been hers when she had had cash in her pocketbook. The fact that she possessed the right to order the great Thespian Bank to pay her bills seemed to confer upon her a financial standing. She wished that she could pay a bill right now. She entered a drug store a block from the bank and looked in the telephone-book. Mademoiselle DeLisle had neglected to write upon the card of introduction Morris Beiner's address. For a moment, Clancy felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. A doubt that, up to now, had never entered her head assailed her. Suppose that Mr. Beiner had gone into some other business in some other city! Suppose he'd died! She sighed with relief when she found his name. There it was: "Beiner, Morris, Theatrical Agt., Heberworth B'ld'g. Bryant, 99087." The condescending young gentleman at the soda-fountain affably told her that the Heberworth Building was just round the corner, on Forty-fifth Street. To it, Clancy made her way. The elevator took her to the fifth floor, where, the street bulletin had informed her, Morris Beiner's office was located. There was his name, on the door of room 506. For a moment, Clancy stood still, staring at the name. It was a name, Fanchon DeLisle had assured her, with a certainty that had dispelled all doubt, owned by a man who would unlock for Clancy the doors to fame and fortune. Yet Clancy trembled. It had been all very well, tied to a typewriting machine in Zenith, to visualize fame and fortune in far-off New York. It took no great imagination. But to be in New York, about to take the first step--that was different. She half turned back toward the elevator. Then across her mind flashed a picture, a composite picture, of aunt Hetty, of Mr. Frank Miller, of a score of other Zenith people who had known her since infancy. And the composite face was grinning, and its brazen voice was saying, "I told you so." She shook her head. She'd never go back to Zenith. That was the one outstanding sure thing in a world of uncertainties. She tossed her head now. What a silly little thing she was! Why, hadn't even Fay Marston last night told her that her skin alone would make her a film success? And didn't she herself _know_ that she had talent to back up her good looks? This was a fine time to be nervous! She crossed the hall and knocked upon the door. A harsh voice bade her enter. She opened the door and stepped inside. It was a small office to which she had come. It contained a roll-top desk, of an old-fashioned type, two chairs, a shabby leather couch, half hidden beneath somewhat dusty theatrical magazines, and two filing-cases, one at either end of the couch. The couch itself was placed against the further wall, before a rather wide window that opened upon a fire-escape. A man was seated in a swivel chair before the roll-top desk. He was tilted back, and his feet were resting comfortably upon an open drawer. He was almost entirely bald, and his scalp was red and shiny. His nose was stubby and his lips, thick, gross-looking, were clamped over a moist cigar. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and Clancy noticed that the noisily striped shirt he wore, although there was an ornate monogram upon the left sleeve, was of a flimsy and cheap grade of silk. "Welcome to our city, chicken!" was his greeting. "Sit down and take a load off your feet." His huge chest, padded with fat, shook with merriment at his own witticism. "Is this Mr. Beiner?" asked Clancy. From her face and voice she kept disgust. "Not to you, dearie," said the man. "I'm 'Morris' to my friends, and that's what you and I are goin' to be, eh?" She colored, hating herself for that too easy flow of blood to cheek and throat. "Why--why--that's very kind of you," she stammered. Beiner waved his cigar grandiloquently. "Bein' kind to pretty fillies is the best thing I do. What can I do for you?" "Mademoiselle"--Clancy painfully articulated each syllable of the French word according to the best pronunciation taught in the Zenith High School--"Fanchon DeLisle gave me a card to you." Beiner nodded. "Oh, yes. How is Fanchon? How'd you happen to meet her?" "In my home town in Maine," answered Clancy. "She was ill with the 'flu,' and we got right well acquainted. She told me that you'd get me into the movies." Beiner eyed her appraisingly. "Well, I've done stranger things than that," he chuckled. "What's your name, dearie?" Clancy had read quite a bit of New York, of Broadway. Also, she had had an experience in the free-and-easy familiarity of Broadway's folk last night. Although she colored again at the "dearie," she did not resent it in speech. "Florine Ladue," she replied. Beiner laughed. "What's that? Spanish for Maggie Smith? It's all right, kid. Don't get mad. I'm a great joker, I am. Florine Ladue you say it is, and Florine Ladue it'll be. Well, Florine, what makes you want to go into the movies?" Clancy looked bewildered. "Why--why does any one want to do anything?" "God knows!" said Beiner. "Especially if the 'any one' is a young, pretty girl. But still, people do want to do something, and I'm one guy that helps some of 'em do it. Ever been in the movies at all?" Clancy shook her head. "Done any acting?" "I played in 'The Rivals' at the high-school graduation," she confessed. "Well, we'll keep that a dark secret," said Beiner. "You're an amachoor, eh? And Fanchon DeLisle gave you a card to me." "Here it is," said Clancy. She produced the card from her pocketbook and handed it to the agent. Her fingers shook. Beiner took the card, glanced at it carelessly, and dropped it upon his desk. "From the country, eh? Ingénue, eh?" He pronounced it "anjenoo." He tapped his stubby, broken-nailed fingers upon the edge of his desk. "Well, I shouldn't wonder if I could place you," he said. "I know a couple companies that are hot after a real anjenoo. That's nice skin you have. Turn round." Clancy stifled an impulse to laugh hysterically. Tears were very close. To be appraised by this gross man---- Nevertheless, she turned slowly round, feeling the man's coarse eyes roving up and down the lines of her figure. "You got the looks, and you got the shape," said Beiner. "You ain't too big, and you ain't too small. 'Course, I can't tell how you'll photograph. Only a test will show. Still----" He picked up the desk telephone and asked for a number. "Hildebloom there? This is Beiner talking. Say, Frank, you wanted an anjenoo, didn't you? I got a girl here in the office now that might do.... Yes; she's a peach. Fresh stuff, too. Just in from the country, with the bloom all on.... Bring her around? At six? You made a date, feller." He hung up the receiver and turned to the furiously blushing Clancy. "You're lucky, kid. Frank Hildebloom, studio manager for Rosebush Pictures, asked me to keep my eyes open for some new girls. He's a queer bug, Frank. He don't want professionals. He wants amateurs. Claims most of the professionals have learned so many tricks that it's impossible to unlearn them. I'll take you over to him. Come back here at five." Somehow or other, Clancy found herself outside the office, found herself in the elevator, in the street down-stairs. She'd expected much; she had come to New York with every confidence of achieving a great success. But doubts linger unbidden in the hearts of the most hopeful, the most ambitious, the most confident. To have those recreant doubts scattered on the very first day! Of course she'd photograph well. Hadn't she always taken good pictures? Of course, moving pictures were different; still---- She wished that there were some one whom she knew intimately--to whom she could go and pour out the excitement that was welling within her. What an angel Fanchon DeLisle had been! Poor Fanchon--a soubrette in a cheap burlesque company! But she, Clancy Deane--she was forgetting. She, Florine Ladue, would "do something" for Fanchon DeLisle, who had set her feet upon the path to fortune. She didn't know what she'd do, but she'd do something. She beheld a vision, in which Fanchon DeLisle embraced her with tears, thanked her. She endowed a school for film-acting in Zenith, Maine. She walked through Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue. She boarded a passing 'bus and rode up-town. She did not know the names of the hotels she passed, the great mansions, but--famous actresses were received everywhere, had social position equal to the best. In a year or so, she would ride up the avenue in her own limousine. At Grant's Tomb, she left the 'bus. She walked along Riverside Drive, marveling at the Palisades. Hunger attacked her, and she lunched at Claremont, thrilling with excitement, and careless of prices upon the menu. She was going into the movies! What did a couple of dollars more or less matter to her? Still moving in a glowing haze, out of which her name in brilliant electric lights thrust itself, she returned in mid-afternoon to the Napoli. Carefully she bathed herself. As meticulously as though she were going to her wedding, she dressed herself in fresh linen, in her best pair of silk stockings. She buttoned herself into her prettiest waist, brushed the last speck of lint from her blue suit, adjusted her hat to the most fascinatingly coquettish angle, and set forth for the Heberworth Building. At its doorway, she stepped aside just in time to avoid being knocked down by a man leaving the building in great haste. The man turned to apologize. He wore a bandage across one eye, and his hat was pulled down over his face. Nevertheless, that mop of dark hair rendered him recognizable anywhere. It was Zenda! For a moment, she feared recognition. But the movie director was thinking of other things than pretty girls. Her hat shielded her face, too. With a muttered, "Beg pardon," Zenda moved on. He had not seen her--this time. But another time? For years to come, she was to be in a business where, necessarily, she must come into contact with a person so eminent in that business as Zenda. Then, once again, common sense reasserted itself. She had done nothing wrong. She could prove her lack of knowledge of the character of Fay Marston and her husband. Her pretty face was defiant as she entered the Heberworth Building. IV It was an excited Beiner that threw open the door when she knocked at his office a moment later. The cigar stuck between his thick lips was unlighted; his silk shirt, although it was cold outside, with a hint of snow in the tangy atmosphere, and there was none too much heat in the Heberworth Building, clung to his chest, and perspiration stained it. "Come in," he said hoarsely. He stood aside, holding the handle of the door. He closed it as Clancy entered, and she heard the click of the latch. She wheeled like a flash. "Unlock it!" she commanded. Beiner waved a fat hand carelessly. "We got to talk business, kid. We don't want any interruption. You ain't afraid of me, are you?" Clancy's heaving breast slowed down. She was not afraid of Beiner; she had never seen any one, man or woman, in her brief life, of whom she was afraid. Further, to allay her alarm, Beiner sat down in his swivel chair. She sat down herself, in a chair nearer the locked door. "Quite a kidder, ain't you, Florine?" asked Beiner. "I don't understand you," she replied. He grinned, a touch of nervousness in the parting of the thick lips. Then he closed them, rolling his wet cigar about in his mouth. "Well, you will pretty soon," he said. "Anjenoo, eh? I gotta hand it to you, Florine. You had _me_ fooled. Amachoor, eh? Played in 'The Rivals' once?" He took the cigar from his mouth and shook it at her. "Naughty, naughty, Florine, not to play fair with old papa Beiner!" "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "Oh, no; of course not. Little Florine, fresh from Maine, doesn't know a soul on Broadway. Of course not! She gets a letter from Fanny DeLisle to old papa Beiner, and wants a job in the movies, bless her dear, sweet heart! Only"--and his voice lost its mocking tones and became reproachful--"was that the square way to treat her friend Morris?" "I came here," said Clancy coldly, "to keep a business engagement, not to answer puzzles. I don't know what you're talking about." "Now, be nice; be nice," said the agent. "I ain't mad, Florine. Didn't Fanny DeLisle tell you I was a good old scout?" "She said that you were a very competent agent," said Clancy. "Oh, did she, now?" Beiner sneered. "Well, wasn't that sweet of old Fanny? She didn't happen to say that anybody that tried to trim old Morris was liable to get their hair cut, did she?" All fear had left Clancy now. She was exasperated. "Why don't you talk plain English?" she demanded. "Oh, you'd like it better that way, would you?" Beiner threw his cigar upon the floor and ground his heel upon it. "'Plain English,' eh? All right; you'll get it. Why did Ike Weber send you here?" Clancy's breath sucked in audibly. Her face, that had been colored with nervous indignation, whitened. "'Ike Weber?'" she murmured. Beiner laughed harshly. "Now, nix on the rube stuff, Florine. I got your number, kid. Paul Zenda just left my office. He wants to know where Weber is. He told me about the jam last night. And he mentioned that there was a little girl at his house that answered to the name of Florine. I got him to describe that little girl." "Did you tell him," gasped Clancy, "that I was coming here this afternoon?" "You understand me better, don't you?" sneered Beiner. "Oh, you and me'll get along together fine, Florine, if you got the good sense you look like you have. Did I tell Zenda that I knew you? Well, look me over, Florine. Do I look like a guy that was just cuttin' his first teeth? Of course I didn't tell him anything. I let him tell me. It's a grand rule, Florine--let the other guy spill what's on _his_ chest. 'Course, there's exceptions to that rule, like just now. I'm spillin' what I know to you, and willin' to wait for you to tell me what I want to know. Suppose I put my cards right down where you can see 'em, Florine?" She could only stare at him dumbly. Zenda was a big man in the picture industry. He'd been robbed and beaten. Last night, he'd seemed to her the sort of man who, for all his dreaminess, would not easily forget a friend or a foe. He was important enough to ruin Clancy's picture career before it began. Beiner took her silence for acquiescence. "Zenda gets trimmed last night in a stud game. He's been gettin' trimmed for a long time, but he ain't really wise to the scheme. But last night his wife watches close. She gets hep to what Ike Weber is doin'. There's a grand row, and Zenda gets slugged, and Weber takes a lickin', too. But they ain't got any real evidence on Weber. Not enough to have him pinched, anyway, even if Zenda decides to go that far. But Zenda wants his money back." Beiner chuckled. "I don't blame him. A hundred thousand is a wad of kale, even in these days. So he comes to me. "Some time ago I had a little run-in with Ike Weber. I happen to know a lot about Ike. For instance, that his brokerage business is a stall. He ain't got any business that he couldn't close out in ten minutes. Well, Ike and I have a little row. It don't matter what it's all about. But I drop a hint to Paul Zenda that it wouldn't do any harm for him to be careful who he plays stud with. Paul is mighty curious; but I don't tell him any more than that. Why should I? There was nothing in it for me. But Paul remembers last night what I'd told him--he'd been suspicious for quite a while of Weber--and to-day he hot-foots it to me. So now, you see, Florine, how you and me can do a little business." "How?" asked Clancy. "Oh, drop it!" snapped Beiner. "Quit the milk-maid stuff! You're a wise little girl, or you wouldn't be trailin' round with Ike Weber. Now--where's Ike? And why did Ike send you to me?" Clancy shook her head vehemently. "I don't know him. I never met him until last night. I don't know anything at all about him." Beiner stared at her. For many years, he had dealt with actresses. He knew feigned indignation when he heard it. He believed Clancy. Still, even though he believed, he wanted proof. "How'd you meet him?" he asked. Clancy told him about her arrival in New York, her meeting with Fay Marston, and what had followed, even to Fay's late visit and her statement that she was married to Weber and was leaving town. "And that's every single thing I know about them," she said. Her voice shook. The tears stood in her eyes. "I ran away because I was frightened, and I'm going right to Mr. Zenda and explain to him." For a moment, Beiner did not speak. He took a cigar from the open case on his desk and lighted it. He rolled it round in his mouth until one-half its stubby length was wet. Then, from the corner of his mouth, he spoke. "Why do that, kid? Why tell Zenda that Fay Marston practically confessed to you?" "So that Mr. Zenda won't think that--that I'm dishonest!" cried Clancy. "Aw, fudge! Everybody's dishonest, more or less. And every one else suspects them, even though they don't know anything against them. What do you care what Zenda thinks?" "What do I care?" Clancy was amazed. "Sure. What do you care? Zenda can't do anything to you." "He can keep me out of pictures, can't he?" cried Clancy. Beiner shrugged. "Oh, maybe for a week or two, a few people would be down on you, but--what did you come to New York for, Florine, to make friends or money?" "What has that to do with it?" she asked. Beiner leaned over toward her. "A whole lot, Florine. I could 'a' told Zenda a whole lot about Ike Weber to-day. I could 'a' told him a couple things that would 'a' put Ike behind the bars. 'Smatter of fact, I could 'a' told him of a trick that Ike done in Joliet. But what's the good? The good to me, I mean. Ike knows that I put the flea in Zenda's ear that led to his wife spottin' Ike's little game. If he's got sense, he knows it, for I saw that my hint to Zenda reached Ike. Well, Ike will be reachin' round to get hold of me. Why, I thought, when Zenda described you and mentioned your first name, that Ike had sent you to me. Because Ike knows what I could tell Zenda would be enough to give Zenda a hold on Ike that'd get back that hundred thousand. But why be nasty? That's what I ask myself." His face took on an expression of shrewd good humor, of benevolence, almost. "You're just a chicken, Florine, a flapper from the mud roads and the middle-of-the-day dinner. And a hick chicken don't have it any too soft in New York at the best of it. I don't suppose that your bank-roll would make a mosquito strain its larynx, eh? Well, Florine, take a tip from old papa Beiner, that's been watchin' them come and watchin' them go for twenty-five years along Broadway. "Why, Florine, I've seen them come to this town all hopped up with ambition and talent and everything, and where do they land? Look the list over, kid. Where are your stars of twenty years ago, of ten years ago, of five, when you come right down to it? Darned few of them here to-day, eh? You know why? Well, I'll tell you. Because they weren't wise, Florine. "Lord, don't I know 'em! First or last, old papa Morris has got 'em jobs. And I've heard their little tales. I know what pulled 'em back to where they started from. It was because they didn't realize that friends grow cold and enemies die, and that the only friend or enemy that amounts to a darn is yourself. "I've seen girls worry because somebody loved 'em; and I've seen 'em worry because somebody didn't love 'em. And those girls, most of them, are mindin' the baby to-day, with a husband clerkin' it down-town, too poor to afford a nurse-girl. But the girls that look out for the kale, that never asked, 'What?' but always, 'How much?'--those are the girls that amount to something. "Here's you--crazy to run right off to Paul Zenda and tell him that you're a good little girl and don't know a darned thing about Ike Weber. Well, suppose you do that. What happens? Zenda hears your little story, decides you're tellin' the truth, and forgets all about you. Your bein' a nice, honest little fool don't buy you no silk stockings, kid, and I'm here to tell you so. "Now, suppose you don't run to Zenda. Sooner or later, he runs into you. He bawls you out. Because you've kept away from him, he suspects that you stood in with Ike. Maybe he tries to get you blacklisted at a few studios. _All_ right. Let's suppose he does. Six months from now, Zenda's makin' a picture out on the Coast, or in Europe, maybe. A director wants a girl of your type. I send him you. He remembers that Zenda's got it in for you, but--Zenda's away. And he hires you. Take it from me, Florine, he'll hire you. Get me?" Her brows knitted, she had heard him through. "I've heard you, but I don't understand. You talk about being sensible, but--why _shouldn't_ I go to Mr. Zenda?" "Because there's no money in it. And there's a bunch in not going to him," said Beiner. "Who's going to give it to me?" demanded Clancy. "Weber." "He's left town." Beiner guffawed. "Maybe that fat blonde of his thought so last night. She had a scare in her all right. But Ike ain't a rube. He knows Zenda's got no proof. He'll lie low for a few days, but--that's all. He'll pay you well--to keep quiet." "Pay me?" gasped Clancy. "Surest thing! Same as he'll be round to see me in a day or so, to shut my mouth. I know too much. Listen: By this time, Ike has pumped Fay Marston. He knows that she, all excited, blew the game to you. My God, what a sucker a man is to get married! And if he _must_ do it, why does he marry a Broadway doll that can't keep her face closed? Oh, well, it don't matter to us, does it, Florine? What matters is that Ike will be slippin' you a nice big roll of money, and you should worry whether you go to work to-day or to-morrow or next month. I'll be gettin' mine, all right, too. So now you see, don't you?" [Illustration] Clancy rose slowly to her feet. "Yes," she said deliberately; "I see. I see that you--why, you're no better than a _thief_! Unlock that door and let me out!" Beiner stared at her. His fat face reddened, and the veins stood out on his forehead. "So _that's_ the way you take it, eh? Now then, you little simp, you listen to me!" He put his cigar down upon the edge of his desk, an edge scarred by countless cigars and cigarettes of the past. Heavily he rose. Clancy backed toward the door. "If you touch me," she cried, "I'll----" She had not dreamed that one so fat could move so quickly. Beiner's arms were round her before the scream that she was about to give could leave her lips. A fat palm, oily, greasy with perspiration, was clapped across her mouth. "Now, don't be a little fool," he whispered harshly. "Why, Florine, I'm givin' you wise advice. I've done nothin' to you. You don't want to go to Zenda and tell him that Fay Marston admitted Ike was a crook, do you? Because then the game will be blown, and Ike won't see his way to slip me my share. You wouldn't be mean to old papa Beiner that wants to see all little girls get along, would you? How about it, Florine?" He drew her closer to him as he spoke. Clancy, staring into his eyes, saw something new spring into being there. It was something that, mercifully, she had been spared seeing ever before. Fear overwhelmed her, made her limp in Beiner's clasp. The agent chuckled hoarsely. "What a sweet kiddie you are, Florine! Say, I think you and me are goin' to be swell little pals, Florine. How about giving old papa Beiner a little kiss, just to show you didn't mean what you just said?" Her limpness deceived him. His grasp loosened as he bent his thick neck to bring his gross mouth nearer hers. Clancy's strength came back to her. Her body tautened. Every ounce of strength that she possessed she put into a desperate effort for freedom. She broke clear, and whisked across the room. "If you come near me, I'll scream," she said. Beiner glared at her. "All right," he said thickly. "Scream, you little devil! I'll give you something to scream about!" He leaped for her, but she knew now how fast he could move. Swiftly she stepped to one side, and, as she did so, she seized a chair, the one on which she had been sitting, and thrust it toward the man. The chair-leg jammed between his knees and unbalanced him. His own momentum carried him forward and to one side. He grasped at the edge of the desk for support. But his hand slipped. Twisting, trying desperately to right himself, he pitched forward. His head struck upon the iron radiator beside his desk. He lay quite still. For a moment, her mouth open, prepared to scream, Clancy stared down at the man. As the seconds passed and Beiner failed to move, she became alarmed. Then his huge chest lifted in a sigh. He was not killed, then. She came near to him, and saw that a bruise, already swollen, marked the top of his bald skull. She knew little of such injuries, but even her amateur knowledge was sufficient to convince her that the man was not seriously hurt. In a moment, he would revive. She knelt beside him. She knew that he had put the door-key in his trousers pocket. She had noticed the key-ring and chain. But her strength had deserted her. She was trembling, almost physically ill. She could not turn the gross body over. She heard footsteps outside, heard some one knock on the door. Bent over, trying not to breathe, lest she be heard outside, she stared at the door. The person outside shook the knob, pounded on the door. Then she heard a muttered exclamation, and footsteps sounded, retreating, down the hall. Beiner groaned; he moved. She straightened up, frightened. There had been something in his eyes that appalled her. He would not be more merciful when he recovered. She crossed the tiny office to the couch. Outside the wide window was the fire-escape. It was her only way of escape, and she took it. She opened the window and stepped upon the couch. A sort of court, hemmed in by office-buildings, faced her. She stepped through the window upon the iron grating-like landing of the fire-escape. The sheer drop beneath her feet alarmed her. She hesitated. Why hadn't she called to whoever had knocked upon the door and got him to break it down? Why had she been afraid of the possible scandal? Last night, she had fled from Zenda's through fear of scandal, and her fear had brought her into unpleasant complications. Now she had done the same thing, practically, again. But it was too late to worry. Beiner would revive any moment. She descended the fire-escape. Luck was with her. On the next landing was a window that opened, not into an office but into a hallway. And the latch was unfastened. In a moment, Clancy had climbed through the window and was ringing the elevator-bell. No one was in the hall. Her entrance through the window was not challenged. V Clancy woke clear-brained. She knew exactly what she was to do. Last night, after eating dinner in her room, she had tried to get Zenda on the telephone. Not finding his number in the book, she had endeavored to obtain it from "Information," only to learn that "it is a private wire, and we can't tell it to you." So, disappointed, she went to bed. Her resolution had not changed over-night. She'd made a little idiot of herself in running away from the Zenda apartment night before last. But now that she found herself involved in a mass of nasty intrigue, she would do the sensible thing, tell the truth, and let the consequences be what they might. Consequences? She mustn't be absurd. Innocently she had become entangled in something, but a few words would straighten the matter out. Of course, she would incur the enmity of Ike Weber, but what difference did that make? And Morris Beiner--she hoped, with a pardonable viciousness, that his head would ache for a week. The nasty beast! In the tub, she scrubbed herself harshly, as though to remove from herself any possible lingering taint of contact with Beiner. A little later, she descended to the Napoli dining-room and ordered breakfast. It was as substantial as yesterday's. Exciting though yesterday had been, Clancy had not yet reached the age where we pay for yesterday's deviation from the normal with to-day's lack of appetite. As at her previous breakfast, she had the dining-room to herself. Madame Napoli waddled beamingly over to her and offered her a morning paper. Clancy thanked her and put it aside until she should have finished her omelet. But, finally, the keen edge of her appetite blunted, she picked up the paper. It was a sheet devoted to matters theatrical, so that the article which struck her eye was accorded greater space in this newspaper than in any other in the city. For a moment, Clancy's eyes were blurred as the import of the words of a head-line sunk into her understanding. It was impossible for her to hold the paper steadily enough to read. She gulped her second cup of coffee, put a bill on the table, and, without waiting for her change, left the room. Madame Napoli uttered some pleasant word, and Clancy managed to stammer something in reply. Up in her room, she locked the door and lay down upon the bed. Five minutes, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she stayed there. Then she sat up and looked at the paper. She read: THEATRICAL MAN FOUND SLAIN MORRIS BEINER STABBED TO DEATH IN OWN OFFICE Morris Beiner, an old-time manager, more recently a theatrical agent, was killed in his office some time yesterday afternoon under mysterious circumstances. He was stabbed with a paper-knife, one that has been identified as belonging to the dead man. The discovery was made by Lemuel Burkan, the watchman of the Heberworth Building, in which Beiner had his office. According to Burkan's statement, he has been in the habit of answering telephone calls for many of the tenants during their temporary absences. Last evening, at six-thirty, while making his first night-round of the building, Burkan heard the telephone ringing in Beiner's office. Although the light was on, the telephone was unanswered. Burkan unlocked the door to answer the call and take the message. He found Beiner lying upon the floor, the paper-knife driven into his chest. Burkan did not lose his head, but answered the call. Frank Hildebloom, of the Rosebush Film Company, was on the wire. On being informed of the tragedy by the watchman, Hildebloom immediately came over to the dead man's office. To the police, who were immediately summoned by Burkan, Hildebloom stated that Beiner had telephoned him in the morning, stating that he wished to make an engagement for a young actress to make a film-test. Hildebloom was telephoning because the engagement was overdue and he could wait no longer. An old friend of the murdered man, he was overcome by the tragedy. The police, investigating the murder, learned from the janitor of the adjoining building, the Bellwood, that he had seen a young woman emerge from a window on the fifth floor of the Heberworth Building at shortly before six o'clock yesterday. She had descended by the fire-escape to the fourth floor and climbed through a window there. The janitor, who is named Fred Garbey, said that, while the incident was unusual, he'd thought little of it. He gave a description of the young woman to the police, who express confidence in their ability to find her, and believe that she must be the same woman for whom Beiner had made the engagement with Hildebloom. None of the dead man's friends who could be reached last night could advance any reason for the killing. Beiner was apparently rather popular in the profession, having a wide acquaintance. There followed a brief _résumé_ of the dead man's career, but Clancy did not read it. She dropped the paper and again stared at the ceiling. _She_ was the woman who had fled by the fire-escape from Beiner's office, for whom the engagement had been made with Hildebloom! And the police were looking for her! Beiner had been murdered! She had not killed him, but--who had? And would the police believe her story? She'd heard of third degrees. Would they believe her? Her whole story--if she admitted having been in Beiner's office, she must admit her method of egress. That descent by the fire-escape would have to be explained. She would have to tell the police that Beiner had seized her, had held her. Having admitted that much to the police, would they believe the rest of her story? She shook her head. Of course they wouldn't! Beiner had been killed with his own paper-knife. The police would believe that she had picked it up and used it in self-defense. She became unnaturally calm. Of course, she was a girl; her story might win her acquittal, even though a jury were convinced that she was a murderess. She knew of dozens of cases that had filled the newspapers wherein women had been set free by sentimental juries. But the disgrace! The waiting in jail! Some one else had entered Beiner's office, had, perhaps, found him still unconscious, and killed him. But would that some one come forward and admit his or her guilt to free Clancy Deane? She laughed harshly at the mere thought. Everything pointed to her, Clancy Deane, as the murderess. Why, even at this very moment, the police might be down-stairs, making inquiries of Madame Napoli about her! She leaped from the bed. She stared out the window at the tall buildings in Times Square. How harsh and forbidding they were! Yesterday they had been different, had suggested romance, because in them were people who, like herself, had come to New York to conquer it. But to-day these stone walls suggested the stone walls of jails. Jails! She turned from the window, overwhelmed by the desire for instant flight. She must get away! In a veritable frenzy of fear, she began to pack her valise. Midway in the packing, she paused. The physical labor of opening drawers, of taking dresses from the closet, had helped to clear her brain. And it was a straight-thinking brain, most of the time. It became keener now. She sat down on the floor and began to marshal the facts. Only one person in the world knew that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deane were the same girl. That person was Fanchon DeLisle, and probably by this time Fanchon DeLisle had forgotten the card of introduction. Morris Beiner had not mentioned to Hildebloom the name of Florine Ladue. Hildebloom could not tell the police to search for the bearer of that name. Fay Marston knew who Florine Ladue was, but Fay Marston didn't know that Florine had been intending to call on Morris Beiner. Nor did Madame Napoli or her daughter. Zenda and the members of his party had never heard Florine's last name, and while the discovery of that card of introduction in Morris Beiner's office _might_ lead the police to suspect that Florine Ladue had been the woman who descended the fire-escape, it couldn't be proved. Then she shook her head. If the police found that card of introduction--and, of course, they would--they'd look up Florine Ladue. The elevator-boy in the Heberworth Building would probably identify her as a woman who had ridden in his car yesterday afternoon at five. The first name would attract the attention of Zenda and his friends. Her acquaintance with Fay Marston and her card-sharp husband would come out. _She wasn't thinking clearly._ The affair at Zenda's was unimportant now. The only important thing in the world was the murder of Morris Beiner. She got back to her first fact--only Fanchon DeLisle could know that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deane were the same person. If, then, Fanchon had forgotten that high-sounding name, had forgotten that she had given a card of introduction to Clancy-- What difference would it make if Fanchon had forgotten the incident of the card? The police would remind her of it, wouldn't they? She put her palms to her eyes and rocked back and forth. She couldn't _think_! For five minutes she sat thus, pressing against her eyes, slowly, out of the reek of fearsome thoughts that crowded upon her brain, she resolved the salient one. Until Fanchon DeLisle told the police that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deane were one and the same persons, she was safe. It would take time to locate Fanchon. Meanwhile, Clancy was safe. That is, unless the police began to look up the hotels to find Florine Ladue right away, without waiting to communicate with Fanchon. She leaped to her feet. She'd decided, several minutes ago, that that was exactly what the police would do. Therefore, she must get out of the Napoli. Now, with definite action decided upon, Clancy could think straightly. She tilted her hat forward, so that it shielded her features, and descended from her room to the street. Yesterday afternoon she had noticed a telegraph office on Forty-second Street. To it she went now. She wrote out a telegram: "Florine Ladue, Hotel Napoli, Forty-seventh Street, New York. Come home at once. Mother is ill." She signed it, "Mary." The receiving clerk stared at her. "You could walk up there in five minutes and save money," he said. Clancy stared at him. The clerk lowered his eyes, and she walked out, feeling a bit triumphant, not at her poor victory over the clerk but because she had demonstrated to herself that she was mistress of herself. Back in the Napoli, she packed her valise. She had almost finished when Paul, the 'bus-boy porter, knocked at her door. He gave her the telegram which she had written a little while ago. Clancy, holding the door partly shut, so that he could not see her preparations for departure, read the wire. She gasped. "Bad news, miss?" asked Paul. "Oh, terrible!" she cried. "My mother is ill--I must go home--get me a taxi--tell Madame Napoli to make up my bill----" The boy murmured something meant to be sympathetic, and disappeared down the hall. Five minutes later, Madame Napoli came wheezing up the stairs. She refused to permit Clancy to pack. Clancy was a good girl to worry so about her mother. She must sit still and drink the coffee that Paul was fetching. Madame Napoli would pack her bag. And _madame_ had sent for a taxi. It was all very easy. Without arousing the slightest suspicion, Clancy left the Napoli. She told the driver to take her to the Grand Central Station. There she checked her valise. For she was not running back to Zenith. No, indeed! She'd come to New York to succeed, and she _would_ succeed. Truth must prevail, and, sooner or later, the murderer of Morris Beiner would be apprehended. Then--Clancy would be free to go about the making of her career. But now, safety was her only thought. But safety in Zenith was not what she sought. In the waiting-room she purchased a newspaper. She found a list of lodging-houses advertised there. Inquiry at the information-desk helped her to orientate herself. She wished to be settled some distance from Times Square. She learned that Washington Square was a couple of miles from the Napoli. Two miles seemed a long distance to Clancy. She reacquired her valise, got another taxi, and shortly had engaged a room in the lodging-house of Mrs. Simon Gerand, on Washington Square South. Mrs. Gerand was not at all like Madame Napoli, save in one respect--she demanded her rent in advance. Clancy paid her. She noted that she had only seven dollars left in her purse. So, in her room, she took out her check-book and wrote her first check, payable to "self," for twenty-five dollars. She'd take a 'bus, one of those that she could see from her tiny room on the square below, ride to Forty-second Street, cross to the Thespian Bank. No, she wouldn't; she might be seen. She'd ask Mrs. Gerand to cash her check. She sat suddenly down upon a shabby chair. She couldn't cash her check, for Florine Ladue could be traced through her bank-account as well as through any other way! She rose and walked to the window. It was a different view from that which she had had at the Napoli. She might be in another country. Across the park stood solid-looking mansions that even the untutored eyes of Clancy knew were inhabited by a different class of people than lived at Mrs. Gerand's. The well-keptness of the houses reminded her of a well-dressed woman drawing aside her skirts as the wheel of a carriage, spattering mud, approached too closely. She did not know that an old-time aristocracy still held its ground on the north side of Washington Square, against the encroachments of a colony of immigrants from Italy, against the wave of a bohemia that, in recent years, had become fashionable. Despite the chill of the winter day, scores of children of all ages played in the park. Some were shabby, tattered, children of the slums that lurked, though she did not yet know it, south of the square. Others were carefully dressed, guarded by uniformed nurses. These came from the mansions opposite, from the fashionable apartments on lower Fifth Avenue. Girls in tams, accompanied by youths, carelessly though not too inexpensively dressed, sauntered across the park. They were bound for little coffee-houses, for strange little restaurants. They were of that literary and artistic and musical set which had found the neighborhood congenial for work and play. But, to Clancy, they were all just people. And people made laws, which created policemen, who hunted girls who hadn't done anything. She had come to New York to achieve success. Here, within forty-eight hours after her arrival, she had not only roused the suspicions of one of the biggest men in the profession which she had hoped to adopt but was wanted by the police on the charge of murder, and had only seven dollars in the world. She stared at the greasy wall-paper of her ill-kept room. Without friends, or money--in danger of arrest! And still she did not think of going to the police, of confessing to circumstances that really were innocent. She had not learned over-night. She was still young. She still believed in the efficacy of flight. Queerly, she thought of the young man who had taken her home from the Zendas' apartment in the runabout. She remembered not merely his blue, kindly eyes, and the cleft in his chin, and his bigness, but things about him that she had not known, at the time, that she had noticed--his firm mouth, his thick brown hair. And he'd had the kindest-seeming face she'd ever seen. The only really kind face she'd seen in New York. All the rest---- Clancy wept. VI Youth suffers more than age. No blow that comes to age can be more severe than the happening to a child which, to its elders, seems most trivial. Each passing year adds toughness to the human's spiritual skin. But with toughness comes loss of resiliency. Clancy was neither seven nor seventy; she was twenty. She had not yet acquired spiritual toughness, nor had she lost childhood's resiliency. The blows that she had received in the forty-eight hours since she had arrived in New York--the loss, as she believed, of her hoped-for career, the fear of arrest on the hideous charge of murder, and, last, though by no means least, the inability to draw upon the funds that she had so proudly deposited in the Thespian Bank--all these were enough to bend her. But not to break! Her tears finally ceased. She had thrown herself upon the bed with an abandon that would have made an observer of the throwing think her one entirely surrendered to despair. Yet, before this apparently desperate, hysterical hurling of her slim body upon a not too soft couch, Clancy had carefully removed her jacket and skirt. She was not unique in this regard for her apparel; she was simply a woman. So, when, in the natural course of the passing hours, hunger attacked Clancy, and she rose from the narrow bed that Mrs. Gerand provided for the tenant of her "third-floor front" room, she had only to remove the traces of tears, "fix" her hair, and don her waist and skirt to be prepared to meet the public eye. She had been lying down for hours, alternating between impulses toward panic and toward brazen defiance. She compromised, of course, as people always compromise upon impulses, by a happy medium. She would neither flee as far from New York as seven dollars would take her nor surrender to the searching police. She would do as she had intended to do when she came down, earlier in the day, to Washington Square. She would look for a job to-morrow, and as soon as she found one, she'd go to work at anything that would keep her alive until the police captured the murderer of Morris Beiner and rendered her free to resume her career. And just now she would eat. It was already dark. Somehow, although she was positive that she could not have been traced to Washington Square, she had been timid about venturing out in the daylight. But that very darkness which brings disquiet to the normal person brought calmness and a sense of security to Clancy. For she was now a different person from the girl who had arrived in New York from Zenith two days before. She was now that social abnormality--a person sought by the officers of justice. Her innocence of any wrong-doing in no way restored her to normality. So, instead of a frank-eyed girl, fresh from the damp breezes of Zenith, it was an almost furtive-eyed girl that entered the Trevor, shortly after six o'clock, and, carrying an evening paper that she had acquired at the news-stand, sat down at a table in the almost vacant dining-room. Her step was faltering and her glance wary. It is fear that changes character, not sin. She had entered the down-stairs dining-room of the Trevor, that hotel which once catered to the French residents of New York, but that now is the most prominent resort of the Greenwich Village bohemian or near-bohemian. It held few guests now. It was the hour between tea and dinner. Clancy looked hastily over the menu that the smiling, courteous captain of waiters handed her. With dismay, she saw that the Trevor charged prices that were staggering to a person with only seven dollars in the world. Nevertheless, the streak of stubbornness in Clancy made her fight down the impulse to leave the place. She would not confess, by implication, to any waiter that she had not money enough to eat in his restaurant. So she ordered the cheapest things on the menu. A veal cutlet, breaded, cost ninety-five cents; a glass of milk, twenty; a baked potato, twenty-five; bread and butter, ten. One dollar and a half for a meal that could have been bought in Bangor for half the money. The evening paper had a column, surmounted by a scare-head half a page wide, about the Beiner murder. Clancy shivered apprehensively. But there was nothing in the feverish, highly adjectived account to indicate that Florine Ladue had been identified as the woman for whom Beiner had made the engagement with Hildebloom, of the Rosebush studios. Clancy threw care from her shoulders. She would be cautious, yes; but fearful--no! This, after she had eaten a few mouthfuls of the veal cutlet and drunk half of her glass of milk. A full stomach brings courage. She turned the pages of the newspaper and found the "Help Wanted" page. It was encouraging to note that scores of business firms needed stenographers. She folded the paper carefully for later study and resumed her dinner. Finished, finally, she reached for the paper. And, for the first time, she became conscious that a couple across the room was observing her closely. Courage fled from her. A glimmering of what her position would continue to be until her relation to the Beiner murder was definitely and for all time settled flashed through her brain. She would be always afraid. She had not paid her check. Otherwise, she would have fled the room. Then she stiffened, while, mechanically, she returned David Randall's bow. What ill fate had sent her to this place? Then, as Randall, having flashed her a smile that showed a row of extremely white although rather large teeth, turned to the woman with whom he was dining, Clancy's courage raced back to her. What on earth was there to be nervous about? Why should this young man, whose knowledge of her was confined to the fact that, two nights ago, he had conveyed her in his runabout from somewhere on Park Avenue to the Napoli, cause her alarm? She forced herself to glance again in Randall's direction. But the woman interested Clancy more than the young man who had introduced himself two nights ago as David Randall. A blonde, with reddish brown hair, most carefully combed, with a slightly tilted nose and a mouth that turned up at the corners, she was, Clancy conceded, far above the average in good looks. She was dressed for the evening. Two days ago, Clancy would have thought that only a woman of loose morals would expose so much back. But an evening spent at the Château de la Reine had taught her that New York women exposed their backs, if the exposure were worth while. This one was. And the severe lines of her black gown set off the milky whiteness of her back. Her eyes were envious as the woman, with a word to Randall, rose. She lowered them as the woman approached her table. Then she started and paled. For the woman had stopped before her. "This is Sophie Carey," she said. Clancy looked up at her blankly. Behind her blank expression, fear rioted. The other woman smiled down upon her. "I have been dining," she said, "with a most impetuous young man. He has told me of a somewhat unconventional meeting with you, and he wishes me to expurgate from that meeting everything that is socially sinful. In other words, he pays me the doubtful compliment of thinking me aged enough to throw a halo of respectability about any action of his--or mine--or yours. Will you let me present him to you?" Back in Zenith, no one had ever spoken to Clancy like this. She was suddenly a little girl. New York was big and menacing. This woman seemed friendly, gracious, charming. She had about her something that Clancy could not define, and which was cosmopolitanism, worldliness. "Why--why--it's awfully kind of you----" The woman turned. One hand rested on the table--her left hand. A wedding-ring was on it, and Clancy somehow felt relieved. With her right hand, Mrs. Carey beckoned Randall. He was on his feet and at Clancy's table in a moment. "This," said Mrs. Carey, "is David Randall. He is twenty-nine years old; his father was for three terms congressman from Ohio. David is a broker; he was worth, the last time he looked at the ticker, four hundred and ninety thousand dollars. He plays a good game of golf and a poor game of tennis. He claims that he is a good shot, but he can't ride a horse. He _can_ run a motor-car, but he doesn't know anything about a catboat." "I could teach him that," laughed Clancy. Mrs. Carey's nonsense put her at her ease. And all fear of Randall had vanished before he had reached the table. How _could_ he know anything of her and her connection with either Zenda or Beiner? Randall held out a very large hand. "You sail a boat, Miss--" He paused confusedly. "Deane," said Clancy. She had thought, when she left Zenith, to have left forever behind her the name of Deane. Ladue was the name under which she had intended to climb the heights. "Yes, indeed, I can sail a boat." "You'll teach me?" asked Randall. Mrs. Carey laughed. "Lovely weather for boating, David. Where do you do your sailing, Miss Deane?" "Zenith Harbor. It's in Maine," said Clancy. "But you don't live in Maine!" cried Randall. Mrs. Carey laughed again. "Don't be misled by his frank eyes and his general expression of innate nobility and manliness, Miss Deane. That agony in his voice, which has lured so many young girls to heartbreak, means nothing at all except that he probably had an Irish grandmother. He really isn't worried about your living in Maine. He feels that, no matter where you live, he can persuade you to move to New York. And I hope he can." Her last five words were uttered with a cordiality that won Clancy's heart. And then she colored for having, even for the minutest fraction of a second, taken Mrs. Carey's words seriously. Was she, Clancy Deane, lacking in a sense of humor? "Thank you," she said. Then, "I have an Irish grandfather myself," she added slyly. Mrs. Carey's face assumed an expression of sorrow. "Oh, David, David! When you picked up a lone and lorn young lady in your motor-car, mayhap you picked up revenge for a score of sad damsels who were happy till they met you." She smiled down at Clancy. "If the high gods of convention are wrathful at me, perhaps some other gods will forgive me. Anyway, I'm sure that David will. And perhaps, after you've had a cup of tea with me, you'll forgive me, too. For if you don't like David, you're sure to like me." "I know that," said Clancy. Indeed, she already liked Mrs. Carey. Perhaps the sight of the wedding-ring on Mrs. Carey's left hand made for part of the liking. Still, that was ridiculous. She hardly knew this Randall person. "I leave you in better company, David," said Mrs. Carey. "No, my dear boy; I wouldn't be so cruel as to make you take me to the door. The car is outside. You stay here and improve upon the introduction that I, without a jealous bone in my body--well, without jealousy I have acquainted myself with Miss Deane, and then passed on the acquaintance to you." She lifted her slim hand. "No; I insist that you remain here." She smiled once more at Clancy. "Did you notice that I used the word 'insist'?" She leaned over and whispered. "To save my pride, my harsh and bitter pride, Miss Deane, don't forget to come to tea." And then Clancy was left alone with Randall. VII For a moment, embarrassed silence fell upon them. At least, Clancy knew that she was embarrassed, and she felt, from the slowly rising color on Randall's face, that he was also what the girls in Zenith--and other places--term "fussed." And when he spoke, it was haltingly. "I hope--of course, Miss Deane--Mrs. Carey was joking. She didn't mean that I--" He paused helplessly. "She didn't mean that you were so--fatally attractive?" asked Clancy, with wicked innocence. After all, she was beautiful, twenty, and talking to a young man whom she had met under circumstances that to a Zenither filled many of the requirements of romance. She forgot, with the adaptable memory of youth, her troubles. Flirtation was not a habit with Clancy Deane. It was an art. "Oh, now, Miss Deane!" protested Randall. "Then you haven't beguiled as many girls as Mrs. Carey says?" persisted Clancy. "Why, I don't know any girls!" blurted Randall. "Not any? Impossible!" said Clancy. "Is there anything the matter with you?" "Matter with me?" Randall stared at her. "I mean, your eyesight is perfectly good?" "I saw _you_," he said bluntly. It was Clancy's turn to color, and she did so magnificently. Randall saw his advantage. "The very minute I saw you," he said, "I knew--" He stopped. Clancy's chin had lifted a trifle. "Yes," she said gently. "You knew?" "That we'd meet again," he said bravely. "I didn't know that brokers were romantic," she said. "I'm not," he retorted. She eyed him carefully. "No; I don't think you are. Still, not to know any girls--and it isn't because you haven't seen any, either. Well, there must be something else wrong with you. What is it?" Randall fumbled in his pocket and produced a leather cigarette-case. He opened it, looking at Clancy. "Will you have one?" he asked. She shook her head. He lighted the cigarette; the smoke seemed to restore his self-possession. "I've been too busy to meet girls," he declared. Clancy shrugged. "You weren't busy night before last." She was enjoying herself hugely. The night before last, when she had met men at Zenda's party at the Château de la Reine, and, later, at Zenda's home, she had been too awed by New York, too overcome by the reputations of the people that she had met to think of any of the men as men. But now she was talking to a young man whose eyes, almost from the moment that she had accosted him on Park Avenue, had shown a definite interest in her. Not the interest of any normal man in a pretty girl, but a personal interest, and interest in _her_, Clancy Deane, not merely in the face or figure of Clancy Deane. Randall was the sort of man, Clancy felt (still without knowing that she felt it), in whom one could repose confidences without fear of betrayal or, what is worse, misunderstanding. All of which unconscious, or subconscious, analysis on Clancy's part accounted for her own feeling of superiority toward him. For she had that feeling. A friendly enough feeling, but one that inclined her toward poking fun at him. "No," admitted Randall; "I was kind of lonesome, and--I saw you, and----" Clancy took the wheel and steered the bark of conversation deftly away from herself. "Mrs. Carey must know many girls," she said. "And she seemed _quite_ an intimate friend of yours." Clancy had in her make-up the due proportion of cattishness. "She is," answered Randall promptly. "That is, she's been extremely kind to me. But I haven't known her long. She returned from Europe last month and was interested in French securities. She bought them through my office, because an uncle of mine, who'd been on the boat with her, had mentioned my name. That's all." The mention of Europe wakened some memory in Clancy. "She's not _the_ Mrs. Carey, is she? Not the artist who was decorated for bravery----" Randall nodded. "I guess she is, but you'd never think it from her talk. She never mentions it, or refers to her work----" "Have you seen it?" asked Clancy. "Her paintings? Oh, yes; I've been in her studio. The fact is"--and he colored--"I happened to be the right size, or shape, or something, for a male figure she wanted, and--well," he finished sheepishly, "I posed for her." Clancy grinned. "You've never been in the chorus of a musical comedy, have you?" "No." Randall laughed. "And I won't unless you're in it." It was a perfectly innocent remark, as vapid as the remarks made by young people in the process of getting acquainted always are. Yet, for a second, Clancy felt a cold chill round her heart. A glance at Randall assured her that there'd been no hidden meaning in the statement. Her own remark had inspired his response. But the mere casual connection of herself with any matter theatrical brought back the events of the past two days. She beckoned to her waiter and asked for her check. Randall made an involuntary movement toward his pocket, then thought better of it. Clancy liked him for the perfectly natural movement, but liked him better because he halted it. "You--I don't suppose--you'd care to go to the theater--or anything?" he asked. She shook her head. "I must go home," she declared. "Well, I can, at least, take you up-town," he said, "I don't live up-town. I live----" "You've moved?" "Yes," she answered. All the fears that for ten minutes had been shoved into the background now came back to her. To-morrow's papers might contain the statement that the supposed murderess of Morris Beiner had been traced to the Napoli, whence she had vanished. It wouldn't take a very keen brain to draw a connection between that vanished girl and the girl now talking with Randall. "Well, I can take you to wherever you've moved," he announced cheerfully. "I--I'd rather you wouldn't," said Clancy. Randall's face reddened. He colored, Clancy thought, more easily and frequently than any man she'd known. The waiter brought her change. She gave him fifteen cents, an exact ten per cent. of her bill, and rose. Then she bent over to pick up her evening paper. Randall forestalled her. He handed it to her, and his eyes lighted on the "want ad" columns. "You aren't looking for work, are you?" he asked. "I mean--I don't want to be rude, but----" "Well?" said Clancy coldly. "I--if you happened to know stenography--do you?" "Well?" she said again. "I need a--stenographer," he blurted. She eyed him. "You move rapidly, don't you?" "I'm fresh, you think? Well, I suppose it seems that way, but--I don't mean to be, Miss Deane. Only--well, my name and address are in the telephone-book. If you ever happened--to want to see me again--you could reach me easily." "Thank you," said Clancy. "Good-night." For a moment, her fingers rested in his huge hand; then, with a little nod, she left the restaurant. She did not look behind her as she walked down Fifth Avenue and across Washington Square. Randall was not the sort to spy upon her, no matter how anxious he was to know where she lived. And he was anxious--Clancy felt sure of that. She didn't know whether to be pleased or alarmed over that surety. She felt annoyed with herself that she was even interested in Randall's attitude toward her. She had come to New York with a very definite purpose, and that purpose contemplated no man in its foreground. Entering Mrs. Gerand's lodging-house, she passed the telephone fastened against the wall in the front hall. It was the idlest curiosity, still--it wouldn't do any harm to know Randall's address. She looked it up in the telephone directory. He had offices in the Guaranty Building and lived in the Monarch apartment-house on Park Avenue. She was more exhausted than she realized. Not even fear could keep her awake to-night, and fear did its utmost. For, alone in her room, she felt her helplessness. She had avoided the police for a day--but how much longer could she hope to do so? In the morning, courage came to her again. She asked Mrs. Gerand for permission to look at the morning paper before she left the house. The Beiner mystery was given less space this morning than yesterday afternoon. The paper reported no new discoveries. And there were no suspicious police-looking persons loitering outside Mrs. Gerand's house. Three rods from the front door and Clancy's confidence in her own ability to thwart the whole New York detective force had returned. Mrs. Gerand had recommended that she breakfast in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue, praising the coffee and boiled eggs highly. Clancy found it without difficulty. It was a sort of bakery, lunch-room, and pastry shop. Blown by a brisk wind, Clancy stopped before a mirror to readjust her hat and hair. In the mirror, she saw a friendly face smiling at her. She turned. At a marble-topped table sat Mrs. Carey. She beckoned for Clancy. Short of actual rudeness, there was nothing for Clancy to do but to accept the invitation. "You look," Mrs. Carey greeted her, "as though you'd been out in your catboat already. Sit down with me. Jennie!" she called to a waitress. "Take Miss Deane's order." Clancy let Mrs. Carey order for her. She envied the older woman's air of authority, her easiness of manner. "New York hasn't corrupted you as yet, Miss Deane, has it? You keep Maine hours. Fancy meeting any one breakfasting at seven-thirty." "But I've met you, and you're a New Yorker," said Clancy. Mrs. Carey laughed. "I have to work." "So do I," said Clancy. "Whereabouts? At what?" asked Mrs. Carey. "I don't know," Clancy confessed. "I've made a list of firms that advertise for stenographers." "'Stenographer?' With that skin? And those eyes? And your hair? Bless your heart, Miss Deane, you ought to go on the stage--or into the movies." Clancy lowered her eyes to the grapefruit which the waitress had brought. "I--don't think I'd care for either of those," she answered. "Hm. Wouldn't care to do a little posing? Oh, of course not. No future in that--" Mrs. Carey's brows wrinkled. She broke a roll and buttered it. "Nothing," she said, "happens without good reason. I was alarmed about my cook this morning. Laid up in bed. I think it's--'flu,' though I hope not. Anyway, the doctor says it's not serious; she'll be well in a day or so. But I hated to go out for my breakfast instead of eating in bed. And I can't cook a thing!" "No?" said Clancy. Into her tones crept frigidity. Mrs. Carey laughed suddenly. "Bless your sweet heart, did you think I was offering you a place as cook? No; in my roundabout, verbose way, Miss Deane, I was explaining that my cook's illness was a matter for congratulation. It sent me outdoors, enabled me to meet you, and--after breakfast come over to my studio. Sally Henderson needs an assistant, and spoke to me the other day. You'll do." "What sort of work is it?" asked Clancy timidly. "Interior decorating--and renting apartments." "But I--don't know anything about that sort of thing." Mrs. Carey laughed. "Neither does Sally. Her father died five years ago. He was a doctor. Lots of money, but spent it all. Sally had to do _something_. So she became an interior decorator. Don't argue with me, my dear. I intend to play Destiny for you. How are the buckwheat cakes?" "Fine!" Clancy murmured from a full mouth. VIII Clancy's ideas of studios had been gained from the perusal of fiction. So the workmanlike appearance of the room on the top floor of Sophie Carey's house on Waverly Place was somewhat of a surprise to her. Its roof was of glass, but curtains, cunningly manipulated by not too sightly cords, barred or invited the overhead light as the artist desired. The front was a series of huge windows, which were also protected by curtains. It faced the north. About the room, faces to wall, were easels. Mrs. Carey turned one round until the light fell upon it. It was a large canvas, which Clancy supposed was allegorical. Three figures stood out against a background of rolling smoke above a scene of desolation--a man, a woman, and a child, their garments torn and stained, but their faces smiling. "Like it?" asked Mrs. Carey. "Why--it's wonderful!" cried Clancy. "I call it 'Hope,'" said Mrs. Carey. Clancy stared at it. She got the painter's idea. The man and his wife and their child, looking smilingly forward into a future that-- She turned to Mrs. Carey. She pointed to the foreground. "Isn't there more--smoke--trouble--there?" "There is--but they refuse to look at it. That, after all, is hope, isn't it, Miss Deane? Hope founded on sheer blindness never has seemed to me a particularly admirable quality. But hope founded on courage is worth while. You really like it?" Clancy turned again to the picture. Suddenly she pointed to the figure of the man. "Why, that's Mr. Randall!" she exclaimed. "Yes. Of course, it isn't really a likeness. I didn't want that. I merely wanted the magnificence of his body. It is magnificent, isn't it? Such a splendid waist-line above such slender but strong thighs. Remarkable, in these days, when, outside of professional athletes, the man with a strong upper body usually has huge, ungraceful hips." Mrs. Carey picked up a telephone as she spoke, and so did not observe the blush that stole over Clancy's face. Of course, artists, even women artists, spoke unconventionally, but to discuss in such detail the body of a man, known to both of them was not mere unconventionality--it was shocking. That is, it was shocking according to the standards of Zenith. Clancy listened while her hostess spoke to some one whom she called "Sally," and who must be Miss Henderson. "You said you wanted some one, Sally. Well, I have the some one. Prettiest thing you ever looked at.... The business? As much as you do, probably. What difference does it make? She's pretty. She's lovely. No man could refuse to rent an apartment or have his place done over if she asked him.... Right away. Miss Deane, her name is.... Not at all, old thing." She hung up and turned beamingly to Clancy. "Simple, isn't it? You are now, Miss Deane, an interior decorator. At least, within an hour you will be." She wrote rapidly upon the pad by the telephone. "Here's the address. You don't need a letter of introduction." Dazed, Clancy took the slip of paper. She noted that the address written down was a number on East Forty-seventh Street. Little as she yet knew of the town's geography, she knew that Fifth Avenue was the great dividing-line. Therefore, any place east of it must be quite a distance from Times Square, which was two long blocks west of Fifth Avenue. She would be safe from recognition at Miss Sally Henderson's--probably. But she refused to think of probabilities. "I don't know how to thank you, Mrs. Carey," she said. Sophie Carey laughed carelessly. "Don't try, my dear. Don't ever learn. The really successful person--and you're going to be a great success--never expresses gratitude. He--or she--accepts whatever comes along." She crossed her knees and lighted a cigarette. "I couldn't follow that philosophy," said Clancy. "I wouldn't want to." "Why not?" demanded Sophie Carey. "It doesn't seem--right," said Clancy. "Besides," she added hastily, "I'm not sure that I'll be a success." Mrs. Carey stared at her. "Why not?" she asked sharply. "God gives us brains; we use them. God gives us strength; we use it. God gives us good looks; why shouldn't we use them? As long as this is a man-ruled world, feminine good looks will assay higher than feminine brains. If you don't believe it, compare the incomes received by the greatest women novelists, artists, doctors, lawyers, with the incomes received by women who have no brains at all, but whose beauty makes them attractive in moving pictures or upon the stage. Beauty is an asset that mustn't be ignored, my dear Miss Deane. And you have it. Have it? Indeed you have! Didn't our hitherto immune David become infected with the virus of love the moment he saw you?" Clancy looked prim. "I'm sure," she said, almost rebukingly, "that Mr. Randall couldn't have done anything like that--so soon." Mrs. Carey laughed. "I'll forgive you because of your last two words, my dear. They prove that you're not the little prig that you sound. Why, you _know_ that David is extremely interested. And you are interested yourself. Otherwise, you would not be jealous of me." "Jealous?" Clancy was indignant. Mrs. Carey smiled. "That's what I said. When you recognized him in the painting-- My dear, I'm too old for David. I'm thirty-one. Besides, I have a husband living. You need not worry." She rose, and before Clancy could frame any reply, threw an arm about the girl's shoulders and led her from the studio. Descending the two flights of stairs to the street door, Clancy caught a glimpse of a lovely boudoir, and a drawing-room whose huge grand piano and subdued coloring of decoration lived up to her ideals of what society knew as correct. The studio on the top floor might be a workroom, but the rest of the house was a place that, merely to own, thought Clancy, was to be assured of happiness. Indeed, after having left Mrs. Carey and boarding a cross-town car at Eighth Street, Clancy wondered that Mrs. Carey did not give the impression of complete happiness. She was famous, rich, sought-after, yet she seemed, to Clancy, dissatisfied. Probably, thought Clancy, some trouble with her husband. Surely it must be the fault of Mr. Carey, for no woman so sweet and generous as Sophie Carey could possibly be at fault. For a moment, she had been indignant at Mrs. Carey's charge of jealousy. But the one salient characteristic of Clancy Deane was honesty. It was a characteristic that would bring to her unhappiness and happiness both. Just now, that honesty hurt her pride. For she had felt a certain restlessness, uneasiness, that had been indefinable until Mrs. Carey had named it. It had been jealousy. She had resented that this rich, beautiful, and famous woman should assume a slightly proprietary air toward David Randall. Clairvoyantly, Clancy knew that she would never _really_ love Sophie Carey. Still, she would try to. At Astor Place, she took the subway, riding, according to instructions that Mrs. Carey had given her, to the Grand Central Station. Here she alighted and, a block west, turned up Madison Avenue. If it had not occurred to her before that one found one's way about most easily in New York, she would have learned it now. With its avenues running north and south, and its cross-streets running east and west, and with practically all of both, save in the far-down-town district, numbered, it was almost impossible for any one who could read Arabic numerals to become lost in this, the greatest city of the Western hemisphere. She found the establishment of "Sally Henderson, Interior Decorator--Apartments," a few doors east of Madison Avenue. A young gentleman, soft-voiced, cow-eyed, moved gracefully forward to greet her. The cut of his sleeves, as narrow as a woman's, and fitting at the shoulder with the same pucker, the appearance of the waist-line as snug as her own, made Clancy realize that the art of dressing men has reappeared in the world as pronouncedly as in the days when they wore gorgeous laces and silken breeches, and bejeweled-buckled shoes. The young gentleman--Clancy later learned that he was named Guernsey, and pronounced it "Garnsey"--ushered her into an inner office. This room was furnished less primly than the outer office. The first room she had entered seemed, with its filing-cases and busy stenographer pounding away at a typewriter and its adding machine and maps upon the wall, a place of business. But this inner room seemed like a boudoir. Clancy discovered that the outer room was where persons who desired to rent apartments were taken care of; this inner room was the spot where those desirous of the services of an interior decorator were received. Miss Sally Henderson sat at a table upon which were samples of wall-paper. She was tall, Clancy could tell, had what in Zenith would be termed a "skinny" figure, and her hair, of a stringy mud-color, was almost plastered, man-fashion, upon a narrow, high forehead. Upon her nose were perched a pair of glasses. Her lips, surprisingly, were well-formed, full, and red. It was the mouth of a sensuous, beauty-loving, passionate woman, and the rest of her was the masculinity of an old maid. She smiled as Clancy approached. "So Sophie sent you to my matrimonial bureau, eh?" she said. Clancy stared. "Oh, yes," Miss Henderson went on; "three girls have been married from this business in the last eight months. I think there's a curse on the place. Tell me--are you engaged, in love, or anything?" Clancy shook her head. "That's too bad," sighed Miss Henderson. "Why?" asked Clancy. "Oh, if you were already engaged, you'd not be husband-hunting the men who come apartment-hunting." "I assure you that I'm not husband-hunting," said Clancy indignantly. Miss Henderson shrugged. "Of course you are, my dear. All of us are. Even myself. Though I've given it up lately. My peculiar style of beauty doesn't lure the men, I'm beginning to understand. Well, you can't help it if you're beautiful, can you? And I can't help it if one of my clients runs away with you. Just stay three months, and I'll give you, to start with, fifty dollars a week." Clancy stared at her. "You'll give me fifty a week--right now?" "My dear, any musical-comedy manager would give you forty to stand in the front row. You could earn a trifle more than that by not being particular. I take it that you are particular. Should a particular girl earn less than the other kind? Is it common justice? It is not. Therefore, I will pay you fifty dollars a week. You ought to rent a hundred per cent. of the apartments you show. Also, every third client you deal with ought to be wheedled into having some interior decorating done. I can afford to pay you that." Clancy gasped. Fifty dollars a week was not, of course, a tithe of what she'd expect to earn in the moving pictures, but it was a big salary to one who possessed about five dollars in the world. "But you'll have to buy yourself some decent clothes," continued Miss Henderson. "That suit, if you'll pardon me, my dear, looks like the very devil. I have a dressmaker, unique thing-- Oh, don't stare at the clothes I have on; I have to dress this way during office-hours. It makes me look business-like. But outside of business--it's different. You may trust my dressmaker. Cheaper--much cheaper, too. What do you know about interior decorating?" she asked suddenly. "Nothing," Clancy confessed frankly. "Excellent!" said Miss Henderson. "Interior decorators can design theatrically beautiful rooms, but not homes. How can they? Home is the expression of its owner. So the less you know the better." Clancy drew in a long breath. Feebly, she comprehended that she was in the presence of a "character," a person unique in her experience. She was glad that she did not have to talk, that her new employer's verbosity covered up her own silence. She was grateful when, as Miss Henderson paused, the young man, Guernsey, entered. "Mr. Grannis to see you, Miss Henderson," he said. Miss Henderson shrugged petulantly. She looked at Clancy. "Your first commission, Miss Deane," she said. "He wants to rent an apartment. He has oodles of money. Here is a list of places. Mr. Guernsey will order a car for you. You'll find the rental-rates on this card. God be with you, my child!" She grinned, and Clancy started for the door. Her footsteps were faltering and her face white. Grannis was an unusual name. And Grannis had been one of the players in the Zenda poker game three nights ago! IX New as she was to New York, limited of observation and of ability to digest her observations and draw from them sane conclusions, Clancy realized that each business in the city was confined to certain restricted districts. For instance, Times Square was the center of the theatrical and night life of the city. A cursory glance at the women on Fifth Avenue near Forty-second Street was enough to make her pretty certain that this was the heart of the shopping-district. And, of course, all the reading world knew that the financial district was down-town. This knowledge had contributed to her feeling of security. She was a single atom in a most enormous city. Even though the police, by reason of the card bearing Fanchon DeLisle's introduction of Clancy to Morris Beiner, might be investigating her, it seemed hardly probable to Clancy that any chance meeting would betray her. She thought that one could live years, decades in New York without meeting a single acquaintance. Until the police should get in touch with Fanchon DeLisle and discover that Florine Ladue and Clancy Deane were the same person, Clancy believed that she was comparatively safe. But now, as she hesitated on the threshold of the outer office, it came to her with a shock that New York was a small place. Later on, she would learn that the whole world is a tiny hiding-place for a fugitive, but just now it seemed to her that fate was treating her most unkindly in bringing her into contact with Grannis to-day. But at the moment she could only blame fate, not realizing that, from the very nature of its geography, having so much north and south and so comparatively little east and west, all New York, practically, must, at some time during its working-day, be in the neighborhood of Times Square or the Grand Central Station, and that shrewd men, realizing this fact, have centered certain businesses, such as the retail-clothing trade, the jewelry and other luxury-merchandising, the hotels and theaters in these neighborhoods. The money may be made in other parts of the town, but it is spent here. So, had Clancy but realized it, it was not at all unusual that, within the first hour of her employment by Sally Henderson, Grannis should enter the offices. He needed an apartment; Sally Henderson, catering to the class of persons who could afford expensive rentals, was naturally located in a district contiguous to other places where cost was not counted by the customer. It was only by a tremendous effort of will that Clancy forced herself across the threshold. But Grannis's sallow face did not change its expression as she entered. It so happened that he had a lot on his mind, of which the renting of an apartment was but a minor detail. And young Guernsey and the stenographer were not particularly observant; they merely saw that Miss Henderson's new employee seemed a bit timid. "Miss Deane, this is Mr. Grannis," said Guernsey. "Miss Deane will show you several apartments," he added. Grannis nodded absent-mindedly. He glanced at Clancy for a moment; then his eyes dropped. Clancy drew a long breath. Something seemed about to burst within her bosom. Relief is quite as violent in its physical effects as fear, though not so permanent. Then her pulse slowed down. But her eyes were filmily unseeing until they had entered the motor, a closed car, that Guernsey ordered. Then they cleared. Unflattering as it might be to her vanity, it was nevertheless a fact that Grannis had no recollection of having met her before. It was natural enough, Clancy assured herself. She had simply been an extra person at a dance, at a poker-party. Further, in her coat suit and wearing a hat, she was not the same person that had accompanied Fay Marston three nights ago to the Château de la Reine. Why, it was quite probable that even Zenda would not remember her if he saw her again. Then her throat seemed to thicken up a trifle. That was not so, because Morris Beiner had told her that not only had Zenda remembered her first name but had been able to describe her so accurately that Beiner had recognized her from the description. But, at the moment, she had nothing to fear. She looked at the card Miss Henderson had given her. There were half a dozen addresses written on it. The rentals placed opposite them ranged from five to twelve hundred. "How much did you wish to pay, Mr. Grannis?" she asked. Grannis started as she spoke. He stared at her; his brows furrowed. Clancy felt herself growing pale. Then Grannis smiled. "I meet so many people--oh, thousands, Miss Deane--that I'm always imagining that I've met my newest acquaintance before. I haven't met you, have I?" The direct lie was something that Clancy abhorred, hardly ever in her life had she uttered one. She compromised between the instinct for self-preservation and a rigid upbringing by shaking her head. He accepted the quasi-denial with a smile, then answered her question. "Oh, six or eight hundred a month--something like that," he said carelessly. Clancy smothered a gasp. Miss Henderson had told her nothing of the details of the business. That had been careless to an extreme of Miss Henderson. Yet Clancy supposed that Miss Henderson felt that, if an employee didn't have common sense, she wouldn't retain her. Still, not to have told Clancy that these rentals marked on this card were by the _month_, instead, as Clancy had assumed, by the year, was to have relied not merely on Clancy's possession of common sense but on her experience of New York. But Miss Henderson didn't know that Clancy had just come from the country. Probably sending Clancy out offhand in this fashion had been a test of Clancy's adaptability for the business. Well--and her chin stuck forward a bit--she'd show that she had that adaptability. If Grannis were willing to pay six or eight hundred dollars a month for an apartment, she'd rent him one. She handed the card to Grannis. "You're a busy man," she said. "Which address looks best to you?" Grannis stared at her. "I congratulate you, Miss Deane. Most women would have taken me to the least desirable first, tried to foist it upon me, then dragged me to another. This one." He put his finger on the third apartment listed. The rental was eight hundred and fifty dollars a month, and opposite it were the words: "six months." Clancy interpreted this to mean that the tenant must sign a six months' lease. She said as much to Grannis, who merely nodded acquiescently. Clancy had never been in a limousine in her life before. But she picked up the speaking-tube, which told its own purpose to her quick wit, and spoke to the chauffeur. The car moved toward Park Avenue, turned north, and stopped a dozen blocks above Forty-seventh Street. * * * * * One hour and a half later, Grannis left Miss Sally Henderson's offices. Behind him, Miss Henderson fingered a lease, signed by Grannis, and a check for eight hundred and fifty dollars, also signed by the moving-picture man. "My dear," she said, "you're wonderful! You have passed the test." "'Test?'" echoed Clancy innocently. "I have only one," said Miss Henderson. "Results. You got them. How did you do it?" Clancy shrugged carelessly. "I don't know. I showed him the apartment. He liked it. That's all." "You're engaged!" cried Miss Henderson. "'Engaged?'" "Yes--to work for me." "But you engaged me before I went out with Mr. Grannis," said Clancy. Miss Henderson smiled. Clancy discovered that those full lips could be as acidulous as they were sensuous. "But not permanently, my dear. Oh, I may have talked about salaries and employing you and all that sort of thing, but--that was to give you confidence. If you'd failed in letting an apartment to Mr. Grannis--but you didn't, my dear." She turned to Guernsey. "If you had the pep of Miss Deane, Frank, you'd be running this business instead of working for me. Why don't you show some jazz?" Guernsey shrugged. "I'm not a pretty girl," he replied. He left the office, and Miss Henderson looked Clancy over critically. "Better call it a day, my dear, and run over to Forty-fifth Street and see my dressmaker. I'll 'phone her while you're on the way. Put yourself entirely in her hands, and I'll attend to the bill. Only--you promise to stay three months?" "I promise," said Clancy. Sally Henderson laughed. "Then run along. Miss Conover. Jennie Conover. Number Sixty-three A West Forty-fifth. Take whatever she chooses for you. Good-by." Clancy was crossing Fifth Avenue a moment later. She was as dazed as she'd been when Morris Beiner had made the engagement with Hildebloom, of the Rosebush studios. This amazing town, where some starved and others walked into fortune! This wondrous city that, when it smiled, smiled most wondrously, and, when it frowned, frowned most horrendously! But yesterday it had pursued her, threatened her with starvation, perhaps. The day before, it had promised her fame and fortune. To-day, it promised her, if neither fame nor fortune, at least more immediate money than she had ever earned in her life, and a chance for success that, while not dazzling, yet might be more permanent than anything that the stage could offer her. She felt more safe, too, now that she had met one of the players in Zenda's poker game. Doubtless she could meet any of the rest of them, except Zenda himself, and escape recognition. The town no longer seemed small to her; it seemed vast again. It was quite improbable that she would ever again run across any of those few Broadwayites who knew her. At any rate, sufficient time would have elapsed for the real murderer of Morris Beiner to have been apprehended. Up to now, oddly enough, she had not devoted much thought to the possible identity of the murderer. She had been too greatly concerned with her own peril, with the new interests that despite the peril, were so engrossing. Her meeting with Randall, her acquaintance with Sophie Carey, her new position--these had occupied most of her thoughts of the last twenty-four hours. Before that, for eight hours or so, she had been concerned with her danger. That danger had revived momentarily this afternoon; it had died away almost immediately. But the only way to remove the cause of the danger was to discover the identity of the person who had killed Morris Beiner. She drew a deep breath. She couldn't do any investigating, even if she knew how, without subjecting herself to great risk. Still-- She refused to think about the matter. Which is exactly what youth always does; it will not face the disagreeable, the threatening. And who shall say that it is not more sensible in this than age, which, knowing life's inevitability of act and consequence, is without hope? She entered the establishment of Jennie Conover with that thrill which comes to every woman at her modiste's or furrier's or jeweler's. Clothes may not make the man, but they may mar the woman. Clancy knew that her clothes marred her. Miss Sally Henderson, whose own garb was nothing wonderful, but who apparently knew the things that were deemed fashionable, had said for Clancy to trust entirely to the judgment of Miss Conover. Clancy would do so. Care, that had hovered about her, now resting on her slim shoulders, now apparently flying far off, suddenly seemed to have left her for good and all. It was discarded even as she discarded her coat suit, petticoat, and waist before the appraising eyes of Miss Conover, the plump, good-humored dressmaker to whom Miss Henderson had sent her. But she donned these undistinguished garments an hour later. Also, she donned Care, the lying jade who had seemed to leave her. For, walking measuredly up and down, as though prepared to wait forever for her reappearance, was Grannis, the man whom she had been so certain had not recognized her earlier to-day. She hesitated a moment upon the stoop of the building that had once been a private residence, then a boarding-house, and was now remodeled into intimate shops and tiny apartments. But Grannis had seen her; flight would merely postpone the inevitable. Bravely she descended the short flight of steps, and, as Grannis approached, she forced a smile to her white lips. He stopped a yard away from her, studying her carefully with eyes that she suddenly sensed were near-sighted. His sallow, lean countenance was wrinkled with puzzlement. "Miss Deane," he said slowly, "you told me this afternoon that we had not met before." Clancy had not said anything of the sort. She had simply evaded a question with a nod of the head. But now she merely shrugged her shoulders. It was an almost despairing little shrug, pathetic, yet with defiance in it, too. It expressed her mental attitude. She was despairing; also she was defiant. Grannis studied her a moment longer. Then, abruptly, he said: "I haven't the best memory in the world, Miss Deane, but--from the moment I heard your voice to-day, I've been sure that we've met before. I know where, now. In fact, I'd hardly left you when I remembered. And I waited outside Miss Henderson's office and followed you. Isn't there some place where we can go and talk?" "You seem to be talking quite clearly here," said Clancy. She knew that her cheeks were white and that her voice trembled, but her eyes never left the eyes of Grannis. The tall, thin moving-picture magnate shrugged his narrow shoulders. But his shrug was not like Clancy's. It was neither despairing, nor pathetic, nor defiant. It was careless. "Just as you say, of course, Miss Deane. Only--there are pleasanter places than a police station. Don't you think so?" Clancy gasped. She seemed to grow cold all over, then hot. Then she felt as if about to faint. She gripped herself with an effort that would have done credit to a woman ten years older. "All right," she said. "Where shall we go?" X Grannis turned abruptly to the east. It would have been quite easy, Clancy thought, to slip away and lose herself in the crowd that swarmed upon Fifth Avenue. But she had common sense. She knew that ahead of every flight waits the moment of pause, and that when she paused, Grannis or Zenda or the police would catch up with her; And--she had no money. Unless she chose to starve, she must return to-morrow, or the next day to Miss Sally Henderson's office. There, Grannis would be waiting for her. Besides, he had already threatened, "Pleasanter places than a police station!" A police station! What courage she had mustered to meet Grannis' first words had evaporated as she followed him meekly up three steps and through the revolving door of a restaurant. Within was a narrow hall, the further side of which was framed by glass windows that ran to the ceiling, and through which was visible a dining-room whose most conspicuous decorations were tubs of plants. At one end of the hall was a grill, and at the other end was another restaurant. Grannis turned to a check-boy and surrendered his hat and coat. He threw a question at Clancy. "Powder your nose?" He took it for granted that she would, and said: "I'll be up-stairs. Tea-room." He sauntered toward an elevator without a glance at her. A maid showed Clancy to a dressing-room. She learned what she had not happened to discover at the Château de la Reine three nights ago--that every well-appointed New York restaurant has a complete supply of powder and puffs and rouge and whatever other cosmetics may be required. She looked at herself in the mirror. She had never rouged in her life, considering it one of those acts the commission of which definitely establishes a woman as not being "good." So, even though her usually brilliant skin was pale with apprehension, she refused the maid's offer of artificial coloring. But she did use the powder. Up-stairs she hesitated timidly on the threshold of the tea-room. An orchestra was playing, and a score of couples were dancing. This was Fifth Avenue, and a word overheard in the dressing-room had informed her that this restaurant was Ferroni's, one of the most famous, she believed, in the world. In her unsophistication--for Clancy was sophisticated only within certain definite limits; she could take care of herself in any conflict with a man, but would be, just now, helpless in the hands of a worldly woman--she supposed that Ferroni's patronage was drawn from the most exclusive of New York's society. Yet the people here seemed to be of about the same class as those who had been at the Château de la Reine on Monday night. They were just as noisy, just as quiet. The women were just as much painted, just as daring in the display of their limbs. They smoked when they weren't dancing. Clancy would soon learn that the difference between Broadway and Fifth Avenue is something that puzzles students of New York, and that most students arrive at the conclusion that the only difference is that the Avenue has more money and has had it longer. Arriving at that truth, it is simple of comprehension that money makes society. There is a pleasant fiction, to which Clancy in her Maine rearing had given credence, that it takes generations to make that queer thing known as a "society" man or woman. She did not realize that all the breeding in the world will not make a cad anything but a cad, or a loose woman anything but a loose woman. She had expected that persons who danced on Fifth Avenue would have round them some visible, easily discernible aura of gentility. For, of course, she thought that a "society man" must necessarily be a gentleman. But, so far as she could see, the only difference between this gathering and the gathering at Zenda's Broadway party was that the latter contained more beautiful women, and that the men had been better dancers. The music suddenly stopped, and at that instant she saw Grannis sitting at a table across the room. Timidly she advanced toward him, but her timidity was in no wise due to her association with him. It was a shyness born of lack of confidence. She was certain that her shoes clattered upon the waxed floor and that every woman who noticed her smiled with amused contempt at her frock. These things, because Clancy was young, were of more importance than the impending interview with Grannis. "That rouge becomes you," said Grannis brusquely, as she sat down in the chair beside him. Clancy stared at him. She did not know that embarrassment had restored color to her cheeks. "I never rouge," she replied curtly. "Oh, well, don't get mad about it. I don't care a rap whether you do or don't," he said. "Only, you're looking prettier than a while ago." He eyed her closely. His near-sighted eyes took on an expression of personal interest. Heretofore, his expression had been impersonal. But now she felt that Grannis was conscious that she was a young girl, not bad to look upon. She resented it. Perhaps Grannis caught that resentment. He picked up a menu. "Eat?" he asked. He was a monosyllabic sort of person, Clancy decided, frugal of words. Something inside her bade her be cautious. Those who are frugal of speech force others to be wasteful, and Clancy, in so far as, in her chaotic mental state, she had arrived at any decision, had decided to commit herself as little as possible. If she was to be accused of the murder of Morris Beiner, the less she said the better. But the one-word questions demanded an answer. She suddenly realized that excitement had temporarily made her forget hunger. But hunger forgotten is not hunger overcome. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Yet, because of the social timidity that had made her walk mincingly across the room, she said she preferred that Grannis should order. Clancy was only four days away from Maine, where it is still not considered too well bred to declare that one is famished. Fortunately, however, Grannis was hungry. He ordered sandwiches--several varieties--and a pot of tea. Then he looked at Clancy. She was experiencing various emotions to-day, many of them survivals of age-old instinct. Now she felt suddenly conscious that Grannis was dishonest. "Dance?" Grannis asked. She shook her head. "Been in the city long?" "Not very," she replied. "Not living at the Napoli any more, eh?" She shook her head again. "Seen Fay to-day? Fay Marston?" Once more she shook her head. "Don't feel like talking, eh?" She shrugged. "Oh, well, there's no hurry. I can wait----" She did not learn what Grannis would wait for, because the arrival of the waiter stopped Grannis's speech. She hoped that her face did not show her anxiety, not about his questioning, but about the food. The instinct that told her that Grannis was dishonest also told her that one need not fear greatly a dishonest person. She began, as the waiter arranged the service, to analyze Grannis's actions. If he knew of her visits to Beiner, why did he bring her here? Why didn't he denounce her to the police? The question answered itself. He knew nothing of those visits. Her hands were steady as she reached for the tea-pot. She poured it with a grace that caught Grannis's attention. "Wish to God that was something you could teach a woman who never had any real bringing-up. Trouble with pictures is the same trouble that's the matter with everything else in this world--the people in them. How can you teach a girl that ain't a lady to act like one? You could get money just for that way you handle that tea. Never thought of trying pictures, did you?" "Not--seriously," said Clancy. "Pretty good graft you got at Miss Henderson's, I suppose. Ike Weber steer you against it?" Clancy bit into a sardine sandwich in a leisurely manner. She swallowed, then drank some tea. Then, in a careless tone, she replied: "Mr. Weber never steered me against anything. I never met him until the night of Mr. Zenda's party. And I haven't seen him since." "You'd stick to that--in a court-room?" Clancy laughed. "I'll never have to, will I?" Into Grannis's dull eyes crept admiration. "Kid, I'm for you," he said. Clancy shrugged again. Although no one had ever commented on it, she knew that her shrug was a prettily provocative thing. "Don't care whether I'm for you or not, eh?" Clancy stared at him. "You know," he said, "if I tipped off this Miss Henderson that Weber planted you with her so's you could steer suckers--wealthy folks that don't mind a little game--his way, how long do you think your graft would last?" "You'd have to prove what you said, you know," Clancy reminded him. "Kid, why haven't you been round to see Zenda?" he asked. "Why should I go round to see him?" Grannis's eyes took on a cunning look. "Now you're talking business. We're getting down to cases. Listen, kid: You were scared of me a while ago. You've forgotten that. Why?" Clancy reached for another sandwich. She made no answer. "You're certainly there, kid!" exclaimed her companion. "No one is running a blazer on you, are they?" "No one is fooling me, if that's what you mean," said Clancy. "You've said it! Well, I won't try to bluff you, kid. I've found you. It's a lucky chance, and I don't deserve any credit for it, but--I found you--before Zenda did. Before Ike did, if it comes to that. And Ike's the guy that wants you. I been feeling you out, to find out where you stood. I know that Ike didn't plant you with Miss Henderson. I dunno how you got in there. All Fay knows of you is that you were living at the Napoli, and were going in the movies, she thought. But Fay's a blab-mouth, and Ike and I know what she told you--about her and Ike working together to gyp people in poker games. Well, Ike figures that, as long as you disappear, he should worry, but when I run into you to-day, I begin to wonder. Now I see that you're no boob. Well then, take a look at that!" "That" was a bill. The denomination was the largest Clancy had ever seen on a piece of money. One thousand dollars! And Grannis placed it on the table by her plate. "Slip it into your kick, kid. There's more where it came from. Put it away before the waiter sees it. Understand?" Clancy didn't understand, and her face showed it. "Weber is coming back to town," said Grannis. "He can't come back if there's real evidence against him. The only _real_ evidence is what Fay Marston told you. Can you keep your mouth shut?" Clancy stared at him. Grannis grinned. He entirely misunderstood her bewilderment. He rose suddenly, placing a five-dollar bill on the table. "I'm in a hurry. That's for the tea. So long, kid." He walked away, leaving Clancy staring at the thousand-dollar bill. XI It was more difficult to leave Ferroni's than it had been to enter it. It was Clancy's first experience in a restaurant that, she assumed--and correctly enough--was a fashionable one. And it was not merely the paying of the obsequious waiter that flustered Clancy. She felt like a wallflower at a college dance. Conscious that her clothing was not modish, she had slipped timidly across the room to join Grannis. Now, having tipped the waiter, she must walk lonesomely across the room to the door, certain that everyone present was sneering inwardly at the girl whose cavalier had deserted her. For Clancy was like most other girls--a mixture of timidity and conceit. She knew that she was beautiful; likewise, she knew that she was ugly. With a man along, admiration springing from his eyes--Clancy felt assured. Alone, running the gantlet of observation--she felt hobbledehoyish, deserted. As a matter of fact, people _were_ looking at her. Neither the cheap hat nor her demoded coiffure could hide the satiny luster of her black hair. Embarrassment lent added brilliance to her wonderful skin, and the awkwardness that self-consciousness always brings in its train could not rob her walk of its lissom grace. She almost ran the last few steps of her journey across the room, and seeing a flight of stairs directly before her, hastened down them, not waiting for the elevator. She walked rapidly the few steps from the entrance to Ferroni's to Fifth Avenue, then turned south. The winter twilight, which is practically no twilight at all, had ended. The darkness brought security to Clancy. Also the chill air brought coolness to a forehead that had been flushed by youth's petty alarms. It did more than that; it gave her perspective. She laughed, a somewhat cynical note in her mirth, which Zenith had never heard from the pretty lips of Clancy Deane. With a charge of murder in prospect, she had let herself be concerned over such matters as the fit of a skirt, the thickness of the soles of her shoes, the casual opinions of staring persons whom she probably would never see again, much less know. She had placed Grannis's thousand-dollar bill in her pocketbook. She clasped the receptacle tightly as she crossed Forty-second Street, battling, upon the sidewalks and curbs, with the throng of commuters headed for the Grand Central Station. For a moment she was occupied in making her way through it, but another block down the avenue brought her to a backwater in the six-o'clock throng. She sauntered more slowly now, after the fashion of people who are engaged in thought. Her instinct had been correct--Grannis was dishonest. His gift of a thousand dollars proved that. But why the gift? He knew, of course, that she was aware of his partnership with Zenda. His statement that he didn't want Zenda to know that he had seen her had been proof of his assumption of her knowledge of the partnership that existed between himself and the famous director. Then why did he dare do something that indicated disloyalty to his associate? Why hadn't she made him take the money back? He had every right to assume that she was as dishonest as she seemed. She had permitted him to leave without protest. Further, with the five-dollar bill that he had put upon the table, she had paid the check. She made a mental note of the amount of the bill. Three dollars; and she had given the waiter fifty cents. One dollar and seventy-five cents, then--an exact half of the bill she owed to Grannis. She wouldn't let such a man buy her tea. Also, the change from the five-dollar bill, one dollar and a half. Three dollars and a quarter in all. Plus, of course, the thousand. She felt tears, vexatious tears, in her eyes. She was in a mood when it would have been easy for her to slap a man's face. She had never done such a thing in her life--at least, not since a little child, and then it had been the face of a boy, not a man. But now, once again, minor things assumed the ascendency in her thoughts. For even Grannis's attempt to bribe her--that was what it was--was a minor matter compared to the Beiner murder. She wondered what the evening papers would have to say further about that mystery. A newsboy crying an extra at Thirty-fourth Street sold her a paper. She wanted to open it at once, but, somehow, she feared that reading a newspaper on a cold wintry evening would be most conspicuous on Fifth Avenue. Even when she had secured a seat on a down-town 'bus, she was half afraid to open the paper. But, considering that practically everyone else in the vehicle was reading, she might safely open hers. She found what she was looking for without difficulty. Her eyes were keen and the name "Beiner" leaped at her from an inside page. But the reporters had discovered nothing new to add to the morning account. A theory, half-heartedly advanced by the police, that possibly Beiner had killed himself was contradicted by the findings of the coroner, but if the police had any inkling as to the identity of the murderer, they had not confided in the reporters. That was all. She began to feel justified in her course. To have gone to the police would have meant, even though the police had believed her story, scandal of the most hideous sort. She would have been compelled to tell that Beiner had embraced her, had tried to kiss, had-- She remembered the look in the murdered man's eyes, and blushed hotly at the recollection. She would never have been able to hold her head up again. For she knew that the uncharitable world always says, when a man has insulted a woman, "Well, she must have done _something herself_ to make him act that way." But now she supposed, optimistically, that there must have been, in Beiner's desk, scores of letters and cards of introduction. Why on earth should she have worried herself by thinking that Fanchon DeLisle's card of introduction would have assumed any importance to the police? No matter what investigation the police set on foot, it would hardly be based on the fact that they had found Fanchon's card. So then, as she had avoided discovery by the mere fact of not having gone to the police, and had thus avoided scandal, and as there was no prospect of discovery, she could congratulate herself on having shown good sense. That she had lost a matter of six hundred and fifty dollars, deposited in the Thespian Bank, was nothing. A good name is worth considerably more than that. Further, she might reasonably dare to withdraw that money--what of it she needed, at any rate--from the bank now. If the police had not by this time discovered the connection between Fanchon's card of introduction and the woman who had been observed upon the fire-escape of the Heberworth Building, they surely never would discover it. The pocketbook in her hand no longer burned her. There was now no question about her returning Grannis's bribe. In fact, there never had been any question of this. But Clancy was one of those singularly honest persons who are given to self-analysis. Few of us are willing to do that, and still fewer are capable of doing it. She wondered if it would not be best to do now what she should have done last Tuesday morning. If she went to Zenda and told him what Fay Marston had said to her, she would be doing Zenda a great favor. She was human. She could not keep from her thoughts the possibility of Zenda's returning that favor. And the only return of that favor for which she would ask, the only one that she'd accept, would be an opportunity in the films. The career which she had come to New York to adopt, and which rude chance had torn away from her, was capable of restoration now. She had fled from Zenda's apartment because scandal had frightened her. The presence of a graver scandal had almost obliterated her fear of the first. She'd go to Zenda, tell him that his partner was deceiving him, plotting against him. She could hardly wait to take off her coat when she reached her room in Mrs. Gerund's lodging-house. Using some of the note-paper that sold in Zenith as the last word in quiet luxury, she wrote to Zenda: MY DEAR MR. ZENDA: I was frightened Monday night at your apartment, and so I ran away. But to-day Mr. Grannis saw me and talked to me and gave me a thousand dollars. He said that Mr. Weber could not return to New York while there was any real evidence against him, and that, as I had been told by Miss Marston that she was really Mr. Weber's wife and that she helped him in his card-cheating, I must keep my mouth shut. He said that he didn't want you to know that he had met me. I think you ought to know that Mr. Grannis is on Mr. Weber's side, and if you wish me to, I will call and tell you all that I know. Yours truly, CLANCY DEANE. In the telephone book down-stairs, under "Zenda Films," she found the address of his office on West Forty-fifth Street, and addressed the letter there. Then she wrote to Grannis. She enclosed the thousand-dollar bill that he had given her. Her letter was a model of simplicity. MY DEAR MR. GRANNIS: I think you made a mistake. Yours truly, CLANCY DEANE. She addressed the letter to Grannis in care of the Zenda Films and then sealed them both. As she applied the stamps to the envelopes, she wondered whether or not she should have signed her name in the Zenda letter, "Florine Ladue." She had thoroughly convinced herself that she had nothing to fear from the use of that name. The frights of yesterday and to-day were vanished. Still, she had dropped the name of "Florine Ladue" as suddenly as she had assumed it. Zenda would write or telephone for her. If she signed herself as "Florine Ladue," she'd have to tell Mrs. Gerand about her _nom de théâtre_. And Clancy was the kind that keeps its business closely to itself. She was, despite her Irish strain, distinctly a New England product in this respect--as canny as a Scotchman. So it was as "Clancy Deane" that she sent the letters. She walked to the corner of Thompson Street, found a letter-box, and then returned to the lodging-house. Up-stairs again, she heard the clang of the telephone-bell below. Her door was open, and she heard Mrs. Gerand answering. She heard her name called aloud. She leaped from the chair; her hand went to her bosom. Then she laughed. She'd given Miss Sally Henderson her address and Mrs. Gerand's 'phone-number to-day. She managed to still the tumultuous beating of her heart before she reached the telephone. Then she smiled at her alarms. It was Mrs. Carey. "Do be a dear thing, Miss Deane," she said. "I'm giving an impromptu dance at the studio, and I want you to come over." Clancy was delighted. "What time?" she asked. "Oh, come along over now and dine with me. My guests won't arrive until ten, but there's lots of fixing to be done, and you look just the sort of girl that would be good at that. Sally Henderson's been telling me what a wonder you are. Right away?" "As soon as I can dress," said Clancy. Her step was as light as her heart as she ran up-stairs. XII On Monday night, Clancy had had her introduction to metropolitan night life. She didn't know, of course, what sort of party Sophie Carey would give. It probably would differ somewhat from Zenda's affair at the Château de la Reine. Probably--because Mrs. Carey was a painter of great distinction--there would be more of what Clancy chose to denominate as "society" present. Wherefore she knew that her gray foulard was distinctly not _au fait_. Having hastily donned the gown, she scrutinized herself distastefully in the mirror, and was unhappy. For a moment, she thought of telephoning Mrs. Carey and offering some hastily conceived excuse. Then she reflected. David Randall would perhaps be at the party. Clancy had had a unique experience as regards New York men thus far. They had proved inimical to her--all except Randall. He had shown, in the unsubtle masculine ways which are so legible to women, that he had conceived for her one of those sudden attachments that are flattering to feminine vanity. She wanted to see him. And she was honest enough to admit to herself that one of her reasons for wishing to see him had nothing to do with herself. She wanted to observe him with Sophie Carey, to watch his attitude toward her. For, vaguely, she had sensed that Sophie Carey was interested in young Randall. But she tried to put this idea, born of a strange jealousy that she hated to admit, away from her. Mrs. Carey had been an angel to her. She shrugged. If they didn't like her, they could leave her. About her neck she fastened a thin gold chain, and carefully adjusted the little gold locket that contained a lock of her mother's hair, upon her bosom. She gave a last look at herself, picked up her cheap little blue coat, turned off the electric light, and ran lightly down-stairs. Mrs. Gerand was in the front hall. Her sharp features softened as she viewed Clancy. "Party?" she asked. "Dinner--and dance," said Clancy. Mrs. Gerand had come from the kitchen to answer the door-bell. She wore an apron, on which she now wiped her hands. "It's snowing. You oughta have a taxi," she said. Clancy's jaw dropped in dismay. Even including the change from the five-dollar bill that Grannis had left upon the table--she suddenly realized that she hadn't sent Grannis this money--she had only about seven dollars. Then her face brightened. She had convinced herself that on the morrow it would be perfectly safe to withdraw some of the funds that stood in the Thespian Bank to the credit of Florine Ladue. And, anyway, it would have been poor economy to ruin the only pair of slippers fit for evening wear that she owned to save a taxi-fare. The snow was swirling through the street as Clancy ran down the steps to the waiting taxi-cab. It was, though she didn't know it, the beginning of a blizzard that was to give the winter of Nineteen-twenty a special prominence. In the cab Clancy wondered if the snow that had fallen upon her hair would melt and disarrange her coiffure. And when Mrs. Carey opened the door herself on Clancy's arrival at the studio-house in Waverly Place, she noticed the girl's hands patting the black mass and laughed. "Don't bother about it, my dear," she advised. "I want to fix it for you myself after dinner." She took Clancy's coat from her and hung it in a closet. "Usually," she said, "I have a maid to attend to these things, but this is Thursday, and she's off for the day." Clancy suddenly remembered Mrs. Carey's talk of the morning. "But your cook----" Mrs. Carey shrugged. They were shoulders well worth shrugging. And the blue gown that her hostess wore this evening revealed even more than the black gown of the Trevor last night. "Still sick," laughed Mrs. Carey. "That's why I'm giving a party. I like to prove that I'm not dependent on my servants. And I'm not. Of course"--and she chuckled--"I'm dependent upon caterers and that sort of thing, but still--I deceive myself into thinking I'm independent. Self-deception is God's kindest gift to humanity." She was even more beautiful than last night, Clancy thought. Then she felt a sudden sinking of the heart. If Sophie Carey, with her genius, her fame, her _savoir-faire_, her beauty, _wanted_ David Randall-- She shook her head in angry self-rebuke as she followed Mrs. Carey to the tiny dining-room. Clancy had never seen such china or silver. And the dinner was, from grapefruit to coffee, quite the most delicious meal that Clancy had ever eaten. Her hostess hardly spoke throughout the dinner, and Clancy was ill at ease, thinking that Mrs. Carey's silence was due to her own inability to talk. The older woman read her thoughts. "I'm frequently this way, Miss Deane," she laughed, as she poured coffee from a silver pot that was as exquisite in its simplicity of design as some ancient vase. "You mustn't blame yourself. Work went wrong to-day--it often does. I can't talk. I felt blue; so I telephoned half New York and invited it to dance with me to-night. And then I wanted company for dinner, and I picked on you, because my intimate friends won't permit me to be rude to them. And I knew you would. And I won't be any more. Have a cigarette?" Clancy shook her head. "I never smoke," she admitted. "It's lost a lot of its fascination since it became proper," said Mrs. Carey. "However, I like it. It does me good. Drink? I didn't offer you a cocktail, because I ain't got none. I didn't believe it possible that prohibition would really come, and I was fooled. But I have some liqueurs?" Clancy shook her head. Mrs. Carey clapped her hands. "Don will adore you!" she cried. "He loves simplicity, primeval innocence--I hope you break his heart, Miss Deane." "I hope so, too, if it will please you," smiled Clancy. "Who is Don?" "My husband," said Mrs. Carey. "If I can't find some one new, fresh, for him to fall in love with, he'll be insisting on returning to me, and I can't have him around. I'm too busy." Clancy gasped. "You're joking, of course?" Mrs. Carey's eyebrows lifted. "Deed and deedy I'm _not_ joking," she said. "I haven't seen Don for seven months. Last time, he promised me faithfully that he'd go to Reno and charge me with desertion or something like that. I thought he'd done it. I might have known better. He's been paying attentive court to a young lady on Broadway. He telephoned me this afternoon, demanding my sympathy because the young woman had eloped with her press-agent. He insisted on coming down here and letting me hold his hand and place cold cloths on his fevered brow." She laughed and rose from the table. "I'm going to saw him off on you, Miss Deane." Clancy was like a peony. Mrs. Carey came round the table and threw an arm about her. "Don't take me too seriously, Miss Deane. I talk and I talk, and when one talks too much, one talks too wildly. Sometimes, when I think upon the foolishness of youth-- Don't you marry too soon, Miss Deane." "I won't!" exclaimed Clancy. Mrs. Carey laughed. "Oh, but you will! But we won't argue about it." She stepped away a pace from Clancy. Her eyes narrowed as she stared. "I wonder," she said, "if you're a very--touchy--person." Clancy hoped that she wasn't, and said so. "Because," said Sophie Carey, "I've taken an--does it sound too patronizing? Well, no matter. I'm interested in you, Miss Deane. I want you to be a success. Will you let me dress you? Just for to-night? I have a yellow gown up-stairs. Let me see your feet." Clancy surrendered to the mood of her hostess. She held out her gray-clad foot. Mrs. Carey nodded. "The slipper will fit. Let's go up." "Let's!" said Clancy excitedly. Mrs. Carey's bedroom was furnished in a style that Clancy had never dreamed of. But the impression of the furnishings, the curtains and rugs and lacy pillows--this vanished before the display that the closet afforded. Gown after gown, filmy, almost intangible in their exquisite delicacy-- She offered no objection as Sophie Carey unhooked her gray foulard. She slipped into the yellow-silk dress with her heart beating in wild excitement. In the mirror, after yellow stockings and slippers to match, with bright rhinestone buckles, had been put on, she looked at herself. She blushed until her bosom, her back even, were stained. What _would_ they think in Zenith? She turned, and, by the aid of a hand-mirror, saw her back. A V ran down almost to the waist-line. "Satisfied?" asked Mrs. Carey. Clancy ran to her hostess. She threw her arms round Sophie Carey's neck and kissed her. Mrs. Carey laughed. "That kiss, my dear, is for yourself. But I thank you just the same." Down-stairs, the door-bell tinkled. "You'll have to answer it," said Mrs. Carey. XIII The opened door admitted more than David Randall. It let in a snowy gust that beat upon Clancy's bosom, rendering her more conscious than even a masculine presence could that the dress she wore was new to her experience. Randall was almost blown through the doorway. He turned and forced the door closed. Turning again, he recognized Clancy, who had retreated, a pink picture of embarrassment, to the foot of the staircase. "Do I frighten you?" he asked dryly. Clancy recovered the self-possession that never deserted her for long. "No one does that," she retorted. "I believe you," said Randall. His good-humored face wore a slightly pathetic expression. If no man is a hero to his valet, still less is he to the woman for whom he has conceived a sudden devotion which is as yet unreturned. Clancy dropped him a courtesy. "Thank you," she said, "for believing me." He moved toward her, holding out his big hands. Clancy permitted them to envelop one of hers. Randall bowed over it. His face, when he lifted it, was red. Blushes are as contagious as measles. Clancy was grateful for the cry from above. "Miss Deane," called Sophie Carey, "who is it?" "Mr. Randall," Clancy called back. "Send him into the dining-room. Tell him that there are no cocktails, but Scotch and soda are on the sideboard. Come up, won't you? And tell David to answer the door-bell." Clancy turned to Randall. His mouth sagged open the least bit. He looked disappointed. "Don't mind," she whispered. "We'll have it by and by." "Have what?" he asked blankly. "The _tête-à-tête_ you want." She laughed. Then she wheeled and ran up the stairs, leaving him staring after her, wondering if she were the sweetly simple country maiden that she had appeared last night, or a wise coquette. Mrs. Carey, still in the bedroom, where she was, by twisting her lithe, luscious figure, managing to hook up her dress in the back, smiled at Clancy's entrance. "Is he overwhelmed?" she asked. Clancy grinned entrancingly. Then she became suddenly demure. "He--liked me," she admitted. "He would; they all would," said Mrs. Carey. She managed the last hook as Clancy offered her aid. She glanced at herself in the mirror, wriggled until the blue frock set more evenly over the waist-line, then turned to Clancy. "Your hair--I said I'd fix it. Come here," she commanded. Meekly, Clancy obeyed. Deftly, Mrs. Carey unfastened Clancy's hair. It was of a soft texture, hung softly to her hips, and seemed, despite its softness, to have an electric, flashing quality. Mrs. Carey's eyes lighted. She was, primarily, an artist. Which means that people were rarely individuals to her. They were subjects. Clancy was a subject now. And a satisfying subject, Mrs. Carey thought, for if the girl had been transformed by the low-cut evening gown, so, by the severe coiffure that her hostess rearranged, was she even more transformed. Mrs. Carey looked at her and shook her head. "The baby stare went out of fashion on the day that the baby vampire came in," she said. "But you've achieved a combination, Miss Deane." "Vampires" were not popular in Zenith. Clancy did not know whether to be shocked or pleased. She decided to be pleased. The door-bell had rung several times during the process of fixing Clancy's hair, and from the down-stairs part of the house came occasional gleeful shouts. Now Mrs. Carey and Clancy descended. They entered the dining-room. A stout, bald gentleman, who, Clancy would learn later, was a Supreme Court judge, lifted a glass and toasted Mrs. Carey. "Our lovely hostess. May her eyes always be dry, but her cellar never!" Mrs. Carey laughed. "You are committing a crime, Judge," she said. "But not vandalism, Mrs. Carey," he retorted. "Some day, the seekers of evil where there is none are coming to this house. They are going to raid you, Mrs. Carey. And what liquor they find here they will pour into the gutters." He beamed upon Clancy, set down his glass, and advanced to her. "Little stranger," he said, "there are many wicked, wicked men in this room to-night. I don't know where Mrs. Carey finds them or why she associates with them. Let us go into a corner while I explain to you why you should know no one in this vile city but myself." A portly, good-humored-looking woman, who seemed to be bursting from her corsage, tapped the judge on the shoulder. "Tom, you behave," she said. The judge sighed. He took Clancy's unresisting hand and lifted it to his lips. His wife, the portly woman, snatched Clancy's hand away. "Don't pay any attention to him," she said. "He's really an old, old man approaching senility. I know, because I'm married to him. I myself, when a deluded young girl, decided to be a rich old man's darling instead of a poor young man's slave. It was a mistake," she whispered hoarsely. "Youth should never be tied to age." The judge inflated his huge chest. "Miss--Miss----" "Miss Deane," said Sophie Carey; "Judge and Mrs. Walbrough." Clancy, a bit fussed by the judge's heavy good humor, managed to bow. "Ah--Miss Deane!" said the judge. "Well, Miss Deane, if you are as sensible as, despite your beauty, you seem to be, you will pay no attention to the maunderings of the woman who calls herself my wife. As a matter of fact, though she does not suspect it, I married her out of pity. She was much older than myself, and possessed a large fortune, which she did not know how to administer. And so I----" Mrs. Walbrough took Clancy's hand. She pushed her husband away. And Clancy noticed that the hand that pushed lingered to caress. She suddenly adored the judge and loved his wife. From up-stairs sounded now the barbaric strains of "Vamp." Randall, who had been hovering near, rushed to her. "The first dance? Please, Miss Deane!" Mrs. Walbrough smiled. "Don't forget to give one to Tom by and by," she said. "Indeed I won't," promised Clancy. She and Randall were the first couple to reach the studio. The easels had been removed, and chairs were lined against the walls. At the far end of the room, behind some hastily imported tubs of plants, was a negro orchestra of four men. Into the steps of the fox-trot Randall swung her. He was not an extremely good dancer. That is, he knew few steps. But he had a sense of rhythm, the dancer's most valuable asset, and he was tall enough, so that their figures blended well. Clancy enjoyed the dance. Before they had finished, the room was thronged. Mrs. Carey, Clancy decided, must be extremely popular. For Randall knew many of the guests, and their names were familiar, from newspaper reading, even to Clancy Deane, from far-off Zenith. She was extremely interested in seeing people who had been mere names to her. It was interesting to know that a man who drew what Clancy thought were the most beautiful girls in the world was an undistinguished-appearing bald man. It was thrilling to look at a multimillionaire, even though he wore a rather stupid grin on a rather stupid face; to see a great editor, a famous author, a woman whose name was known on two continents for her gorgeous entertainments, an ex-mayor of the city. A score of celebrities danced, laughed, and made merry. And Sophie Carey had managed to summon this crowd upon almost a moment's notice. She must be more than popular; she must be a power. And this popular power had chosen to befriend Clancy Deane, the undistinguished Clancy Deane, a nobody from Zenith, Maine! Randall surrendered her, after the first dance, to Judge Walbrough. Like most fat men who can dance at all, he danced extremely well. And Clancy found his flowery compliments amusing. Then Sophie Carey brought forward a young man of whose interested regard Clancy had been conscious for several minutes. He was good-looking, with a mouth whose firmness verged on stubbornness. His dinner jacket sat snugly upon broad shoulders. He wore glasses that did not entirely disguise the fact that his eyes were gray and keen. A most presentable young man, it was not his youth or good looks that compared favorably with Randall's similar qualities, that thrilled Clancy; it was the name that he bore--Vandervent. "Our famous district attorney," Sophie Carey said, as she presented him. All America had read of the appointment of Philip Vandervent to an assistant district attorneyship. Scion of a family notable in financial and social annals, the fact that he had chosen to adopt the legal profession, instead of becoming the figurehead president of half a dozen trust companies, had been a newspaper sensation five years ago. And three months ago not a paper in the United States had failed to carry the news that he had been appointed an assistant to the district attorney of New York County. Almost any girl would have been thrilled at meeting Philip Vandervent. And for Clancy Deane, from a little fishing-village in Maine, dancing with him was a distinction that she had never dreamed of achieving. They slid easily into a one-step, and for one circuit of the room Vandervent said nothing. Then, suddenly, he remarked that she danced well, adding thereto his opinion that most girls didn't. He spoke nervously; an upward glance confirmed Clancy in an amazing impression, an impression that, when she had observed him staring at her as she danced, she had put down to her own vanity. But now she decided that a Vandervent was as easily conquerable as a Randall. And the thought was extremely agreeable. "I suppose," she said, "that the district attorney's office is an interesting place." It was a banal remark, but his own nervousness confused her, and she must say _something_. So she said this desperately. Usually she was at home when flirtation began. But the Vandervent name awed her. "Not very," he said. "Not unless one _makes_ it interesting. That's what I've decided to do. I started something to-day that ought to be interesting. Very." "What is it?" asked Clancy. "Or shouldn't I ask?" Vandervent caught her eyes as he reversed. He looked swiftly away again. "Oh, I wouldn't mind telling _you_," he said. Clancy knew that Vandervent intended flirtation--in the way of all men, using exactly the same words, the same emphasis on the objective personal pronoun. "I'd love to hear it," she said. And she cast him an upward glance that might have meant anything, but that really meant that Clancy Deane enjoyed flirtation. "Difficulty in our office," said Vandervent jerkily, "is lack of cooperation with us by the police. Different political parties. Police lie down often. Doing it now on the Beiner murder." "On what?" Clancy almost shrieked the question. Luckily, the negro musicians were blaring loudly. Vandervent didn't notice her excitement. "The Beiner mystery," he repeated. "They don't usually lie down on a murder. Fact is, I don't really mean that now. But there's inefficiency. We're going to show them up." "How?" asked Clancy. Her throat was dry; her lips seemed as though they were cracked. "By catching the murderess," said Vandervent. "'Murderess?'" All the fears that had departed from Clancy returned to her, magnified. Vandervent enjoyed the effect of his speech. "Yes; a woman did it. And we know her name." "You do?" Once again the young man thought her excitement due to admiration. "Yes. I'm taking personal charge of the case. Discovered a card of introduction to Beiner. Only one we could find in his desk. Right out on top, too, as though he'd just placed it there. Of course, we may be all wrong, but--we'll know better to-morrow." "So soon?" asked Clancy. Her feet were leaden. "I hope so. We've found out the company that the woman who gave the card of introduction is playing in. We've sent a wire to her asking her to tell us where we can find the woman, Florine Ladue." "Are--are you sure?" asked Clancy. "Sure of what? That the Ladue woman committed the murder? Well, no. But a woman escaped through the window of Beiner's office--you've read the case? Well, she ran down the fire-escape and then entered the Heberworth Building by another window. Why did she do it? We want to ask her that. Of course, this Ladue woman may not be the one, but if she isn't, she can easily prove it." The music ceased. "I say, I shouldn't talk so much. You understand that----" "Oh, I sha'n't repeat it," said Clancy. She marveled at the calm, the lightness with which she spoke. Repeat it? If Vandervent could only know the grimness of the humor in which she uttered the promise! If this young multimillionaire whom she had been captivating by her grace and beauty only knew that the woman whom he had sought had been in his arms these past ten minutes! In cynicism, she forgot alarm. But only for a moment. It came racing back to her. And she'd written to Zenda! He'd look her up to-morrow. What a fool she'd been! Her face was haggard, almost old, as she surrendered herself to the arms of Randall. XIV Not nearly enough admiration has been granted by the male human to the most remarkable quality possessed by the human female--her ability to recuperate. Man worships the heroic virtues in man. But in woman he worships the intangible thing called charm, the fleeting thing called beauty. Man hates to concede that woman is his superior in anything, wherefore even that well-known ability of hers to endure suffering he brushes aside as inconsequential, giving credit to Mother Nature. Possibly Mother Nature does deserve the credit. Still, man has no quality that he has bestowed upon himself. Yet that does not prevent him from being proud of the physique that he inherited from his grandfather, the brain that he inherited from his father, or the wit that descended to him from some other ancestor. So may women justly be proud of their recuperative powers. For these powers are more than physical. Thousands of years of child-bearing, of undergoing an agony that in each successive generation, because of corsets, because of silly notions of living, of too much work or too little work, has become more poignant, have had their effect upon the female character. If the baby dies, father is prostrated. It is mother who attends to all the needful details, although her own sense of loss, of unbearable grief, is greater, perhaps, than her husband's. If father loses his job, he mopes in despair; it is mother who encourages him, who wears a smiling face, even though the problem of existence seems more unsolvable to her than to him. It does not do to attribute this quality to women's histrionic ability. For the histrionism is due to the quality, not the obverse. It was not acting that made Clancy smile coquettishly up into Randall's lowering visage as he swept her away from Vandervent. It was courage--the sheerest sort of courage. In the moment that Randall had come to claim her, her feet had suddenly become leaden, her eyes had been shifting, frightened. Yet they had not taken half a dozen steps before she was again the laughing heroine of the party. For that she had been! Even a novice such as Clancy Deane knew that more than courtesy to a hostess' _protégée_ was behind the attentions of Judge Walbrough. And she was versed enough in masculine admiration to realize that Vandervent's interest had been genuinely roused. Flattery, success had made her eyes brilliant, her lips and cheeks redder, her step lighter. Danger threatened her, but cringing would not make the danger any less real. Therefore, why cringe? This, though she did not express it, even to herself, inspired her gayety. The fact that Randall's brows were gathered together in a frown made her excitement--her pleasurable excitement--greater. Knowing that he had conceived a quick jealousy for Vandervent, she could not forbear asking, after the immemorial fashion of women who know what is the matter, "What's the matter?" And Randall, like a million or so youths before him, who have known that the questioner was well aware of the answer, said, "You know well enough." "No, I don't," said Clancy. "Yes, you do, too," asserted Randall. "Why"--and Clancy was wide-eyed--"how could I?" Randall stared down at her. He had made a great discovery. "You're a flirt," he declared bitterly. He could feel Clancy stiffen in his arms. Her face, quickly averted, seemed to radiate chill, as an iceberg, though invisible, casts its cold atmosphere ahead. He had offended beyond hope of forgiveness. Wherefore, like the criminal who might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he plunged into newer and greater offenses. "Well, of course I'm not a multimillionaire, and I don't keep a press-agent to tell the world what a great man I am, like Vandervent, but still--" He paused, as though confronted by thoughts too terrible for utterance. Clancy sniffed. "Running other men down doesn't run you up, Mr. Randall." She felt, as soon as she had uttered the words, that they were unworthy of her. And because she felt that she had spoken in a common fashion, she became angry at Randall, who had led her to this--well, indiscretion. "I didn't mean to do that, Miss Deane," he said hastily; "only, I--I'm sorry I spoke that way. Vandervent doesn't hire a press-agent--so far as I know. And he's a good citizen and an able man. I'm sorry, Miss Deane. I'm jealous!" he blurted. Clancy grinned. She twisted her head until she met Randall's eyes again. For the moment, she had completely forgotten the deadly though unconscious threat behind Vandervent's words of a few moments ago. "You mustn't be absurd, Mr. Randall," she said, with great severity. "I don't mean to be," he answered, "but I can't help it. You promised me a _tête-à-tête_," he said plaintively. "Did I?" She laughed. Randall reversed as she spoke, and she faced the door. Vandervent was eyeing her. Although his eyes were friendly, eager, she saw him, not as a partner in flirtation but as an officer of the law. Half a minute ago, engrossed in teasing Randall, she'd almost forgotten him. Back and forth, up and down--thus the Clancy spirits. She was, in certain emotional respects, far more Irish than American. She pressed Randall's left hand. "Let's go down-stairs," she suggested. She caught the look of disappointment in Vandervent's eyes as she passed him. For a moment, she hesitated. How simple it would be to exchange _tête-à-tête_ partners, take Vandervent down-stairs, and, from the very beginning, tell him the amazing history of her half-week in New York! He _liked_ her. Possibly his feeling toward her might grow into something warmer. Certainly, even though it remained merely liking, that was an emotion strong enough to justify her in throwing herself upon his mercy. And, of course, he'd _believe_ her. She wondered. She realized, as she had realized many times before in the past few days, and would realize again in the days to come, that the longer one delays in the frank course, the more difficult frankness becomes. Even if Vandervent did believe her, think of the position in which she would find herself! It came home to her that she liked the affair that she was attending to-night. It was more fun than any kind of work, she imagined--playing round with successful, fashionable, wealthy people. Scandal, if she emerged from it with her innocence proved, might not hurt her upon the stage or in the moving pictures, or even in Sally Henderson's esteem. But it would ruin her socially. "A husband with the kale." That was what Fanchon DeLisle had said. No such husband could be won by a girl who had been the central figure of a murder trial. Clancy was the born gambler. It had taken the temperament of a gambler to leave Zenith; it had taken the temperament of a gambler to escape from the room that contained Beiner's dead body; it had taken the temperament of a gambler to decide, with less than seven dollars in the world, to brave the pursuit of the police, the wrath of Zenda, the loneliness of New York, rather than surrender to the police, conscious of her innocence. A gambler! A chance-taker! Thus she had been created, and thus, in the fulfilment of her destiny, she would always be. The impulse to surrender, to throw herself upon Vandervent's mercy, passed as instantly as it had come. Yet, once out of the studio, she leaned heavily upon Randall's arm. In the drawing-room, on the ground floor, Randall paused. Clancy withdrew her hand from his arm. They faced each other a bit awkwardly. Clancy always had courage when there were others present, but, when alone with a man, a certain shyness became visible. Also, although there had been boys in Zenith who had fancied themselves in love with her, she had always held herself high. She had not encouraged their attentions. Randall was different. He was a grown man. And, after his confession of jealousy, it was silly for her not to take him seriously. He was not the flirtatious kind. He frightened her. "You're worried," he stated surprisingly. "'Worried?'" She tried to laugh, but something inside her seemed to warn her to beware. "Yes--worried," repeated Randall. He came close to her. "Has Vandervent annoyed you? You were happy--you seemed to be--until you danced with him. Then----" "Mr. Randall, you talk like a little boy," she said. "First, you want _tête-à-têtes_; then you are jealous; then you are sure that some one is annoying me----" "You _are_ worried," he charged. He did not make the iteration stubbornly. He made it as one who was certain of what he said. Also, there was a patience in his tone, as though he were prepared for denial, and had discounted it in advance and had no intention of changing his belief. For a moment, Clancy wavered. He was big and strong and competent-seeming. He looked the sort of man who would understand. There are some men who one knows will always be faithful to any trust imposed in them, who can be counted upon always. Randall had the fortunate gift of rousing this impression. He was, perhaps, not overbrilliant--not, at least, in the social way; but he was the sort that always inspires, from men and women both, not merely confidence but confidences. Had he not been making love to her, Clancy would perhaps have confided in him. But a lover is different from a friend. One hides from a lover the things that one entrusts to a friend. It is not until people have been married long enough to inspire faith that confidences result. Whoever heard of a bride telling important secrets to her husband? Clancy's wavering stopped. Possible husbands could not be entrusted with knowledge prejudicial to her chances as a possible wife. "If you're going to continue absurd, we'll go up-stairs again," she announced. Her chin came slightly forward. Randall looked at her doubtfully, but he was too full of himself, as all lovers are, to press the subject of Clancy's worriment. He was tactful enough, after all. And he told her of his boyhood in Ohio, of his decision to come to New York, of the accident that had caused him to leave the bank which, on the strength of his father's Congressional career, had offered him an opening. It had to do with the discontinuance of the account of an apparently valuable customer. Randall, acting temporarily as cashier, had, on his own responsibility, refused further credit to the customer. He had done so because a study of the man's market operations had convinced him that a corner, which would send the customer into involuntary bankruptcy, had been effected. There had ensued a week of disgrace; his job had hung in the balance. Then the customer's firm suspended; the receiver stepped in, and Randall had been offered a raise in salary because of the money--from the refusal of worthless paper offered as security by the bankrupt--that the bank had been saved. He had refused the increase in salary and left the bank, convinced--and having convinced certain financiers--that his judgment of the stock-market was worth something. His success had been achieved only in the past two years, but he was worth some hundreds of thousands of dollars, with every prospect, Clancy gathered, of entering the millionaire class before he was much over thirty. He went farther back. Despite his apparently glowing health, he'd suffered a bad knee at football. The army had rejected him in 1917. Later on, when the need for men had forced the examiners to be less stringent, he had been accepted, and had been detailed to a training-camp. But he had won no glory, achieving a sergeancy shortly before the armistice. He had not gone abroad. He was a graduate of the University of Illinois, knew enough about farming to maintain a sort of "ranch" in Connecticut, and was enthusiastic about motor-cars. This was about as far as he got when he insisted that Clancy supplement his slight knowledge of her. She told him of the Zenith normal school, which she had attended for two years, of the summer residents of Zenith, of the fishing-weirs, of the stage that brought the mail from Bucksport, of the baseball games played within the fort of Revolutionary times on the top of the hill on which the town of Zenith was built. And this was as far as she had reached when Vandervent found them. He was extremely polite, but extremely insistent in a way that admitted of no refusal. "I say, Randall, you mustn't monopolize Miss Deane. It's not generous, you know. You've been lucky enough. This is my dance." Clancy didn't remember the fact, but while she and Randall had rambled on, she had been doing some close thinking. She couldn't confess to Vandervent that she was Florine Ladue, but she could utilize the heaven-sent opportunity to fascinate the man who might, within twenty-four hours, hold her life in his hand--although it couldn't be as serious as that, she insisted to herself. But, in the next breath, she decided that it could easily be as serious as that, and even more serious. Yet, with all her worry, she could repress a smile at Randall's stiff courtesy to his rival. Clancy was young, and life was thrilling. But she had no chance to "vamp" Vandervent. A Paul Jones was in full swing as they reached the studio, and Judge Walbrough took her from Vandervent after a half-dozen bars had been played. From him she went to Mortimer, the illustrator, and from him to Darnleigh, the poet, and from him to Cavanagh, the millionaire oil-man, the richest bachelor in the world, Judge Walbrough informed her, in a hoarse whisper meant to reach the ears of Cavanagh. And then Mrs. Carey announced that the storm was increasing so savagely that she feared to detain her guests any longer lest they be unable to reach their homes. There was much excitement, and several offers to take Clancy home. But Mrs. Carey came to her. "I want you to stay with me, Miss Deane. Please!" she added, in a whisper. Clancy thought there was appeal in her voice. She said that she would. Whereas Randall looked savage, and Vandervent downcast. Which looks made Clancy's heart sing. In this laughing crowd, under these lights, with the jazz band only a moment stilled, it was absurd to suppose that she was really in danger from Vandervent or any one else. Wasn't she innocent of any wrong-doing? Up and down, down and up! The Clancys of this world are always so. Which is why they are the best beloved and the happiest, all things considered. She was properly remote and cool to both her suitors, as she called them to herself. Modesty was not her failing. XV The room into which Sophie Carey showed Clancy was smaller than her hostess' bedroom, but, in its way, just as exquisite. It made Clancy think--with its marvelous dressing-table, divided into two parts, the mirror between them, its soft rugs, its lacy covers on the bed--of pictures in magazines devoted to the home. It brought, somehow, to a focus, certain uneasy thoughts of the past day. So that her face was troubled when, having donned a wonderful nightgown that Mrs. Carey had lent her, and having put over this a fleecy dressing-gown, she turned to receive her hostess, who was similarly attired. Mrs. Carey pulled up a chair and sank into it. "You're nervous," she announced. Clancy shrugged faintly. If Sophie Carey knew just what Clancy had to be nervous about! "No; I've been wondering," she replied. "Wondering what?" asked Mrs. Carey. Clancy's forehead puckered. "About all this," she replied. She waved a hand vaguely about the little room. Sophie Carey laughed. "Like it?" she asked languidly. "Care to live here?" Clancy stared at her. "'Live here?'" she demanded incredulously. "Why not?" "Why should I?" countered Clancy. "I like you," Mrs. Carey said. "I think we'd get on well together." Clancy frowned. "Why, I couldn't begin to pay----" "No one said anything about paying," interrupted Mrs. Carey. "But I couldn't--I never accepted----" Clancy was prim. Mrs. Carey laughed. "You'll get over that, I fear. Now, as for the expense--if you feel that way, we'll arrange what's fair." "You really want me?" said Clancy. "I told you earlier this evening that I liked success. Well, I like to protégé success. You'll be a success. You're practically one already. With Phil Vandervent interested and the Walbroughs enthusiastically enlisted on your side--It was rather hard on David to-night, wasn't it?" Clancy blushed. "'Hard?'" Mrs. Carey smiled. "He had an open face, poor David! It tells what is in his heart quite plainly. Oh, well, David is a remarkable youth in lots of ways, but Phil Vandervent--he's a Vandervent." "You don't really think, can't imagine--" Clancy paused, dazed at the possibilities. "Why not? Three Vandervents have married chorus-girls. You're a lady, my dear. Phil could do a lot worse. And you could hardly hope to do better." Clancy shook her head. "That isn't the career I came to New York to find." Mrs. Carey chuckled. "None of us find the career we were looking for. Half the bankers in the world planned to be authors. Half the authors planned to be bankers. And there you are! You'll live here?" The offer opened up opportunities undreamed of by Clancy. To be chaperoned, guided, protégé'd by a woman like Sophie Carey! She had come to New York intent on making financial and, secondarily, of course--Clancy was young--artistic success. To have a vista of social achievement placed before her enraptured eyes---- "It would be pretty hard," she said naïvely, "to give up a thing like this, wouldn't it? I mean--pretty clothes, a place to live in that was beautiful. I stayed to-night because you wanted me to. But I was wondering. I can see why girls--slide down. And I don't think it's because they want what they haven't got; it's more because they can't give up what they have. Isn't it?" "It sounds convincing," admitted Mrs. Carey. She sighed. "Well, we're going to be friends, anyway, my dear. It was good of you to spend the night here. I--Donald didn't drop in as he'd threatened, and I'm lonesome, and--blue." She rose suddenly. "I'm keeping you up. It isn't fair." She walked toward the door and turned. "Do you know why I really asked you to stay? Because I saw that something was on your mind, my dear. And I didn't want you to do anything foolish." "'Foolish?'" Clancy stared at her. "David Randall would have insisted on taking you home. And--if he'd proposed sudden marriage, what would you have done?" "'Marriage?'" "That's what I said," said Mrs. Carey. "You're nervous, a stranger, and--I like you, little girl. I want you to have a fair chance to make up your mind." "But I wouldn't have--why, it's absurd!" said Clancy. Her hostess shrugged. "My third night in New York, I went to a dance. I was terribly depressed. And a boy had conceived the same sudden sort of attachment for me that David has conceived for you. Only one thing saved me from making a little idiot of myself--not a minister would marry us without a license. I'm confessing a lot, my dear. Good-night," she ended abruptly. Alone, Clancy slipped out of the pretty dressing-gown and got into bed. She could not doubt Sophie Carey's sincerity. Yet how absurd the woman was in thinking that she and David-- She wondered. Suppose that Randall _had_ proposed--in one of her reactions from bravado to fear. To have a man to help her fight her battle, to extricate her from the predicament into which her own frightened folly had hurried her! Sleepily, she decided that Sophie Carey was a wonderful friend. Also, she decided that Clancy Deane wasn't much of an actress. If _every one_ guessed that she was worried---- Once, during the night, she half wakened. She thought that she'd heard the door-bell ringing. But she slipped into unconsciousness again almost at once. But in the morning she knew that she had not been mistaken. For Sophie Carey woke her up, and Clancy saw a face that was like a blush-rose. "Miss Deane, you must wake up and meet him before he goes." "Before who goes?" demanded Clancy. Sophie Carey's face was like fire. "Don. He came last night after all--late, and he isn't going to get a divorce, because I won't let him." There was fiery pride and touchingly soft self-abasement in her voice. "We've made it up. It was all my fault, anyway." Clancy, as she bathed and dressed, shook her head wonderingly. Mrs. Carey's life was almost as kaleidoscopic as her own. She put on the gray foulard and descended, shortly, to the dining-room. There she met Donald Carey. Weak-mouthed, its selfishness was partly hidden by a short mustache, blond. If Clancy hadn't heard something of him, she'd not have known, at first, the essential meanness of his nature. Undoubtedly he had helped himself from one of the decanters on the sideboard, for his nerves were well under control, and Clancy gathered, from his own somewhat boastful remarks, that he'd been intoxicated for the better--or worse--part of the week. Last night, Sophie Carey had been so attracted by Clancy that not only did she wish to protégé her but wished to support her. Her offer, last night, had meant practically that. But events had transpired, Mrs. Carey was no longer, in effect, a widow. She was a married woman again--pridefully so. Her air of dependence half sickened Clancy. A woman of prestige, ability, and charm, she was a plaything of the momentary whim of the man whose name she bore. Last night independent, mistress of her own destiny, this morning she was an appanage. And how could Sophie Carey respect this weak sot? But she had more to think about than the affairs of Sophie Carey, no matter how those affairs might affect herself. Few persons, no matter how temperamentally constituted, are nervous on first waking in the morning. They may be cranky and irritable, but not nervous. So Clancy, who had no irritation in her system, was calm until after breakfast. Then she began to fret. This was the day! Assistant District Attorney Philip Vandervent would receive an answer to his telegram to Fanchon DeLisle. He would learn that the real name of the woman who had borne Fanchon's card of introduction to the office of Morris Beiner was Clancy Deane. Her arrest was a matter of--hours, at the outside. She felt like one condemned, with the electric chair round a turn in the corridor. Of course, she assured herself, the police must believe her story. But even if they did, gone was her opportunity for success. She would be the distasteful figure in a great scandal. Her breakfast was an unsubstantial meal. But her hostess did not notice. She was too intent on seeing that her husband's coy appetite was tempted. Suddenly, Clancy felt a distaste for herself--a distaste for being protégé'd, for having a patroness. Sophie Carey had taken a liking to her. Sophie Carey had wished to do this and that and the other thing for her. Now Sophie Carey was by the way of forgetting her existence. She accepted the offer of her hostess' car to take her home, but gave vague replies to Sophie's almost equally vague remarks about when they must see each other again. It had been kind of Mrs. Carey to invite her to spend the evening, but it had been a little too much like playing Destiny. Suppose that Randall had proposed and that Clancy had, in a moment of fright, accepted him. It would have been her own business, wouldn't it? She was almost sullen when she reached Washington Square. Up-stairs in her dingy room, she fought against tears. She had voiced a great truth, without being aware of it, last night, when she had said that what made girls slide down-hill was the having to give up what they had, not the desire for possession of those things which they'd never had. She almost wished that Sophie Carey had not weakly surrendered to her husband's first advances. Clancy might have been installed in the studio home on Waverly Place, half-mistress of its comforts, its charms--a parasite! That's what she had been by way of becoming within a week of her arrival in the city where she had hoped, by the hardest sort of work, to make a place for herself. Well, that was ended. Why the fact that Sophie Carey had taken back her errant husband should have affected Clancy's attitude toward life and the part she must play in it is one of the incomprehensible things of that strange thing which we call "character." Yet it had done so. Perhaps, after all, because it had shown Clancy how little dependence must be placed on other people. Not that she felt that Sophie Carey would not be friendly to her, but that Sophie Carey's interest would now be, for a while, at any rate, in the husband to whom she surrendered so easily. And by the time that Sophie had rid herself again of Donald Carey, Clancy would have been forgotten. Forgotten! As, clad in the storm-overshoes that were necessities in Zenith, she braved the drifts of Washington Square on her way to the 'bus, she laughed wryly. Forgotten! Possibly, but not until her name had been blazoned in the press as a murderess---- Sally Henderson was not at the office when Clancy arrived there. She telephoned later on that the storm was too much for her, and that she would remain at home all day. She told young Guernsey to instruct Clancy in the routine matters of the office. By one o'clock, Clancy had begun to understand the office machinery. Also, she was hungry, and when Guernsey announced that he was going out to luncheon, Clancy welcomed the cessation of their activities. She had been too apathetic to wonder why she had not heard from Zenda, and was amazed when, just as she had buttoned her coat, the girl clerk summoned her to the telephone. "Miss Deane? This is Zenda talking. I got your letter. Can I see you right away?" Clancy vaguely wondered where Zenda had procured her working-address. She had mentioned it this morning, after changing her dress, to Mrs. Gerand, but Mrs. Gerand had been a bit frigid. Mrs. Gerand did not approve of young lodgers of the female sex who spent the nights out. Clancy didn't believe that Mrs. Gerand had heard her. However, inasmuch as Zenda telephoned, the landlady must have heard her lodger's business address. "Yes," she answered. It was the beginning of the end. Zenda would believe probably about her connection with Fay Marston and Weber, but he'd perhaps know that Florine Ladue had been in Beiner's office. She shook her head savagely. As on Wednesday, when she'd read of Beiner's murder, she'd been unable to think clearly, her brain now wandered off into absurdities. For it didn't matter about Zenda. Philip Vandervent had wired Fanchon DeLisle. What did Zenda matter? What did anything matter? "Can you come over to my office, Miss Deane?" "Yes," she replied. "I'll be waiting for you," said Zenda. She hung up the receiver. She shrugged her shoulders, and, telling the telephone clerk that she was going out to luncheon, left the office. XVI Zenda Films, Incorporated, occupied the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth floors of the newly named--though Clancy didn't know it--Zenda Building. In the lobby was a list of the building's tenants, and it stated that the executive offices of Zenda Films were on the tenth floor. An office-boy heard her name, asked if she had an appointment, and reluctantly, upon her stating that she had, turned toward an inner room, casting over his shoulder the statement that he didn't think Mr. Zenda was in. But from the room toward which he was making his sullen way--that sullen way peculiar to office-boys--emerged a tall young man, garbed in the height of Broadway fashion. He advanced beamingly to Clancy. "Miss Deane? Please come right in." Clancy followed him through the door, across an inner room, and into a further chamber beyond. And the instant she was inside that second room, Clancy knew that she had been a gullible fool, for instead of Zenda, she beheld Grannis. But what was somehow more terrifying still, she saw beside Grannis, his thick features not good-humored to-day, the face of Weber. She didn't scream--Clancy was not the sort who would use valued and needed energy in vocalities--she turned. But the tall youth had deftly locked the door behind her. He faced her with a triumphant grin, then stepped quickly to one side; the key which he had been holding in his hand he transferred to the hand of Grannis, who put it, with an air of grim finality, into his trousers pocket. Clancy knew when she was beaten, knew, at least, when the first round had gone against her. She did the one thing that rendered uncertain the mental attitudes of her captors. She walked coolly to a chair and sat. Grannis, expecting to see a girl reduced by fright to hysteria, eyed her bewilderedly. He had intended to be calm, intending, by calm, to convince Clancy that her danger was the greater. Now he lapsed, at the start, into nervous irritation, the most certain sign of indecision. "Pretty cool about it, Miss Deane, aren't you?" Clancy knew, somehow, that her cool desperation had given her, in some inexplicable fashion, an equally inexplicable advantage. "Why not?" she asked. Grannis' sallow face reddened. "Will you feel that way when you see a policeman?" he demanded. "You talked about policemen yesterday," said Clancy. "Don't talk about them to-day. I want to see Mr. Zenda," she added. Weber interjected himself into the scene. "I suppose you do. But you see, Florine, my little dear, we're seeing you first. And you're seeing us first." "Pretty clever of you, writing to Zenda," said Grannis. "Never occurred to you that, getting a letter from you, I might run through Zenda's mail, looking for a note in the same handwriting, eh?" "No-o, it didn't," said Clancy slowly. "Yet, I suppose I should have known that one kind of crook is another kind, too." Grannis nodded his head. His underlip came forward a trifle. "I'll give you credit; you're game enough. If being a fool can be called gameness. And any one that parts with a thousand dollars in this town is certainly a fool. But _that's_ all right. You probably don't need money. 'Little Miss Millions' is your name, I suppose." Clancy yawned. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Mr. Grannis, but if you're being funny, I somehow can't get it." "You will!" snapped Grannis. "Look here, Miss Deane! You're breaking into matters that don't concern you." "I suppose I am," said Clancy. She turned to Weber. "I understood that New York's climate was bad for you," she said. "Not half as unhealthy as it's going to be for you, Florine," he retorted. "You can make up your mind this minute. Either out of town for yours or the Tombs. Take your pick." He had advanced threateningly until he stood over Clancy. Grannis pushed him aside. "Let me handle her," he said. "Now, let's get down to cases, Miss Deane. Ike never done anything to you, did he?" Clancy shrugged. "'Course he didn't," said Grannis. "Then why not be a regular feller and keep out of things that don't concern you? Zenda never paid the rent for you, did he? No. We're willing to pay the rent and the eats, too, for a long while to come. That thousand is only a part. Listen: Ike got me on the long-distance last night. I told him it's O. K. to come back to town, that Zenda, with you keeping your face closed, couldn't do a thing to him. And then I get your letter this morning, and grab your note to Zenda. I find out that you're giving me the double cross. Well, we won't quarrel about it. Maybe you think Zenda is a heavier payer than I'd be. But you'd have to gamble on that, wouldn't you? You don't have to gamble on me. You take ten thousand dollars and leave town for just six months. That's all I ask. How about it?" "I thought that you were Zenda's partner," said Clancy. Her pretty lips curled in the faintest contemptuous sneer. "Never mind about that," snapped Grannis. "You're not talking to any one's partner, now. You're just talking to me." "And me," put in Weber. "And both of you want me to help you in swindling Mr. Zenda?" said Clancy. Weber took a step toward her, his big fist clenched. Once again, Grannis intervened. "Never mind the rough stuff, Ike!" he cried. "Let me handle her. Now, Miss Deane, are you going to listen to sense? Ike is back in town. He don't feel like skipping out every time you get a change of heart. And listen to this: Ike is a good-hearted guy, at that. All you can tell Zenda won't _prove_ anything. It'll just cause a lot of trouble--that's all. It'll make a bunch of scandal, you claiming that Fay Marston told you that Ike was gyping Zenda, but it won't _prove_ much." "I don't suppose that your offering me money to leave town will prove anything, either," said Clancy. "I'll just say you lie," said Grannis. "I wonder which one of us Mr. Zenda will believe," retorted Clancy. "I've never been in jail. I've got no criminal record," said Grannis. "Neither have I!" cried Clancy. Grannis smiled. It was a nasty smile, a smile that chilled Clancy. The advantage that she had felt was somehow hers seemed to have left her. She became suddenly just what she always was, a young girl, unwise in the ways of the metropolis. Courage, desperation made her forget this, but when courage ebbed, though ever so slightly, she became fearful, conscious of a mighty aloneness. She felt this way now. For Grannis turned and walked to a farther door, opposite the one which the tall youth had locked. He opened it and cried out dramatically, "Come in, Mrs. Weber!" Clancy's fingers stopped drumming on the table. She eyed, wonderingly and fearfully, the tall figure of Fay Marston, who was cloaked in a short squirrel-skin jacket. Below that appeared the skirt of a dark-blue dress. Her shoes, despite the inclement weather, were merely slippers. Her blond hair was almost entirely hidden by a jaunty hat, also of a squirrel-skin. Altogether, she was an amazingly prosperous-seeming individual. And she was the sort of person to whom prosperity would always bring insolence of manner. Her expression now was languidly insulting as she looked at Clancy. "This the woman?" asked Grannis. Fay nodded. "She's the one." "No question about it, is there?" demanded Weber. "Why, you know there isn't," said Fay, in apparent surprise. "I took her to Zenda's party at the Château de la Reine, and, later, up to his apartment. You was with us all the time." "Yes," said Weber; "but two identifications are better than one, you know." He turned to Grannis. "You might as well call him in," he said. Grannis had been standing by the door. He swung it wide, and called, "Come in, officer." Clancy's fingers clenched. It seemed to her like a scene in a play or a moving picture--Fay's identification of her, Grannis' dramatic manner at the door, and now the entrance of a policeman. [Illustration] Grannis pointed to Clancy. "Arrest her, officer!" he cried. The uniformed man moved toward Clancy. She shrunk away from him. "What for?" she cried. "You'll find out soon enough," said the policeman, with a grin. Fay Marston laughed shrilly. "Ain't that like a thief, though? Trust her kind to have nerve!" "'Thief!'" Clancy stared at her. "Thief's what I said, and it's what I mean, too." It was too absurd! Had the charge been that of murder, Clancy would not have laughed. That charge would soon be made against her. But, until it was---- "What am I supposed to have stolen?" Clancy asked. "You ain't _supposed_ to have stolen anything," said Weber. "You're _known_ to have stolen a pearl necklace from my wife." "A pearl necklace," said Fay glibly. "She came into my room at the Napoli. I was packin', officer, gettin' ready to take a little trip with my husband. I asked her to pack the necklace and some other things for me. She said she'd put them in a bag. The necklace was missin' when I opened the bag next day." Clancy laughed. It was ridiculous. "You can't arrest me on a story like that!" she cried. "Not if we produce the pawnbroker where you pawned the pearls?" sneered Weber. "You can't," said Clancy. Yet, as she looked from his sneering face to the threatening eyes of Grannis, she wondered whether or not they could. She had read of "frame-ups." Was it possible that she was to be the victim of one? "Like to talk it over a bit?" asked Grannis. She made no verbal answer, but her expression was reply enough. "Wait in the next room, officer," said Grannis. The policeman looked undecided. "It ain't regular," he muttered. "I know it isn't," said Grannis, "but--under the circumstances----" "All right," said the officer. He walked through the door, which Grannis closed after him. Then Zenda's sallow-faced partner came close to Clancy. "I'm going to talk turkey," he declared. "You've butted in on a game that's a whole lot bigger than you are, little girl. We don't want to ride you, but we ain't going to let you ride us, neither. It's up to you. Fay will swear that you took her necklace. We've got a pawnbroker all lined up. He'll not only identify you but he'll produce his books and the necklace that you stole. We're in earnest. Now--will you take ten thousand and--get?" Clancy was beaten; she knew it; at least, she had lost the second round. That it was the final round she could not believe. And yet, if she refused their money, they'd not believe her. They would take her to jail. By this time, Vandervent's men were doubtless searching for her. With the ten thousand dollars she might flee. She wouldn't use a penny of it. But she'd take it, merely in order that they'd believe her. She let Grannis press the money into her hand. Head down, she heard Grannis call in the policeman and state that she had promised to make restitution. The policeman, with some grumbling, left. Clancy supposed that it was an ordinary sort of thing; the officer was venal, would be unfaithful to his duty for the sake of a few dollars. She listened apathetically to Grannis' threats. They didn't interest her. New York had whipped her. Yet, when she left the building, she stopped before a hotel across the street. There she tried to engage a taxi-cab to take her up to Park Avenue. But the taximen were emulating their millionaire brethren. They were profiteering. Inasmuch as the travel was difficult because of the snow, the man wanted triple fare. Clancy couldn't afford it. She tramped across Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue, fought her way, buffeted by the wind, up to Forty-eighth, and then crossed over to Park avenue. She didn't know exactly where Zenda lived, but she did know that it was a corner apartment-building on the east side of the avenue. Her fourth inquiry was rewarded with the information that Zenda lived there. But when her name was telephoned up-stairs, word came back that Mr. Zenda had been taken ill last night with influenza, and was unconscious at the moment. She turned away. The Fates were against Clancy and with her enemies. Still--she had ten thousand dollars in her pocketbook. One could do a great deal with ten thousand dollars. But she dismissed the temptation as quickly as it had come to her. She'd go home and wait the certain arrival of Vandervent's men. She shrugged, her lips curling in a self-amused smile. She'd been frightened at arrest on a trumped-up charge, while imminent arrest on a charge that would be supported by strong circumstantial evidence was just round the corner. She was a funny person, this Clancy. Little things scared her; big things-- But big things scared her, too. For when Mrs. Gerand met her at the door of the lodging-house, after Clancy had survived the perilous journey down Fifth Avenue on the 'bus, the landlady's first words were that a gentleman awaited her. Not until Randall had held her hand a full minute could Clancy realize that it wasn't a detective from the district attorney's office. XVII Clancy had, on the other occasions on which she had met David Randall, been cool, aloof, mildly flirtatious, fun-making. Even when fear had swayed her and he had guessed at some worry eating at her heart, she had managed to preserve a verbal self-command. But it was a Clancy whom he had never met before who faced him now. It was an incoherent Clancy, who said brokenly, while his big hand still held hers: "What a surprise! I expected--I'm _glad_-- What a terrible storm--so much snow--in a few hours-- Wasn't it fun--last night?" Then the incoherence that, from a person who had heretofore been always in complete possession of herself, was all the more charming, vanished. She looked down at her hand, then demurely up at him. With Vandervent's detectives ready to knock upon the front door--it is a peculiar thing that one always thinks of detectives as knocking, never ringing--with ten thousand dollars of venal money in her purse; with flight from the city as her only escape--and that, her common sense told her, a temporary one--from her amazing difficulties; with her career, not merely the moving-picture ambitions but the new one of achieving success with Miss Henderson, vanishing as the snow upon the streets would vanish before the rain and sun; with more trouble than she could cope with, Clancy became demure. She was thoroughly feminine. And a woman regards a man as something to be swayed by her. So Clancy forgot her own troubles for the moment in the pleasing task of making Randall's face redder than it was. "You like it?" she asked. He didn't understand her. "My hand," she explained. Randall dropped it at once. Her own incoherence communicated itself to him. "I didn't mean-- I didn't realize----" "Oh, it's perfectly all right," said Clancy soothingly. "If I were you, I'd probably like to hold my hand, too." She laughed. Randall discovered from the laugh that he had not offended irreparably. Emboldened, he snatched at the hand again. But they were in the hall, and Mrs. Gerand, disapproving of eye as she looked at this young couple violating the austerity of her house by open and bold flirtation, was only twenty feet away. "Let's go in the parlor," said Clancy. There was a sort of sofa near the old-fashioned marble mantel in the parlor, and in the exact center of this Clancy sat. Randall was forced to deposit himself upon a chair, a rickety affair which he drew as near to Clancy as he dared. He coughed nervously. Then he smiled--a broad smile, the smile, he thought, of large friendliness, of kindly impersonality. Clancy was not deceived by it. "How'd you find me here?" she demanded. "Didn't I refuse to tell you my address?" "Mrs. Carey told me this morning." "Oh, she did! Why did she do that?" "It wasn't a crime, was it?" asked Randall aggrievedly. "I guess that she thought she owed it to me--after last night." "What do you mean?" Randall's eyes lowered. He fidgeted uneasily in his chair. Then he lifted his eyes until they met hers. "Well, she wouldn't give me a chance last night." "'A chance?' What do you mean?" Clancy sat bolt upright on the sofa. "She was afraid that you might listen to me." The explanation didn't quite explain. "I'm listening to you now," she said. "Yes; yes"--and Randall smiled rather wanly--"Mrs. Carey is a mind-reader, I think. She knew that I intended--she knew what I intended to say," he corrected his phrasing, "and she didn't want me to say it." Into Clancy's eyes came glints of merriment. "Oh, yes; she was afraid that you would propose to me." Somehow or other, without Clancy putting it into words, her manner indicated an amused scorn. Randall was in love--in love in that terrific and overwhelmingly passionate fashion that only love at first sight can attain. But he was a grown man, who had proved, by his business success, his right to walk among men. He was good-natured, would always be good-natured. But he had self-respect. And now he hit back. "Oh, no," he said; "she was afraid that you would accept me." Not afraid to hit back, nevertheless, for a moment, he feared that he had struck too hard. He misread, at first, the light in Clancy's eyes. He thought it was anger. But, to his relieved amazement, she began to laugh. "Some one has a flattering conception of you, Mr. Randall," she told him. He grinned cheerfully. "Not flattering, Miss Deane--correct." "Hm." Clancy pursed her lips. "You think well of Mr. David Randall, don't you?" "I couldn't offer you goods of whose value I had any doubt, Miss Deane," he retorted. Clancy's respect for him reached an amazing altitude. He could, after all, then, be quick of speech. And Clancy liked a man who could find ready verbal expression for his thoughts. "I take it, then, that you are definitely offering me your hand and fifty per cent of all your worldly goods, Mr. Randall." "Do you accept them?" he asked. Clancy shook her head, smiling. "Not to-day, thank you." Randall frowned. "Mrs. Carey is altogether too ambitious," he said. "She couldn't play Fate." Clancy made a _moue_. "Oh, then, last night--you think it might have been different?" "I have no thoughts, Miss Deane--merely hopes. But Mrs. Carey said that you were worried-- I could see that, too--and she thought that it wasn't fair----" Clancy felt a sudden resentment at Sophie Carey. After all, even though Mrs. Carey had been ever so kind, it had all been voluntary. Clancy hadn't dreamed of asking anything of her. And even involuntary kindness, grudging kindness, doesn't bestow upon the donor the right to direct the affairs of the donee. Once again, she was rather certain that she and Sophie Carey would never be real friends. She would always owe the older woman gratitude, but---- "Not fair, eh? You didn't mind that, though." The humor left Randall's eyes. He was deadly serious as he answered, "Miss Deane, any way that I could get you would be fair enough for me." "But why hurry matters?" smiled Clancy. "'Hurry?'" His smile was a little bit uneasy. "You--you're destined to a great success, Miss Deane, and pretty soon I'm afraid that you'll be way beyond my reach." "I suppose that I should courtesy," said Clancy. "But I won't. I'll simply tell you that----" "Don't tell me anything unless it's something I want to hear," he interposed. "You'll like this, I'm sure," she said naïvely. "Because I was going to tell you that I like you immensely, and--well, I like you." "And you won't marry me?" "Well, not now, at any rate," she replied. He rose abruptly. "I'm sorry--awfully sorry. You see--last night--it's altogether ridiculous, I suppose, my expecting, daring to hope, even, that a girl like you would fall in love with me so soon. But--you're so lovely! Vandervent--last night--please don't be offended--and I'm leaving town to-day." "'Leaving town?'" Clancy was shocked. "That's why. I'll be gone a month. And I've never met a girl like you. Never will again; I know that. I--didn't want to tell you last night. It wasn't absolutely decided. If I'd taken you home--well, I'd have told you. Because I'd have proposed then. But not at Mrs. Carey's. I hoped to--sort of surprise you in the taxi. But that chance went. You spent the night at her house. And I'm leaving to-day." "Where for?" she asked. She didn't know how dull her voice had suddenly become. She wasn't in love with Randall. Clancy Deane was not the kind to surrender her heart at the first request. Her head would not rule her heart, yet it would guide it. Under normal conditions, even had she fallen in love with Randall, she would not have married him offhand, as he suggested. She would demand time in which to think the matter over. But these were abnormal conditions. She was in danger. In the rare moments, when she could force her mind to analyze the situation, she believed that her danger was not great, that the police _must_ believe her story. But she was a young and somewhat headstrong girl; fear triumphed over reason most of the time. If she loved Randall, she might have accepted him. Of course, she would have told him her predicament. She was enough of a character-reader to know that Randall would believe her and marry her. But she didn't love him. "California," he said. "A moving-picture combination. They've asked me to handle the flotation of stock and the placing of the bonds. It's a big thing, and I want to look the proposition over." He leaned suddenly near to her. "Oh, don't you think that you can come with me? If you knew how much I cared!" She shook her head. "I don't love you," she said. He managed a smile. The nicest thing about him, Clancy decided, was his sportsmanship. "Well, I _have_ rushed matters, Miss Deane. But--don't forget me, please." "I won't," she promised. "And I hope you have a fine trip and make a great success." "Thank you," he said. "Good-by." They touched hands for a moment, and then he was gone. Thus banal, almost always, are the moments that follow upon the ones that have reached for the height of emotion. Clancy was left alone almost before she realized it. Up-stairs, in her shabby bedroom, she wondered if any other girl had ever crowded so much of differing experience into a few days. Truth was stranger than fiction--save in this: in fiction, all difficulties were finally surmounted, all problems solved. But her own case-- One who flees always prejudices his case. Fanchon DeLisle's reply to Vandervent's telegram would arrive by the morrow, anyway. The only reason that Clancy had not been called upon by Vandervent's men that she could conceive was that the storm had delayed the transmission of telegrams. A thin reed on which to lean! She suddenly wished with all her heart that she loved Randall. If she did love him, she could demand his protection. That protection suddenly loomed large before her frightened eyes. Well, there was only one thing to do. Accepting defeat bravely is better than running away from it eternally. Also, in her mind lived the idea that Vandervent might possibly-- Absurd! He'd only met her last night. And he was an officer of the law, sworn to do his duty. She had no preconceived idea of what she'd do. She felt dull, bewildered, dazed. Surrender! It was the only thing to do. Better by far that than being rudely taken to the Tombs. She'd read of the Tombs prison. What a horrible name! How it suggested the gruesome things! Lesser characters than Clancy for much less reason have had recourse to poison, to other things-- It never even entered her head. Mrs. Gerand, amazed at the question, told her where to find the district attorney's office. Clancy fought her way to the Astor Place subway station. She got off at Brooklyn Bridge. From there, a policeman directed her to the Criminal Courts Building. In the lobby, an attendant told her that Mr. Vandervent's office was on the third floor. She took an elevator, and, after entering two offices, was correctly directed. To a clerk who asked her business, she merely replied: "Tell Mr. Vandervent that Florine Ladue wishes to see him." The clerk showed no surprise. That was natural. Vandervent's underlings, of course, knew nothing of the clue which Vandervent possessed to the identity of the Beiner murderer. He departed toward an inner office. Clancy sank down upon a wooden bench. Well, this was the end. She supposed that she'd be handcuffed, locked in a cell. She picked up a newspaper, a paper largely devoted to theatrical doings. Idly she read the dramatic gossip. She turned a page, and glanced a second time at a portrait displayed there. It was a picture of Fanchon DeLisle. Her bosom rose; in her excitement she did not breathe. For beneath the picture was a head-line reading: FAMOUS SOUBRETTE DIES OF INFLUENZA She read the brief paragraph that followed. Fanchon DeLisle, leading woman of the New York Blondes Company, had died of the "flu" in Belknap, Ohio, on Wednesday afternoon. It was her second attack of the disease. Clancy's eyes blurred. She read no more. She looked about her. She must escape. Fanchon DeLisle was the only person who could tell Vandervent that Florine Ladue was Clancy Deane. Of course, Fay Marston knew, but Fay Marston's knowledge was not known to the police. Only Fanchon DeLisle could, just now, at any rate, tell that Clancy-- She had sent in the name, Florine Ladue! She must escape before Vandervent-- But even as she rose tremblingly to her feet, Vandervent entered the outer reception-room. He stopped short at sight of Clancy. His mouth opened. But Clancy didn't hear what he said, because she fainted. XVIII Clancy came out of her faint mentally alert, although physically weak. It took her but the smallest fraction of time after she recovered consciousness to remember all that had led up to her collapse. And she kept her eyes closed long enough to marshal to her aid all those defensive instincts inherent in the human species. So, when she did open her eyes, that consummate courage which is mistaken for histrionism made her wreathe her lips in a smile. She was lying on a leather-covered couch in what she learned, in a moment, was Vandervent's private office. Her eyes rested on the tenant of that office. His broad shoulders were slightly stooped as he bent toward her. In his hand, he held a glass of water. She noted immediately that his hand shook, that water slopped over the edge of the glass. "You--feel better?" he asked breathlessly. Clancy sat upright, her hand straying to her hair. She looked beyond Vandervent to where stood a man in a badly cut blue suit. His black mustache was gray at the roots, and the vanity that this use of dye indicated was proved by the outthrust of his lower lip. A shrewder observer than Clancy--one versed in the study of physiognomy--would have known that the jutting lip had been trained to come forward, that the aggressiveness it denoted was the aggressiveness of the bully, not of a man of character. His round chin was belligerent enough, as were his little round blue eyes, but there was that lack of coordination in his features that is found in all weak souls. But, to Clancy, he was terrifying. His small eyes were filled with suspicion, filled with more than that--with a menace that was personal. Clancy reached for the glass of water; she drank it thirstily, yet in a leisurely manner. She watched the blue-suited man closely. She put back the glass into Vandervent's outstretched hand. "Thank you--so much," she said. "It's a wonder that you didn't let me lie where I fell, after my playing such a silly joke." She saw Vandervent cast a glance over his shoulder at the blue-suited man. His head nodded slightly. Had he phrased it in words, he could not more clearly have said, "I told you so." And if the blue-suited man had replied verbally, he could not have said more clearly than he did by the expression of his eyes, "She's lying." Vandervent's shoulders shrugged slightly; his keen gray eyes gleamed. Once again it was as though he spoke and said, "I'll show you that she isn't." It was a swift byplay, but need sharpens one's wits. Not that Clancy's ever were dull, for, indeed, a lesser character, even in such danger as hers, might have been too concerned with her physical well-being, her appearance, to notice anything else. But she caught the byplay, and it brought a silent sigh of relief up from her chest. She was on her own ground now, the ground of sex. Had Vandervent been a woman, such a woman as Sophie Carey or Sally Henderson, Clancy would have surrendered immediately, would have known that she had not a chance in the world of persuading any woman that she had played a joke when she announced herself as Florine Ladue. But with a man--with Philip Vandervent, whose hand shook as he held a glass of water for her, whose eyes expressed a flattering anxiety--Clancy's smile would have been scornful had not scorn been a bit out of place at the moment. Instead, it was shyly confident. "A--er--a joke, of course, Miss Deane," said Vandervent. "Not so very funny, though, after all," said Clancy, with just enough timidity in her manner to flatter Vandervent. The blue-coated man snorted. "'Joke!' 'Funny!' Excuse me, lady; but where do you get your humor?" Vandervent wheeled and glared at the man. "That'll be about all, Spofford!" he snapped. Spofford shrugged. "You're the boss," he said. "Only--how does she happen to know the name Florine Ladue? Answer me that, will you?" "I told her," said Vandervent shortly. Spofford caressed his mustache. "Oh, I getcha. Oh-h!" His grin was complimentary neither to Clancy nor Vandervent. Then it died away; his eyes became shrewd, although his voice was drawling. "And the faintin'--that was part of the joke, eh, lady?" Clancy felt a little chill of nervous apprehension run between her shoulder-blades. Confidence left her. This man Spofford, she seemed to foresee, might be dangerous. She was not out of the woods yet. But Vandervent's words reassured her. "Miss Deane doesn't need to explain anything to you, Spofford." There was a touch of petulance in the assistant district attorney's voice. Spofford recognized it. "Sure not, Mr. Vandervent. Certainly she don't. Only--" He paused; he turned, and started for the door. Vandervent recalled him sharply. "What do you mean by 'only,' Spofford?" "Well, she come in here and said she was Florine Ladue--and then she faints when you come out to see her. I meant that, if there was any of the newspaper boys hangin' around----" "There weren't," said Vandervent. "And if the papers should mention Miss Deane's joke--" The threat was quite patent. "They won't," said Spofford. He cast a glance at Clancy. It was a peculiar glance, a glance that told her that in his eyes she was a suspicious character--no better than she should be, to put it mildly. And Vandervent's expression, as he turned toward her, drove away what fears Spofford's expression had aroused. For, despite his effort to seem casual, the young man was excited. And not excited because of the name that she had sent in, or because she had fainted, but excited simply because Clancy Deane was alone in the room with him. He moved toward her. Quite calmly she assumed control of the situation, and did it by so simple a method as extending her hand for the glass which he still held and uttering the single word: "Please." She held the glass to her lips for a full minute, sipping slowly. Falsehood was repugnant to her. Yet she must think of how best to deceive Vandervent. "I suppose I've made you very angry," she said, putting the glass down upon the couch beside her. "'Angry?' How could you make me angry--by coming to see me?" Vandervent, with an acquaintance that comprised the flower of American and European society, was no different from any other young and normal male. His attitude now was that of the young man from Zenith or any other town in America. He was embarrassed and flattered. And he was so because a pretty girl was showing a certain interest in him. "But to--fool you! I--you'll forgive me?" She was conscious that she was pleading prettily. "Forgive you? Why--" Vandervent had difficulty in finding words. He was not a particularly impressionable young man. Had he been so, he could not, with his name and fortune, have remained a bachelor until his thirtieth birthday. Clancy took up the not easily rolling ball of conversation. "Because it was a terrible impertinence. I--you see----" She paused in her turn. "Jolly good joke!" said Vandervent, finally finding, apparently to oblige his guest, humor in the situation. "You can't imagine my excitement. Just had a wire from the chief of police in Belknap, Ohio, that Fanchon DeLisle was dead. Didn't see how we could locate this Ladue woman, when in comes a clerk saying that she's outside. I tell you, I never was so excited. Then I saw you, and you--tell me: why did you faint?" He put the question suddenly. "Why did I faint?" She tried to laugh, and succeeded admirably. "I'm used to cold weather and blizzards. In Zenith, sometimes, it is thirty below, and the snow is piled ten feet high in the big drifts. But one dresses for it, or doesn't go outdoors. And, to-day, I wanted to see New York so much. I've only been here since Monday. The cars aren't running very regularly, so I walked down-town. And I guess I grew cold and tired. I feel ever so much better now," she ended chirpily. "I'm glad of that," he smiled. "And some one told me that this was the Criminal Courts Building, and I thought--I thought of--" She paused at exactly the right moment. "Of me?" asked Vandervent. He colored faintly. "I'm here," said Clancy. "And I thought that perhaps you wouldn't remember my name; so I--thought I'd play a joke. You _will_ forgive me, won't you?" He laughed. "I'm afraid that Spofford won't, but I will." "'Spofford?' The man who was here?" asked Clancy. "One of the detectives attached to the staff. Hasn't much sense of humor, I'm afraid. But it doesn't matter." He sat down, pulling up a chair opposite her. "I think it's mighty nice of you to call down here, Miss Deane." "You don't think it's bold of me?" she asked. "Hardly. Would you like to go over the Tombs?" Clancy shuddered. "Indeed I wouldn't!" "No morbid curiosity? I'm glad of that." "'Glad?' Why?" "Oh, well, just because," he blurted. Clancy looked demurely downward, fixing a button on her glove. For a moment, there was silence. Then Clancy rose to her feet. She held out her hand to Vandervent. "You've been so kind," she said. "If you'd arrested me for my silly joke, you'd have done to me what I deserved to have happen." "Not at all," he said. "I feel that--that maybe I scared you when I came in----" "Not a bit. I was--tired." "You must let me take you home," he said. She shook her head. "I've troubled you enough. _Please!_"--as he seemed about to insist. "I'm _really_ all right." He eyed her doubtfully. "You're sure?" "Positive." "All right, then; but--I'd _like_ to." She became mockingly stern. "I've interrupted the course of justice enough for one day. Some other time, perhaps." "There'll be another time?" he asked eagerly. "Well"--she was doubtful--"I can't promise." "But we might have luncheon together. Or tea? Or dinner?" He was flatteringly eager. "I'll see," said Clancy. Down-stairs, in the great lobby of the building, she marveled that she had escaped so easily. To have announced herself as Florine Ladue, the woman wanted for Beiner's murder, to have fainted when Vandervent came out, and still to have avoided, by a puerile explanation, all penalties was a piece of good luck that was incredible. She blessed the person unknown who had left the newspaper on the bench. The luckiest of chances had saved her from betrayal. Had she not read of Fanchon's death-- She shuddered. Then her eyes clouded. She had been fighting, with all the wit she owned, for liberty. She had not yet had opportunity to pay to Fanchon's death the tribute of sorrow that it demanded. She had known Fanchon but slightly; the woman was of a class to which Clancy could never belong--a coarse but good-hearted vulgarian. And she had tried to help Clancy in return for little kindnesses that Clancy had shown her when she lay ill with the "flu" in Zenith. And now this same disease had finally killed the kindly soubrette. Her death had saved Clancy from disgrace--from worse, perhaps, if there is anything worse than disgrace-- She suddenly realized how lucky she had been. She stopped outside to adjust her veil. And she noticed that Spofford, the dyed-mustached gentleman of Vandervent's office, also emerged from the building. She shuddered. If her wit had not been quick, if she had not remembered, on, coming out of her faint, that the item in the paper had removed all danger, his hand might now be clasped about her wrist. Instead of walking toward the subway, she might now be on her way to the Tombs. Spofford turned south toward the Brooklyn Bridge. She would never, thank God, see him again. For nothing would ever tempt her to the Criminal Courts Building another time. Its shadow would hang over her soul as long as she lived. She had had the narrowest escape that was possible, and she would not tempt fate again. She would never learn. As her mind ceased to dwell upon the problem of her connection with Beiner's mysterious fate and moved on to consider what she should do with Grannis's ten thousand dollars, it was as though the Beiner incident were forever closed. Clancy had too much Irish in her for trouble to bear down upon her very long. She would never learn that issues are never avoided but must always be met. She was in a congratulatory mood toward herself because Vandervent had not suspected the grim truth behind what she called a jest. She had conquered this difficulty by the aid of fate; fate would help her again to handle the Grannis-Zenda-Weber matter. So she reasoned. It would straighten itself out, she assured herself. XIX There was a lunch-room on Broadway, just below Eighth Street. Clancy, walking westward from Astor Place, the station at which she emerged from the subway, saw its window-display of not too appetizing appeal, and paused. To-day was Friday; it was quite possible that Sally Henderson would to-morrow give her new employee an advance upon salary. But Clancy had learned something. That something was that New York is not a place in which to reveal one's pecuniary embarrassment. It was not that New York was hard-hearted, Clancy decided. It was that it was a busy place, and had no time to listen to whines. To ask an advance on salary was, in a way, to whine. Clancy was not going to begin her relationship with Sally Henderson on anything but a basis of independence. So her pause before the lunch-room was only momentary. She entered it immediately. The Trevor was only two hundred yards away, but Clancy had only a pitiful amount of money in her pocket. That is, money that belonged to her. Grannis's ten thousand was not hers. To whom she would give it, she did not yet know, but she did know that she would starve before she used any of it. It might be that Sally Henderson would pay her a half-week's salary to-morrow. She must hope for that. But she must not rely on it. Hence she must live leanly. This was only her fifth day in New York. It had been her fortune to eat at restaurants of the better class, at a private home. Now, for the first time since her arrival from Zenith, she had opportunity to find out what might have been, what might still be, her lot. Not that the food in the lunch-room was particularly bad. Of its kind, it was rather good. But there was the stain of egg upon the table-cloth; the waiter who served her was unshaven. The dishes in which the food was served were of the heaviest of china. And Clancy was of the sort that prefers indifferent food well served to good food execrably presented. She paid her check--considering that she had had only corned-beef hash and tea and bread, she thought that sixty cents was an exorbitant charge--tipped the waiter a dime, and trudged out into the storm again. The snow had ceased falling, but only one so weather-wise as the Maine-bred Clancy would have known that. For the flurries blown by the gale had all the appearance of a continuing blizzard. Bending forward, she made her way to Fifth Avenue, and thence south across Washington Square. Twice, feeling very much alone in the gloom, she made detours to avoid coming too near men whom she observed moving her way. She was yet to learn that, considering its enormous heterogeneous population, New York holds few dangers for the unescorted girl. And so she ran the last few yards, and breathed with relief when the latch-key that Mrs. Gerand had given her admitted her to the lodging-house on the south side of the square. In her room, her outer clothing removed, she pulled a shabby rocking-chair to the window and looked out upon the dimly descried trees, ghostly in their snowy habiliments. Chin on elbow, she pondered. The wraith of Florine Ladue was laid. So she believed. And she could find no reason to fear a resurrection. Beiner, who knew her, could recognize her as Florine Ladue, was dead. So was Fanchon DeLisle. Zenda, Grannis, Weber, and the others of the poker-party at Zenda's knew that she called herself "Florine." But it was quite a distance from knowing that a young woman had named herself Florine to proof that the same young woman's last name was Ladue, and that she had visited Morris Beiner's office. Of course--and Clancy's brows knitted at the thought--if there were any legal trouble over the Weber-Zenda-Grannis matter and she testified in court, and Vandervent or Spofford or some other of the district attorney's office heard or saw testimony which involved the fact that she'd used the name "Florine," that person would do some thinking, would wonder how much jesting had been behind her announcement of herself under the name of the woman wanted for the Beiner murder. In that case---- What about that case? Oddly enough--yet not so oddly, after all, when one considers that Clancy was only twenty years of age--up to now she had given a great deal of thought to her predicament and practically none to the real way out of it. She marveled at herself. Why in that case, she'd be in desperate danger, as great danger as she had been in just before she picked up the paper in Vandervent's anteroom, and the only way out of that danger, without lasting disgrace at the least, would be the production of the real murderer of Morris Beiner. The real murderer! She drew in her breath with a whistle. Beiner had been killed; she was suspected. These were facts, and the only facts that she had reckoned with. But the greater fact, though up to now ignored by her, was that _somebody_ had killed Beiner. Some one had entered the man's office and slain him, probably as he lay unconscious on the floor. That _somebody_ was foot-loose now, perhaps in New York, free from suspicion. She straightened up, alert, nervous. Suddenly, horror--a horror which fear had managed to keep from her till now--assailed her. _A murderer!_ And free! Free to commit other murders! She started as a knock sounded upon the door. And, queerly, she didn't think of the police; she thought of the murderer of Beiner. It was with difficulty that she mastered herself sufficiently to answer the knock. It was Mrs. Gerand. Miss Deane was wanted on the telephone. It was not a moment when Clancy wished to talk to any one. She wished to be alone, to study upon this new problem--the problem that should have been in her mind these past three days but that had only popped into it now. But the telephone issued commands that just now she dared not disobey. It might be Grannis or Vandervent. She ran down-stairs ahead of Mrs. Gerand. A booming voice, recognition of which came to her at once, greeted her. "Hello!" "Miss Deane? This is Judge Walbrough speaking." "Oh, how do you do?" said Clancy. In her relief, she was extremely enthusiastic. The deep voice at the other end of the wire chuckled. "You know the meaning of the word 'palaver,' don't you, young woman? The happy way you speak, any one'd think I was a gay young blade like David Randall or Vandervent instead of an old fogy." "'Old fogy!' Why, Judge Walbrough!" Clancy's tone was rebuking, politely incredulous, amused--everything, in short, that a young girl's voice should be when a man just passing middle age terms himself "old." Walbrough chuckled again. "Oh, it's a great gift. Miss Deane; never lose it. The young men don't matter. Any girl can catch one of them. But to catch the oldsters like myself--oldsters who know that they can't catch you--that takes genius, Miss Deane." Clancy laughed. "Please don't flatter me, Judge. Because, you know, I _believe_ you, and----" "Sh," said Walbrough. As he uttered the warning, his voice became almost a roar. "The jealous woman might overhear us; she is listening in the next room now----" There was the sound of a scuffle; then came to Clancy's ears the softer voice of Mrs. Walbrough. "Miss Deane, the senile person who just spoke to you is absurd enough to think that if an old couple--I mean an old man and his young wife--asked you, you'd probably break an engagement with some dashing bachelor and sit with us at the opera." "I don't know the senile person to whom you refer," retorted Clancy, "but if you and the judge would like me to go, I'd love to, even though I have no engagement to break." "We won't insist on the breaking, then. Will you run over and dine with us?" Clancy was astonished. Then she remembered that she had dined rather early at the Broadway lunch-room. It really wasn't more than six-thirty now. People like the Walbroughs, of course, didn't dine until after seven, possibly until eight. "I won't do that," she answered. "I'd intended to go to bed--it's such a terrible night. And I ate before I came home--but I'd love to come and sit with you," she finished impulsively. There was something warm, motherly in the older woman's reply. "And we'd love to have you, Miss Deane. I'll send the car around right away." Clancy shrugged as she surveyed again her meager wardrobe. But the Walbroughs must know that she lived in a lodging-house--she supposed that they'd obtained her telephone-number and address from Sophie Carey--and the fact that she didn't possess a gorgeous evening gown wouldn't mean much to them, she hoped. And believed, too. For they were most human persons, even if they did, according to Sophie Carey, matter a lot in New York. Mrs. Gerand was quite breathless when she announced to Clancy, half an hour after the telephone-call, that a big limousine was calling for the newest Gerand lodger. Clancy was already dressed in the pretty foulard that was her only evening frock. Mrs. Gerand solicitously helped her on with her shabby blue coat. Her voice was lowered in awe as she asked: "It ain't _the_ Walbroughs, is it? The chauffeur said, 'Judge Walbrough's car;' but not _the_ judge, is it?" "Are there two of them?" laughed Clancy. Mrs. Gerand shook her head. "Not that I ever heard of, Miss Deane. But--gee, you got swell friends, ain't you?" Clancy laughed again. "Have I?" "I'll say you have," said Mrs. Gerand. * * * * * The Walbrough home was on Murray Hill, though Clancy didn't know at the time that the section of the city directly south of the Grand Central Station was so named. It was not a new house, and it looked as though it was lived in--something that cannot always be said of New York homes, whether in apartment-buildings or in single houses. It was homey in the sense that the houses in Zenith were homey. And, even though a colored man in evening clothes opened the front door, and though a colored maid relieved Clancy of her coat, Clancy felt, from the moment that she passed the threshold, that she was in a _home_. Her host met her at the top of a flight of stairs. His great hands enveloped hers. They drew her toward him. Before she knew it, he had kissed her. And Clancy did the thing that made two admiring acquaintances adoring friends for life. She kissed the judge warmly in return. For Mrs. Walbrough was standing a trifle behind the judge, although Clancy hadn't seen her. She came forward now, wringing her hands with a would-be pathetic expression on her face. "I can't trust the man a moment, Miss Deane. And, to make it worse, I find that I can't trust you." She drew Clancy close to her. She, too, kissed the girl, and found the kiss returned. "Why shouldn't I kiss him?" demanded Clancy. "He brags so much, I wanted to find out if he knew how." "Does he?" asked Mrs. Walbrough. Clancy's eyes twinkled. "Well, you see," she answered, "I'm not really a judge myself." The judge exploded in a huge guffaw. "With eyes like hers, Irish gray eyes, why shouldn't she have wit? Tell me, Miss Deane: You have Irish blood in you?" "My first name is Clancy," replied the girl. "Enough," said the judge. He heaved a great mock sigh. "Now, if only Martha would catch a convenient cold or headache----" Mrs. Walbrough tapped him with an ostrich-plume fan. "Tom, Miss Deane is our guest. Please stop annoying her. The suggestion that she should spend an hour alone with you must be horrifying to any young lady. Come." The judge gave an arm to each of the ladies, and they walked, with much stateliness on the part of the judge, to a dining-room that opened off the landing at the head of the stairs. Clancy felt happier than she had deemed it possible for her to be. Perhaps the judge's humor was a little crude; perhaps it was even stupid. But to be with two people who so evidently liked her, and who so patently adored each other, was to partake of their happiness, no matter how desperate her own fears. Dinner passed quickly enough, and Clancy found out that she had an appetite, after all. The judge and his wife showed no undue interest in her. Clancy would have sworn that they knew nothing about her when dinner ended and they started for the opera. She did not know that, before he went upon the bench, Judge Walbrough had been the cleverest cross-examiner at the bar, and that all through dinner he had been verifying his first estimate of her character. For the Walbroughs, as she was later to learn, did not "pick up" every lovely young female whom they chanced to meet and admire. A happy couple, they still were lonely at times--lonely for the sound of younger voices. And the significant glance that the judge cast at his wife at the end of the dinner went unnoticed by Clancy. She did not know that they had passed upon her and found her worth while. And with this friendly couple she heard her first opera. It was "Manon," and Farrar sang. From the beginning to the tragic dénouement, Clancy was held enthralled. She was different from the average country girl who attends the opera. She was not at all interested in the persons, though they were personages, who were in the boxes. She was interested in the singers, and in them only. She had never heard great music before, save from a phonograph. She made a mental vow that she would hear more again--soon. XX The judge and his wife were true music-lovers and didn't attend the opera for social reasons. Nevertheless, they knew, seemingly, every one of importance in the artistic, financial, professional, and social world. During the entr'actes, the judge pointed out to Clancy persons with whom he was acquainted. Ordinarily, Clancy would have been thrilled at the mere sight of the demi-gods and goddesses. To-night, they left her cold. Yet, out of courtesy, she professed interest. "And there's my little friend Darcy," she heard the judge say. She roused herself from abstraction, an abstraction in which she was mentally reviewing the acting and singing of the superb Farrar. "Who is he?" she asked. The judge smiled. "Munitions. Used to live in Pennsylvania. Now he dwelleth in the Land of Easy Come." For a second, her thoughts far away, Clancy did not get the implication. Then she replied. "But I thought that the munitions millionaires made so much that they found it hard to get rid of it." "This is a wonderful town, Miss Deane. It affords opportunity for everyone and everything. No man ever made money so fast that New York couldn't take it away from him. If the ordinary methods are not sufficient, some brilliant New Yorker will invent something new. And they're inventing them for Darcy--and ten thousand other Darcys, too." Clancy stared at the squat little millionaire a few seats away. "He doesn't look very brilliant," she announced. "He isn't," said the judge. "But he's worth millions," protested Clancy. "That doesn't prove brilliance. It proves knack and tenacity, that's all," said her host. "Some of the most brilliant men I know are paupers; some of the most stupid are millionaires." "And vice versa?" suggested Clancy. The judge shrugged. "The brilliant millionaires are wealthy despite their brilliance. My child, money was never so easy to make--or so easy to spend. And those who make it are spending it." "But isn't every one spending, not only the millionaires?" demanded Clancy. "It's the fashion," said the judge. "But fashions change. I'm not worried about America." The curtain rose, cutting short Walbrough's disquisition. But, for a moment, Clancy pondered on what he had said. "The Land of Easy Come." The people that she had met, the moving-picture millionaires--theirs had come easily-- Would it go as easily? Even David Randall, worth approximately half a million before his thirtieth birthday--she'd read enough to know that brokers went bankrupt over-night. The hotels that she knew were crowded almost beyond capacity with people who were willing to pay any price for any sort of accommodation. The outrageous prices charged--and paid--in the restaurants. The gorgeous motor-cars. The marvelous costly clothing that the women wore. Some one must produce these luxuries. Who were paying for them? Surely not persons who had toiled and sweated to amass a few dollars. Easy come! Her own little nest-egg, bequeathed to her by a distant relative--it had come easily; it had gone as easily. Of course, she hadn't spent it, but--it was gone. But she was too young to philosophize; she forgot herself in the performance. She was throbbing with gratitude to the Walbroughs as, the opera over, they slowly made their way through the chattering thousands toward the lobby. They had given her the most wonderful evening of her life. She was about to say something to this effect when some one accosted the judge. For the moment, he was separated from the two women, and verbal expression of Clancy's feelings was postponed. For when the judge joined them, he was accompanied by a man whose mop of hair would have rendered him noticeable without the fading bruise upon his face. It was Zenda! His recognition was as quick as Clancy's. His dreamy brown eyes--one of them still discolored--lighted keenly. But he had been an actor before he had become one of the most famous directors in Screendom. He held out his hand quite casually. "Hello, Florine!" he said. Walbrough stared from one to the other. "You know each other? 'Florine?'" "A name," said Clancy quickly, "that I called myself when--when I hoped to get work upon the screen." She breathed deeply. Of course, Judge Walbrough and Zenda didn't know that a woman named Florine Ladue was wanted for Beiner's murder; but still---- "'On the screen?' That's funny," said the judge. "Sophie Carey told us that you were thinking of stenography until she put you in touch with Sally Henderson. Huh! No fool like an old fool! I was thinking I would put a new idea in your head, and you have it already. Darcy stopped me and introduced his friend Mr. Zenda, and I immediately thought that a girl like you with your beauty--" He interrupted himself a moment while he presented Zenda to his wife. Then he turned to Clancy. "Couldn't you get work?" he asked, abruptly. They were on the sidewalk now, and the starter was signaling, by electrically lighted numbers, for the judge's car. It was a clear, crisp, wonderful night, and the stars vied with the lights of Broadway. Clancy looked up and down the street. She had no intention of running away. She'd tried to reach Zenda to-day, and had been told that he was too ill to receive visitors. Nevertheless, the impulse to flee was roused in her again. Then, listening to reason, she conquered it. She answered the judge. "'Get work?' I didn't try very long." "And she didn't come to me," said Zenda. He put into his words a meaning that the Walbroughs could not suspect. Clancy got it. "Oh, but I did!" she said. "I've tried to get you on the telephone. Central wouldn't give me your number. I wrote you a letter in care of Zenda Films. Your partner, Mr. Grannis, opened it. And to-day I called at your apartment and was told that you were ill." Zenda's face, which had been stern, softened. "Is that so?" he asked. The judge, a trifle mystified, broke into the conversation. "Well, she seems to have proved that she didn't neglect you, Mr. Zenda. Don't see why she should go to such pains, unless"--and he laughed--"Miss Deane wants to prove that she played fair;--didn't give any one else a prior opportunity to make a million dollars out of her pretty face." "Miss Deane can easily prove that she is playing fair," said Zenda. "I want to," said Clancy quickly. Walbrough was a clever man. It was pardonable in him not to have suspected earlier that there was some byplay of talk to whose meaning he was not privy. But now he knew that there was some meaning not understood by him in this talk. "Here's the car," he said. "Suppose you ride home with us, Zenda?" "I have some friends. If you'll wait a moment--" And Zenda was off. In silence, Clancy entered the judge's limousine. Then Mrs. Walbrough, settling herself comfortably, suddenly patted the girl upon the hand. She was a keen woman, was Mrs. Walbrough; she sensed that something was troubling Clancy. And the judge cleared his throat portentously. "Miss Deane," he said, "I don't know your relation to Mr. Zenda. But, if you'd care to consider yourself my client----" "Thank you," said Clancy. Then Zenda reappeared. He crowded himself into the car. "I just telephoned my apartment, Miss Deane. The door-man went on at noon and stays until midnight. He says that a young lady answering your description called on me to-day." "Did you need verification, Zenda?" asked the judge angrily. Zenda shrugged. "In a matter involving a hundred thousand and more, corroboration does no harm, and my obtaining it should not be offensive to Miss Deane." "Oh, it isn't, it isn't!" said Clancy tremulously. The judge's eyes narrowed. "I must inform you, Zenda, that Miss Deane is my client," he said. Zenda bowed. "I couldn't wish a better adviser for Miss Deane. Farrar was in excellent voice to-night, didn't you think?" No one challenged the change of subject, and until they were settled in the Walbrough library, the opera was the only subject of discussion. But, once there, Zenda came to business with celerity. "Judge Walbrough, I have been swindled in a poker game, in a series of poker games, out of thousands of dollars. Last Monday night, we caught the man who did the cheating. There was trouble. Miss Deane was present at the game, in my apartment. She came as the guest of one Ike Weber. She disappeared during the quarrel. It has been my assumption that she was present as the aide of Weber. At the Star Club, on Tuesday, I stated, to associates of Weber, that the man was a swindler. Yesterday, I was told that he intended bringing suit against me. So I have denied myself to all possible process-servers on the plea of illness." "Why? If the man is a swindler----" But Zenda cut the judge short. "I can't prove it. I don't want scandal. Suit would precipitate it. If I could get proof against Weber, I'd confront him with it, and the suit would be dropped. Also, I would recover my money. Not that that matters much. Miss Deane, why did you come to see me?" Clancy drew a long breath; then she began to talk. Carefully avoiding all reference to Morris Beiner, she told everything else that had to do with Zenda, Weber, and Grannis. The judge spoke first after she ceased. "I don't get Grannis's connection." "I do!" snapped Zenda. "He's been trying to get control of the company-- I'm not nearly so rich as people think I am. The company has a contract with me for a term of years at no very huge salary. I expected to make my money out of the profits. But now we've quarreled over business methods. If he could get me entirely out, use my name--the company has the right to--increase the capitalization, and sell stock to the public on the strength of my reputation, Grannis would become rich more quickly that way than by making pictures. And the quicker Grannis broke me, so that I'd have to sell my stock--every little bit helps. If Weber won a million from me----" "'A million!'" gasped Walbrough. Zenda's voice was self-contemptuous. "Easy come, Judge," he said. "I'm an easy mark. Weber had a good start toward the million, would have had a better if it hadn't been for Mrs. Zenda." "It's an incredible story!" cried the judge. "What's incredible? That I should gamble, and that some one should swindle me? What's strange about that in this town, Judge? In any town, for that matter?" Clancy, eyes half closed, hardly heard what they were saying. How easy it would be to confess! For, what had she to confess? Nothing whatever of wrong-doing. Then why had it not been easy to call on Zenda the first thing on Tuesday morning and tell him of Fay Marston's involuntary confession? Because she had been afraid of scandal? Her lips curled in contempt for herself. To avoid doing right because of possible scandal? She was overly harsh with herself. Yet, to balance too much harshness, she became too lenient in her self-judgment when it occurred to her that only fear of scandal kept her from confessing to Vandervent that she _was_ Florine Ladue. That was a _different_ sort of scandal; also, there was danger in it. No; she could not blame herself because she kept that matter quiet. "And you'd advise me to keep it out of the courts, Judge?" she heard Zenda asking. "If possible," replied the judge. "It will do you no good. The mere threat of it will be enough. Offer Grannis a fair price for his stock, deducting, of course, from that price whatever have been your poker losses to Weber. For the two are partners, unquestionably. Tell Grannis that, if he doesn't accept your offer, you will prosecute both Weber and himself for swindling. That's much the better way." "I agree," said Zenda. "But I haven't the cash to swing Grannis's stock." "Plenty of people have," said the judge. "In fact, I have a client who will take that stock." "It's a bet," said Zenda. He rose briskly. "Can't thank you enough, Miss Deane. Will you be at the offices of Zenda Films to-morrow morning with Judge Walbrough?" He turned to the judge and arranged the hour, then turned back to Clancy. "And as soon as _that's_ settled, we'll make a test of you, Miss Deane." He was gone in another moment. The judge stared at Clancy. "Little girl," he said, "if it weren't so late, I'd give you a long, long lecture." "You'll lecture her no lectures, Tom Walbrough," said his wife firmly. "Hasn't she put you in the way of an investment for a client? You'll thank her, instead of scolding her." The judge laughed. "Right enough! But I _will_ give her advice." "And I'll follow it," said Clancy earnestly. And she did. But not to the extent of doing as age, or proven experience, or ability advised her. She would always act upon the impulse, would follow her own way--a way which, because she was the lovely Clancy Deane, might honestly be termed her own sweet way. XXI When she and Judge Walbrough--the Walbroughs sent their car for her at nine-thirty--arrived in the offices of Zenda Films, they were ushered into an inner office by the same overdressed youth who had shown Clancy in there yesterday. The meeting that loomed ahead of her was fraught, she believed, with tremendous dramatic possibilities. Of course, none of the people who would take part in it knew that she had visited the office of Morris Beiner, yet she might be called again by the name "Florine" in the presence of some one who knew. Zenda was already there, seated at the large table. At the far end of it were Weber and Grannis. There were no introductions. Zenda greeted the new arrivals, and merely stated: "Judge Walbrough will act as my attorney. If you want a lawyer, Grannis, you, of course, are entitled to one." Grannis grunted unintelligibly. Zenda drummed a moment on the table with his slender fingers. Then he spoke. "I won't go over everything again, Grannis. I've the goods on you. I've plenty on Weber, too. Judge Walbrough is prepared to offer you, on behalf of a client, seventy-five for your stock." Here the judge nodded acquiescently. He opened an important-seeming wallet and withdrew a check. "I went to the bank first thing this morning, Zenda," he said. "It's certified. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars for half the stock--five thousand shares." "That's correct," said Zenda. "It doesn't take account of my poker losses, but"--he leaned toward Weber--"I'm not going to slug you, Ike. I'm not going to sue you. I'm not going to do anything. Not now. But, so surely as you stay in this town, so surely as you mix into the film business _anywhere_, I'm going to land you in jail." He turned to his erstwhile partner. "I haven't much to say to you, Grannis. The judge is offering you a price that's fair, considering that he's deducted about what you and Ike trimmed me of from his offer. That's O.K. I'm willing to let his client in, sort of at my expense, in order to get rid of you. Now, do you accept?" Clancy held her breath. But Zenda and Grannis must have held some earlier conversation this morning or last night. For Grannis produced a sheaf of engraved documents. He put them on the table. Zenda reached for them and handed them to the judge. The latter examined them carefully, then nodded in acceptance. "The certificates are properly endorsed in blank, Zenda. It's all right." He pushed across the table his certified check. Grannis took it. He rose and looked uncertainly at Zenda. The film-director met his glance fairly. "You're a pretty wise bird, Grannis," he said slowly. "But it isn't _really_ wise to double-cross your friend and partner." That was all that was said. Grannis and Weber had left the room when Clancy suddenly remembered something. "The ten thousand dollars they gave me!" she cried. "Have you returned it?" She had given it, for safe-keeping, into Walbrough's hands last night. Zenda laughed. "My dear Miss Deane," he said, "I've lost scores of thousands at stud to Grannis and Weber. That ten thousand dollars is my money. That is, it _was_ my money." Clancy stared at him. The judge chuckled. "Considering that your evidence saved Zenda from a nasty lawsuit, that it ridded him of a crooked partner, that it gave him a chance to continue his business with a partner who will not interfere with him, both he and myself agree that you are entitled to that ten thousand dollars." Clancy had been pale as wax. But now the color surged into her cheeks. "For simply doing what I ought to do? No, indeed!" she cried. Nor could their united protests move her. Zenda finally ceased. An idea struck him. He beamed upon her. "You said, last night, that you had film ambitions. Well, Miss Deane, here's my chance to repay you." Her eyes lighted. "Oh, I don't want you to feel that----" Zenda scribbled upon a card. "Take this to the studio. Johansen will make a test of you. He'll do it right away. On Monday, you telephone----" "And then begins the big career!" cried the judge. "Well, well, Miss Deane; I shall expect to see Zenda Films advertising the newest star all over the city. Eh, Zenda?" Zenda smiled. "I can always use a pretty girl with intelligence," he said. "Miss Deane is certainly pretty and just as certainly intelligent. If she screens as well as I hope----" His unuttered promise seemed to open the gates of Fortune to Clancy. She hardly knew afterward what she said by way of thanks. She only knew that Judge Walbrough insisted that she use his limousine--stating that he himself was going to take the subway down-town--and that Zenda wrung her hand warmly, and that, a moment later, she had descended in the elevator and was in the big motor, on her way to the East-Side studio of Zenda Films, Incorporated. In the car, she managed to collect herself. Once again she saw herself the peer of the famous women of the screen; she saw herself famous, rich. Oddly enough, she thought of David Randall. She wondered how he would feel if he knew that she was on the threshold of international fame. For she never doubted it. She knew that all she needed was opportunity. Johansen, a thin, bald, worried-seeming Swede, eyed her keenly with deep-set blue eyes. He was in his shirt-sleeves, superintending the erection of a "set." But he ceased that work and summoned a camera-man. The Zenda command caused all to put themselves at her service. Johansen even superintended her making-up process, of which she was abysmally ignorant. Also, he rearranged her hair. Then he conducted her to the "set" which he was erecting. There was a table in the middle of the scene. Johansen instructed her. He put a letter on the table. "Now, Miss Deane, you enter from the left there, you're kinda blue, downhearted--see? Then you spy this letter. You pick it up. It's for you, and you recognize the handwriting. It's from your sweetie--get me? You smile. You open the letter. Then your smile fades away and you weep. Get me? Try it. Now, mind, it don't really matter if you can act or not. Zenda wouldn't care about that. He could teach a wooden image to act. It's just your registering--that's all. Ready? Camera!" In Zenith, when she had played in the high-school shows, Clancy had been self-conscious, she knew. And here, with only a bored assistant director and an equally bored camera-man to observe her, she was even more self-conscious. So she was agreeably surprised when Johansen complimented her after the scene had been taken. "You done fine!" he said. "Now let's try another. This time, you come in from the right, happy-like. You see the letter and get blue. You read it and get happy. Got it? Shoot!" She went through the little scene, this time with less self-consciousness. Johansen smiled kindly upon her. "I think you got something," he told her. "Can't tell, of course, yet. The screen is funny. Prettiest girl in the world may be a lemon on the screen. Same goes both ways. But we'll hope." But he couldn't dash her sense of success. She rode on air to Sally Henderson's office. Her employer was not there, Clancy had telephoned before meeting Walbrough, asking permission to be late, and also apologizing for not having returned to the office the afternoon before. "Miss Henderson's gone out of town for the week-end," young Guernsey, the too foppishly-dressed office-manager, told her. "She left this for you." "This" was an envelope which Clancy quickly opened. It contained, not her discharge, which she had vaguely expected--why should her employer write to her otherwise?--but twenty-five dollars, half a week's salary. And Clancy was down to her last dollar! "We close at one on Saturdays," Guernsey informed her. He himself was beating the closing-time by three-quarters of an hour, but Clancy waited until one o'clock. Then she left. She called upon Miss Conover, but the plump, merry little dressmaker had nothing ready to try on her newest customer. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Zenda had caused a test to be made of her--and Clancy Deane would be upon the screen. She wondered just what sort of parts Zenda would give her. Of course, she'd have to begin with little "bits," as Fanchon had called them. But soon--oh, very soon!--she'd work up to great rôles. She wanted emotional parts; she felt that she could bring to the screen something new in the way of interpretation. All the Clancys of the world, whether it is acting or writing or singing that they wish to do, feel the same. She took in a matinée in the afternoon. She supped, in lonely splendor, at the Trevor. And, equipped with a novel, she went to bed early. But she could not concentrate. Her mind wandered; and it didn't wander to the mystery of Morris Beiner's death, or to the possibility that some one in Vandervent's office would definitely decide that she _was_ Florine Ladue, nearly so often as it wandered to the Zenda studios. She had fooled Philip Vandervent yesterday. Grannis and Weber had passed, so she believed, out of her life. Why should she worry? She had done no wrong. Resolutely, she refused to fret. Instead, she went off to sleep, prepared for roseate dreams. She had them, but the awakening was not so roseate. Mrs. Gerand, who, by request, roused all her lodgers on week-days, permitted them to slumber as late as they chose on Sundays. The lodging-house, usually from seven o'clock until nine a noisy place, filled with the bustle of departing men and women, was silent as the tomb on Sunday morning. And Clancy slept until eleven o'clock, to be awakened by the landlady. "I hate to do it, Miss Deane," she apologized, "but when letters come by special messenger, they're important as telegrams, I think. So I brought this up." Clancy, sitting up in bed, took the note from Mrs. Gerand's hand. After the landlady had gone, she opened it. And then she put her head upon the pillow and wept. For Zenda had written: DEAR MISS DEANE: I am at the studio, where I had them run off your test of yesterday morning. You see, I didn't waste any time. And I'm sorry to tell you that you won't do for the screen. One cannot explain it. Your skin, your features, your hair--everything about you is beautiful. And you have brains. But the camera is a tricky and unreasonable thing. All of that beauty and charm which is yours fails to register upon the screen. I cannot tell you how sorry I am, and I shall be only too glad to let you see the test yourself, so that you will not possibly doubt my good faith. If, in any other way, I can be of service to you, please command. Yours faithfully, ZENDA. All her illusions were shattered. She didn't wish to see the test. She believed Zenda. Slowly her sobs ceased. She had no lack of courage. Also, she was young, and youth turns from defeat to future victory in a moment's time. Carefully, as she bathed, she removed the traces of tears. Dressed, she breakfasted at the Trevor. Then, feeling more lonely than she had ever felt in her life, she went out upon Fifth Avenue. Groups of people were entering a church a block away. She was not a particularly devout young person, but she had been a regular churchgoer at Zenith. She walked up the avenue and into the church. She expected no consolation there; a girl or boy of twenty who can acquire consolation from religion is not exactly normal. Age turns to religion; youth away from it. But she did manage to forget herself in the solemn service, the mellow music. Emerging, she envied the groups that paused to chat with each other. In Zenith, she knew everybody, would have also stopped to exchange comment and gossip. But here--she had failed in her great ambition. The rest was makeshift, a stop-gap until--until what? She didn't know. Vaguely she wondered where Randall was. Probably hundreds of miles beyond Chicago now. And then, as she crossed the square, her heart leaped. For she saw him reluctantly descending the steps of her lodging house. She quickened her pace. He saw her. His reluctant tread also quickened. Unmindful of the drifts, Randall plowed across the street and joined her. She wondered why he had not started on his Western trip. And then Clancy's heart, which had been beating joyously with a gladness that she did not quite understand, seemed to drop to some region inches below where it belonged. For, coming round the corner of Thompson Street--no, not coming, but stopping as he perceived her--was Spofford, the dyed-mustached detective of Vandervent's office. And with him was a shorter slighter person. Fear aided recognition. He was the elevator-man of the Heberworth Building, who had taken her up to Beiner's office last Tuesday afternoon. XXII Randall released Clancy's hand. He laughed embarrassedly. "You _looked_ glad," he said. Clancy's hand fell limply to her side. A moment ago, her hand-clasp would have been firm, vital, a thing to thrill the young man. But now, although that protection he might give was most desirable, she could not respond to its presence. For she was caught. Spofford, across the street, staring menacingly over at her, had been too swift for her. Yet, trapped though she was, she managed to look away from the attaché of the district attorney's office. She met Randall's eyes. "I _am_ glad," she said. As though to prove her words, she raised her hand and offered it again to Randall. He took it. Holding it, he turned and stared over his shoulder. Spofford was still standing across the street; his companion was nodding his head. It seemed as though, sensing some threat in Randall's stare, they stood a little closer together. Something of that surly defiance that is the city detective's most outstanding trait seeped across the street. Clancy felt it. She wondered whether or not Randall did. But he said nothing. With an air of proprietorship that was comforting, he drew her hand through his bended arm and started guiding her through the drifts. Dully, Clancy permitted herself to be led. She wondered, almost apathetically, if Spofford would halt them. Well, what difference would it make? For a moment, she was vaguely interested in Randall's possible attitude. Would he knock the man down? Then, as they reached the two men, Randall stopped. His big right arm moved backward; Clancy almost swung with it, back out of a possible fracas. "I thought summer-time was your hunting-season," said Randall. Spofford eyed him sullenly. "Who you talkin' to?" he demanded. "Why, to you," said Randall. "I thought that all you old gentlemen with dyed whiskers and toupées did your work in the pleasant months." He half-wheeled and pointed west. "Know what's over that way? I'll tell you--Jefferson Market. And the least that they give a masher is ten days on the Island. That is, after he gets out of the hospital." He paused, stared at Spofford a moment, then added "It's your move." Spofford's red face bore a deeper color. But he met Randall's stare calmly. Slowly he turned back the lapel of his jacket, affording a glimpse of a nickel badge. "Take a slant at that, friend," he advised. "I ain't mashin'; I'm 'tendin' to my business. Suppose," he finished truculently, "you 'tend to yours." Clancy, hanging on Randall's arm, felt his biceps tighten. But her precarious position would not be improved by an attack upon Spofford. She made her gripping fingers dig deeper. She felt the biceps soften. Then, as she waited for Spofford to announce that she was under arrest, the blue-coated man with the outthrust lower lip moved aside. She gave Randall no time for digestion of the queer situation. Her fingers now impelled him forward, and in a moment they were in the hall of Mrs. Gerand's lodging-house. She left him there while she went up-stairs. Clancy would have stopped the procession to the death-house to powder her nose. And why not? Men light a cigarette; women arrange their hair. Either act, calling for a certain concentration, settles the nerves. But Clancy's nerves were not to be settled this morning. Even though Spofford had not arrested her, his presence with the elevator-man from the Heberworth Building meant only one thing. He had not believed her explanation of her visit to Philip Vandervent's office, and, acting upon that disbelief, had produced, for purposes of identification, a man who had seen Beiner's mysterious woman visitor last Tuesday afternoon. Arrest was a mere matter of time, Clancy supposed. Panicky, she peeped through the window, flattening her nose against the pane. Outside, across the street now, was Spofford. She was quite certain that his roving eyes sought her out, found her, and that his mean mouth opened in an exultant laugh. She shrugged--the hopeless shrug of the condemned. She could only wait. Flight was useless. If Spofford suspected flight, he would not hesitate, she felt, to arrest her. She could visualize what had happened since she had entered the house. Spofford had told his witness to telephone for instructions. She knew vaguely that warrants were necessary, that certain informations and beliefs must be sworn to. How soon before a uniformed man-- She almost ran down-stairs to Randall. He was not in the hall, but she found him in the parlor. He was sitting down, his wide shoulders hunched together, his forehead frowning. She knew that he was thinking of the man outside, the man with the truculent lower lip, who wore a detective's shield pinned inside his coat lapel. Somehow, although, he had been willing to strike a blow for her a few minutes ago, it seemed to her that he had lost his combativeness, that the eyes which he lifted to her were uneasy. Yet the smile that came to his lips was cheering. He moved over slightly on the old-fashioned sofa on which he was sitting. Clancy took the hint; she sat down beside him. "Suppose you were surprised to see me so soon again?" he asked. The banal question told Clancy that he intended to ignore the incident of Spofford. She was surprised--and vaguely indignant. Yet the indignation was not noticeable as she returned his smile. "'Surprised?' I was thinking of you when I met you," she told him. "Of course I was surprised, but----" "You were thinking of me?" He seemed to forget Spofford. "Why not? Does one forget in twenty-four hours a man who has proposed?" "There are degrees of forgetfulness," he said. Clancy held her right hand before her. She spread its fingers wide. With the index-finger of her left hand, she began counting off, beginning with the right thumb. "Absolute zero of forgetfulness. M-m-m--no; not that." She touched her right forefinger. "Freezing-point--no; not that." She completely forgot, in the always delightful tactics of flirtation, the man lurking outside. She paused. "Please continue," pleaded Randall. "Oh, I wouldn't want to," she told him. "You see, one finally reaches the boiling-point, which isn't forgetfulness at all, and--why are you in New York?" she suddenly demanded. "Train reached Albany hours late--account of the snow. I had time to think it over, and--what's business when a lady beckons." "Did I beckon?" she asked demurely. "I thought that I pointed." "You did," he agreed. "But pointing is vulgar, and I knew that you couldn't be that." She grinned--the irrepressible Clancy grin that told of the merry heart within her. "Did you return to New York to apologize for thinking me vulgar," she inquired. Randall had never been so near to winning her admiration. She liked him, of course, thought him trustworthy, dependable, and safe, the possessor of all those qualities which women respect in sons, fathers, brothers, and husbands, but not in suitors. But, for the first time since she had met him--not so long ago, as age reckons, but long enough as youth knows time--he was showing a lightness of touch. He wasn't witty, but, to Clancy, he seemed so, and the soul of wit is not so much its brevity as it is its audience. He seemed witty, for the moment, to Clancy. And so, admirable. But the lightness left him as quickly as it had come. He shook his head gravely. "I had time to think it over," he said again. "And--Miss Deane, if I could fall in love with you in a week, so could other men." "Are you proposing again?" she demanded. His shoulders were broad; they could carry for two. He was kindly; she forgot that, a moment ago, he hadn't seemed combative. She liked him better than she had. And then, even as she was admiring and liking him, she became conscious that he was restless, uneasy. Instinctively, she knew that it was not because of his love for her; it was because of the man outside. That she could let Randall leave this house without some sort of explanation of Spofford's queer manner had never been in her thoughts. She knew that Randall would demand an explanation. She knew that he had been conscious of her fright at sight of Spofford. "'Proposing again,'" echoed Randall. "Why--you know----" She cut into his speech. She wasted no time. "That man outside! Do you know why he's watching me?" "_Is_ he watching you?" Randall's surprise was palpably assumed. It annoyed Clancy. "You know that he is!" she cried. "Aren't you curious?" Randall breathed heavily. He sat bolt upright. "I want you to know, Miss Deane, that it doesn't matter a bit to me. Whatever you may have done, I am sure that you can explain." At any other time, Clancy would have flamed fire at his tone. Into his speech had entered a certain stiltedness, a priggishness, almost, that would have roused all the rage of which she was capable. And as she would be able to love greatly, so would she be able--temporarily--to hate. But now she was intent on self; she had no thought to spare for Randall--save in so far as he might aid her. "'Explain?'" Her voice almost broke. "It's--it's pretty hard to explain murder, isn't it?" Randall's lower jaw hung down. "'Murder!' You--you're joking, Miss Deane!" Yet, somehow, Clancy knew that he knew that she was not joking. "I'm not joking. He--he thinks that I killed Morris Beiner." "Murder! Morris Beiner!" he gasped. "You've read about it. I'm the woman! The one that ran down the fire-escape, that the police want!" Slowly Randall digested it. Once again he gasped the word: "Murder!" "Goodness me!" Clancy became New England in her expression. "What else did you think it was?" "Why--I supposed--something--I didn't know--murder! That's absurd!" "You seem relieved," she said. He puzzled her. "Well, of course," he said. "I don't see why." "Well, you _couldn't_ have committed murder," he replied, with an air of having uttered explanation of his relief. "I wish the police could think so!" she cried. "'Think so?' I'll make them think so. I'll tell that chap out there----" "But it won't do any good!" cried Clancy. Her cry was almost a wail. Once before she had practically confessed, then withdrawn her confession. Now she could not withdraw. Words rushed from her as from a broken water-main. But, because she was Clancy Deane, they were not words of exculpation, or of apology. They were the facts. Silently Randall heard them through. Then he spoke slowly. "Any jury in the world would believe you," he said. "But I don't want to tell it to any jury!" screamed Clancy. "Why--why--the disgrace--I--I----" Confession is always dramatic, and the dramatic is emotional. The tears welled in her eyes. Through the blur of tears, Randall seemed bigger, sturdier than ever. She reached out her arms toward him. "You asked me to marry you!" she cried. "I--I--would you want to marry me now?" Randall smiled. "You know it," he said. "Just as soon as this affair is fixed up, we'll be married, and----" He rose and took her hands in his. Quite unaccountably, Clancy released her hands. "Fix it up? It _can't_ be fixed up," she said. "Well, we can try," said Randall. "I'll call in this man outside----" He hesitated. "Judge Walbrough has been mighty nice to you, hasn't he? Suppose I get him on the telephone?" He didn't wait for Clancy to reply. He walked briskly from the room and she heard him at the telephone. She didn't listen to what he said. She walked to the window. Spofford was still outside. What right had he to act upon his own responsibility? Why hadn't the word of Philip Vandervent been enough for him? She turned as Randall entered the room. "The telephone is out of order," he said. "I think I'd better run up to the Walbroughs' house and get him." "And leave me here!" cried Clancy. Randall shrugged. "I'm afraid that man wouldn't let you go with me." "He may come in here and arrest me," she said. He shook his head. "I don't think so. And, if he does, Walbrough and I'll be right down after you. You'd better let me go." She made no further protest. Suddenly, unaccountably, she wanted him to go. XXIII Up in her room, alternating between moments of almost hysterical defiance when she would stare through the window-panes at Spofford, and moments when she would hurl herself upon the narrow bed, she waited for Randall's return. Somewhere she had read, or heard, that murder was not a bailable offense. That meant that she would be detained in prison, awaiting trial. With a curious detachment, she studied herself. As though she were some formless spirit, remote, yet infinitely near, she looked at Clancy Deane. How silly it all was--how futile! Billions of humans had conspired together, had laid down for themselves millions of queer rules, transgression of which was so simple a matter that she wondered that any one avoided it. For a moment she had that odd clairvoyance that comes to persons who, by some quirk of fate, are compelled to think for themselves. She might escape from the present net, but what nets would the demon set for her in the years to come? Would she avoid them all? A horror of the future, a future in which she saw herself eternally attempting extrication from the inextricable, loomed before her. And then that queer, blurry clairvoyance left her. She came back to the present. Mrs. Gerand, knocking at her door, announced that two gentlemen wished to see her. She ran to the window. Spofford was still there. Down-stairs she ran. Mrs. Gerand had not told her that three persons were calling. And it was the third to whom Clancy ran, upon whose capacious bosom she let loose a flood of tears. Mrs. Walbrough patted her head, drew her close to her, kissed her; with her own handkerchief wiped Clancy's eyes, from her own little vanity case offered Clancy those replenishments of the toilet without which the modern woman is more helpless than a man lost in the jungle without food or arms. The judge noisily cleared his throat. Though he ever afterward disputed Mrs. Walbrough's testimony, it is nevertheless the fact that he used his own handkerchief upon his eyes. As for Randall, Clancy, lifting her head from Mrs. Walbrough's breast, was subtly aware that his reddened face bore an expression that was not merely embarrassment. He appeared once again uneasy. It almost seemed to her that he avoided her eyes. Judge Walbrough cleared his throat a second time. "Mr. Randall has told us a lot, Miss Deane. Suppose you tell us the whole story." It was easy to talk to Walbrough. He possessed the art of asking the question that illuminated the speaker's mind, made him, or her, see clearly things that had seemed of little relevance. Not until she had finished did Clancy wonder if she had dropped in the Walbrough regard, if she had lost a patronage, a friendship that, in so brief a time, had come to mean so much. "What must you think of me?" she cried, as Walbrough tapped his cheek with his fingers. The judge smiled. "I think that you've been a sensible young woman." Clancy gasped. Her eyes widened with amazement. "Why, I was sure that you'd blame me----" "What for?" demanded the judge. "For running away--hiding--everything," said Clancy. The judge's voice was grim. "If you'd voluntarily surrendered yourself to the indignities of arrest, I'd have thought you an idiot." "But won't the fact that she remained in hiding go against her, Judge Walbrough?" asked Randall. Walbrough surveyed the younger man frowningly. "'Go against her?' Where? You certainly don't imagine that any jury would _convict_ Miss Deane?" "Of course not," stammered Randall. "And public opinion will certainly not condemn an innocent girl for trying to avoid scandal, will it?" insisted the judge. "No," admitted Randall. "Then Miss Deane did the proper thing. Of course, the police will try to make it seem that flight was the admission of guilt, but we won't worry about them." Clancy seized his hand. "Do you mean that I won't be arrested?" she cried. "Exactly what I mean," said the judge. Yet, had Clancy been in a calmer frame of mind, she would have observed that the judge's kindly smile was of the lips, not of the eyes. She was not old enough in the world's experiences to realize that a good lawyer is like a good doctor--he cheers up his client. But, for that matter, it took not merely an older person to know always what lay behind Judge Walbrough's smile; it took an extremely keen analyst of human nature. Even his wife, who knew him quite as well as any wife knows a husband, was deceived by his confidence. Her hug was more reassuring to Clancy than even the judge's words. "Bring that man in," the judge said to Randall, who went out to the street to tell Spofford that Judge Walbrough wished to see him. The judge walked up and down the room while Randall was gone. Clancy, watching him, was content to ask no questions, to beg for no more reassurances. She felt as might a little child toward a parent. Nor did her faith in him lessen as Randall, accompanied by Spofford, returned. The judge ceased his pacing up and down the floor. He held the detective with an eye from which all kindliness had vanished. "You know who I am?" he demanded. Spofford jerked a thumb at Randall. "This man told me that Judge Walbrough wanted to see me." "I'm Walbrough," said the judge. "I want to know why you're annoying this young lady?" "Me?" Spofford's mean eyes widened. His surprise was overdone. "Annoyin' her?" "We want to know why you are watching her." Spofford's eyes were cunning. "Ask her," he said. Judge Walbrough drew closer to the man. "Spofford, you know, of course, that I am no longer on the bench. You also, I presume, know how long you will remain on the force if I want you put off." Spofford thrust out his lower lip. "And I guess you know, too, that there's somethin' comin' to the man who interferes with an officer in the performance of his duty. I don't care who you are. Threaten me, and see what you get." The judge laughed. "A fine spirit, Spofford! Thoroughly admirable! Only, my man, I'll not stop at putting you off the force. I'll run you out of town." His voice suddenly rose. "Answer me, or I'll knock you down." The truculence of Spofford was always assumed. He knew, as did every New Yorker, that, ex-judge though he might be, the power of Walbrough was no inconsiderable thing. "Aw, there's no need gettin' huffy about it. I'll tell you, if the young lady won't. She murdered Morris Beiner." The judge's laugh was exquisitely rendered. He didn't guffaw; he merely chuckled. It was a marvelous bit of acting. Clancy, her heart beating and throat choky with fear, was nevertheless sufficient mistress of herself to be able to appreciate it. For the chuckle held mirth; it also held appreciation of the seriousness of the charge. Before it, the assumption of truculence on Spofford's features faded. He looked abashed, frightened. To have offended Judge Walbrough without any evidence was to have invited trouble. Spofford was not the sort that issues such invitations. He suddenly grew desperate. "That's all right with me. Laugh if you want to. But I tell you we been lookin' for a dame that was in Beiner's office just before he was killed. And the elevator-boy at the Heberworth Building just took a slant at this dame and identified her as a woman he let off on the fourth floor round five o'clock on last Tuesday afternoon. And this woman was in Mr. Vandervent's office yesterday, and she sent in the name of Florine Ladue--the woman we been lookin' for, and----" "Miss Deane has explained that. Wasn't Mr. Vandervent satisfied with her explanation?" demanded the judge. "He was; but he ain't me!" cried Spofford. "I don't fall for them easy explanations. And, say--how did Miss Deane happen to guess what I was hangin' around for? If you know that she _explained_ things to Mr. Vandervent, why'd you ask me why I was watchin'?" Judge Walbrough chuckled again. "Stupid people always think in grooves, don't they, Spofford? Don't you suppose that Miss Deane might have told me an amusing practical joke that she had played upon Mr. Vandervent?" "Yes; she might have," sneered Spofford. "It was funny, at that. So funny that she fainted when she played it. Perhaps that was part of the joke, though." Judge Walbrough now became the alert lawyer. "Spofford, does Mr. Vandervent know of this--er--independent investigation of yours?" he asked. The detective shook his head. "He'll know in the mornin', though. And if he won't listen, there's others that will." "Certainly," said the judge. "If you have something to say. But, before you say it, you'd like to be quite certain of your facts, wouldn't you?" Spofford nodded; his forehead wrinkled. Himself cunning, he was the sort that always is trying to figure out what lies behind another's statement. And that sort always thinks that it will do something cunning. He wasn't so far wrong in this particular instance. "And, as I understand it, you make the charge of murder against Miss Deane because she played a joke upon Mr. Vandervent, and because an elevator-man claims to recognize her. His recognition doesn't justify an accusation of murder, you know." "No; but it'll entitle her to a chance to do some more explainin'." "Perhaps," said the judge. "Where is this elevator-man now?" "He's where I can get hold of him," said Spofford. "Excellent!" said the judge. "Because the police will want him to-morrow. And not for the reason that you imagine, Spofford. They'll want him for criminal slander and, possibly, if he sticks to the absurd story that he told, you, for perjury, also. At the time when this elevator-man claims to have seen Miss Deane in the Heberworth Building, she was having tea with me and my wife at our home." It was a magnificent lie. But even as it was uttered, Clancy wondered at the judge. Why? He surely wouldn't, for a mere acquaintance, commit perjury. And if he would, surely his wife could not be expected to join him in the crime. But its effect upon Spofford was remarkable. His lower lip lost its artificially pugnacious expression. It sunk in as though his lower teeth had been suddenly removed. It never occurred to him--not then, at any rate--to doubt the judge's statement. And if it had, his doubts would have been dissipated by Mrs. Walbrough's immediate corroboration. "Tuesday afternoon, yes. I think, Tom, that Miss Deane didn't leave until a quarter after six." Clancy's eyes dropped to the floor. Terrific had been the accusation, menacing had been the threat; and now both seemed to vanish, as though they had never been. For Spofford tried a grin. It was feeble, but it had the correct intention behind it. "'Scuse me, lady--Miss Deane. I been locked out, and all the time thinkin' I had the key in my pocket. Well, I guess I'll be moseyin' along, ladies and gents. No hard feelin's, I hope. A guy sees his dooty, and he likes to do it, y' know. I'll sure wear out a knuckle or two on this elevator-man." He waited a moment. He had made grave charges. Walbrough was a power; he wanted to read his fate if he could. He felt assured, for Walbrough smiled and inclined his head. Sheepishly he shuffled from the room. There was silence until the outer door had crashed behind him. Then the judge leaped into activity. "The Heberworth Building. Part of the Vandervent estate, isn't it, Randall?" Randall shook his head. He was a clever business man, doubtless, thought Clancy, but his mind seemed not nearly so quick as the judge's. "I don't know," he answered. "Well, I do," said the judge. "It's a shame; it's tough on Phil to make him suborn perjury, but I don't see any other way out of it. Where's the telephone, Miss Deane?" "It's out of order," Clancy gasped. The judge frowned. "Well, it doesn't matter. Half an hour from now will do as well as earlier, I guess. Run up-stairs and pack your things." He turned to his wife. "Better help her," he suggested. "'Pack?'" gasped Clancy. "Of course. You're coming home with us. That chap Spofford is not an _absolute_ fool, even if he is a plain-clothes man. By the time he's thought over two or three little things, he'll be back again. And he might get somebody to swear out a warrant. Might even take a chance and arrest without it. But if you're in my house, there'll be lots of hesitation about warrants and things like that until there's been more evidence brought forward. And there won't be. Hurry along, young lady." Clancy stared at him. "Do you know," she said slowly, "I want to cry." "Certainly you do. Perfectly correct. Cry away, my dear!" Clancy suddenly grinned. "I want to laugh even more," she said. "Judge Walbrough, you're the dearest, kindest-- I can't let you do it." "Do what?" demanded the judge. "Why, tell lies for me. They'll jail you, and----" Judge Walbrough winked broadly at Randall. "I guess that wouldn't bother you, would it, Mr. Randall? Jail for a girl like Miss Deane? Then I think an old-timer like myself has a right to do something that a young man would be wild to do--even if he has a jealous wife who hates every woman who looks at him." It was heavy, as most of Walbrough's humor was apt to be, Clancy couldn't be sure that it was even in good taste. But it cleared the atmosphere of tears. Her laugh that followed the threat of weeping had been a bit hysterical. Now, as she went up-stairs with Mrs. Walbrough, it was normal. She could climb up as quickly as she could descend. XXIV Vandervent entered the Walbrough living-room with a jerky stride that testified to his excitement. A dozen questions were crowded against his teeth. But, though the swift motor-ride down-town had not been too brief for him to marshal them in the order of their importance, he forgot them as he met Clancy's eyes. They should have been penitent eyes; and they were not. They should have been frightened eyes; and they were not. They should have been pleading eyes; and they were not. Instead, they were mischievous, mocking, almost. Also, they were deep, fathomless. Looking into them, the reproach died out in Vandervent's own. The pleading that should have been in Clancy's appeared in Vandervent's, although he undoubtedly was unconscious of the fact. On the way there, he had been aware of himself as a trained lawyer confronted with a desperate, a possibly tragic situation. Now he was aware of himself only as a man confronting a woman. He acknowledged the presence of the Walbroughs and of Randall with a carelessness that seemed quite natural to the older people but which made Randall eye the newcomer curiously. In love himself, Randall was quick to suspect its existence in the heart of another man. "So," said Vandervent, "you weren't joking with me Friday, eh, Miss Deane?" She shook her head slowly. There was something in her manner that seemed to say to him that she had transferred her difficulties to him, and that, if he were half the man she believed him to be, he'd accept them ungrudgingly. "Suppose I hear the whole story," suggested Vandervent. Intently, he listened as, prompted by the judge when she slid over matters that seemed unimportant to her, she retold the tale of the past week. The judge took up the burden of speech as soon as she relinquished it. "So you see, Vandervent, your job is to get hold of this elevator-man and persuade him that his identification is all wrong." Vandervent pursed his lips; he whistled softly. "I haven't as good a memory as I ought to have, Judge. I can't recall the exact penalty for interference with the course of justice." Clancy's eyes blazed. "Judge, please don't ask Mr. Vandervent to do anything wrong. I wouldn't have him take any risk. I----" Vandervent colored. "Please, Miss Deane! You should know that I intend--that I will do anything--I was intending to be a little humorous." "No time for humor," grunted the judge. Vandervent looked at Mrs. Walbrough. Her glance was uncompromisingly hostile. Only in Randall's eyes did he read anything approximating sympathy. And he resented finding it there. "The--er--difficulties----" he began. "Not much difficulty in shutting an elevator-boy's mouth, is there?" demanded the judge. "It isn't as though we were asking you really to interfere with the course of justice, Vandervent. You realize that Miss Deane is innocent, don't you?" "Certainly," said Vandervent. "But--I'm an officer of the law, Judge." "Does that mean that you won't help Miss Deane? Good God! You aren't going to let a young woman's name be dragged through a filthy mess like this, are you?" "Not if I can help it," said Vandervent. "That's better," grunted the judge. "But how do you expect to help it, though?" "By finding the real murderer." "When?" roared Walbrough. "To-day?" Vandervent colored again. "As soon as possible. I don't know when. But to shut up the boy--think it over, Judge. He works for the Vandervent estate, it's true. But I don't own his soul, you know. Think of the opportunities for blackmail we give him. It's impossible, Judge--and unnecessary. If Spofford goes to him again, it's the elevator-boy's word against yours. Worthless!" "And you, of course, knowing that I lied, would feel compelled, as an officer of the law----" "I'd feel compelled to do nothing!" snapped Vandervent. "Your word would be taken unreservedly by the district attorney's office. The matter ends right there." "Unless," said the judge softly, "the boy goes to a newspaper. In which case, his charge and my alibi would be printed. And five directors of the Metals and Textiles Bank would immediately recollect that I had been present at a meeting on Tuesday afternoon between the hours of one and six. Likewise, thirty-odd ladies, all present at Mrs. Rayburn's bridge, would remember that my wife had been at Mrs. Rayburn's house all of Tuesday afternoon." He groaned. "I had to think of something, Vandervent. I told the first lie that popped into my head. Our alibi for Miss Deane will go crashing into bits once it's examined, once there's the least publicity. Publicity! That's all that Miss Deane fears, all that we fear for her. Scandal! We've got to stop that." "Exactly; we _will_ stop it," said Vandervent. "There's a way." Oddly, he blushed vividly as he spoke. "I know of one way--but we won't dwell on that just now. I--I have a right--to suppress information that--that I don't think is essential to the enforcing of justice. I--I--if the suppressing of the elevator-man would work good for Miss Deane, I would see to his suppression. Because I know her to be innocent." "Well, what are you going to do?" demanded the judge. Vandervent shrugged. "It's not an offhand matter, Judge. We must think." They thought. But Clancy's thoughts traveled far afield from the tremendous issue that confronted her. Mentally, she was comparing Randall and Vandervent, trying to find out what it was in Randall that, during the past few hours, had depressed her, aroused her resentment. "You see," said Vandervent finally, "the relations between the Police Department and the district attorney's office are rather strained at the moment. If the police should happen to learn, in any way, that we've been conducting an independent investigation into the Beiner murder and that we'd dropped it----" "Where would they learn it?" asked the judge. His brusqueness had left him. With a little thrill that might have been amazement, Clancy noted that the few minutes' silence had somehow caused Judge Walbrough to drop into a secondary place; Vandervent now seemed to have taken command of the situation. "Spofford," answered Vandervent. "Would he dare?" asked the judge. Vandervent laughed. "Even the lowly plain-clothes man plays politics. There'll be glory of a sort for the man who solves the Beiner mystery. If Spofford finally decides that he is by way of being close to the solution, I don't believe that he can be stopped from telling it to the police or the newspapers." "And you don't see any way of stopping Spofford?" asked the judge. "He may have been convinced by your story," Vandervent suggested. The judge shook his head. "His conviction won't last." Vandervent shrugged. "In that case-- Well, we can wait." Clancy interjected herself into the conversation. "You won't really just simply wait? You'll be trying to find out who really killed Mr. Beiner?" "You may be sure of that," said Vandervent. "You see"--and he shrugged again--"we become one-idea'd a bit too easily in the district attorney's office. It's a police habit, too. We know that a young woman had been in Beiner's office, that Beiner had had an engagement to take a young woman over to a film-studio. We discovered a card introducing a Miss Ladue to Beiner. From its position on Beiner's desk, we dared assume that the young woman of the studio appointment was this Miss Ladue. Our assumptions were correct, it seems. But we didn't stop at that assumption; we assumed that she was the murderess. We were wrong there." Clancy's bosom lifted at his matter-of-fact statement. With so much evidence against her, and with this evidence apparently corroborated by her flight, it was wonderful to realize that not a single person to whom she had told her story doubted it. "And, because we believed that we had hit upon the correct theory, we dropped all other ends of the case," continued Vandervent. "Now, with the case almost a week old--oh, we'll get him--or her--all right," he added hastily. "Only--the notoriety that may occur first----" He broke off abruptly. Clancy's bosom fell; her hopes also. The palms of her hands became moist. In the presence of Vandervent, she realized more fully than ever what notoriety might mean. Vandervent sensed her horror. "But I assure you, Miss Deane, that we'll avoid that notoriety. I know a way----" "What?" demanded the judge. "Well, we'll wait a bit," said Vandervent. "Meanwhile, I'm going to the office." "On Sunday?" asked Mrs. Walbrough. Vandervent smiled faintly. "I think I'll be forgiven--considering the cause for which I labor," he finished. He was rewarded by a smile from Clancy that brought the color to his cheeks. And then, the blush still lingering, he left them. Walbrough escorted him to the door. He returned, a puzzled look upon his face. "Well, I wonder what he means by saying that he knows a way to keep the thing out of the papers." "You're an idiot!" snapped his wife "Why--any one ought to know what he means." The judge ran his fingers across the top of his head. "'Any one ought to know,' eh? Well, I'm one person that doesn't." "You'll find out soon enough," retorted Mrs. Walbrough. She turned to Clancy. "Come along, dear; you must lie down." Randall, whose silence during the past half-hour had been conspicuous, opened his mouth. "Why--er----," he began. But Mrs. Walbrough cut him off. "You'll forgive Miss Deane, won't you?" she pleaded. "She's exhausted, poor thing, though she doesn't know it." Indeed, Clancy didn't know it, hadn't even suspected it. But she could offer no protest. Mrs. Walbrough was dominating the situation as Vandervent had been doing a few moments ago. She found herself shaking hands with Randall, thanking him, telling him that her plans necessarily were uncertain, but adding, with the irrepressible Clancy grin, that, if she weren't here, she'd certainly be in jail where any one could find her, and bidding him good-by. All this without knowing exactly why. Randall deserved better treatment. Yet, queerly enough, she didn't want to accord it to him. A little later, she was uncorseted and lying down in a Walbrough guest bedroom, a charming room in soft grays that soothed her and made her yearn for night and sleep. Just now she wasn't the least bit sleepy, but she yielded to Mrs. Walbrough's insistence that she should rest. Mrs. Walbrough, leaving her guest, found her husband in his study; he was gravely mixing himself a cocktail. She surveyed him with contempt. Mildly he looked at her. "What have I done now?" he demanded. "Almost rushed that poor girl into a marriage," she replied. "'Marriage?' God bless me--what do you mean?" "Asking again and again what Phil Vandervent meant when he said that he knew a way to avoid publicity. And then you didn't have sense enough to edge young Randall out of the house. You let me be almost rude to him." "Well, why should I have been the one to be rude? Why be rude, anyway? He's been darned nice to the girl." "That's just it! Do you want her to keep thinking how nice he is?" "Well, in the name of heaven, why not?" demanded her exasperated husband. "Because he's not good enough for her." "Why isn't he?" "Because she can do better." The judge drained his cocktail. "Mrs. Walbrough, do you know I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about?" "Of course you haven't! You'd have let her stay here and listen, maybe, to a proposal from that young man, and perhaps accept it, and possibly----" "Peace!" thundered the judge. "No more supposes,' please. I'll not be henpecked in my own house." She came close to him and put her arm about him. "Where shall I henpeck you then, Tommy boy?" she asked. "'Tommy boy! Tommy boy?' O my good Lord, what talk!" sputtered the judge. But he kissed her as she lifted her mouth to his. XXV Familiarity breeds endurance as well as contempt. Clancy ate as hearty a breakfast on Monday morning as any criminal that ever lived, and, according to what one reads, condemned criminals on the morning of execution have most rapacious appetites. Which is not so odd as people think; how can they know when they're going to eat again? She had been in New York one week, lacking a few hours, and in that week she had run the scale of sensation. She did not believe that she could ever be excited again. No matter what came, she believed that she would have fortitude to endure it. The judge and his wife seemed to have banished alarm. Indeed, they had seemed to do that last night, for when Mrs. Walbrough had permitted Clancy to rise for dinner, she had conducted her to a meal at which no talk of Clancy's plight had been permitted to take place. Later, the three had played draw-pitch, a card game at which Clancy had shown what the judge was pleased to term a "genuine talent." Then had come bed. And now, having disposed of a breakfast that would have met the approval of any resident of Zenith, she announced that she was going out. "Better stay indoors," said the judge. "Just as well, you know, if people don't see you too much." Clancy laughed. "I've been outdoors right along," she said. "It's rather a late date to hide indoors. Besides, I mustn't lose my job." "Job!" The judge snorted disgustedly. "Why, you mustn't think of work until this matter is all settled!" cried Mrs. Walbrough. Clancy smiled. "I must live, you know." "'Live! Live!'" The judge lifted an empty coffee-cup to his mouth, then set it down with a crash that should have broken it. "Don't be absurd, my dear girl. Mrs. Walbrough and I----" "Please!" begged Clancy. She fought against tears of gratitude--of affection. "You've been so dear, so--so--'angelic' is the only word that fits it. Both of you. I'll adore you--always. But you mustn't--I didn't come to New York to let other people, no matter how sweet and generous they might be, do for me." The judge cleared his throat. "Quite right, my dear; quite right." "Of course she is," said Mrs. Walbrough. Clancy hid her mirth. It is a wonderful thing to realize that in the eyes of certain people we may do no wrong, that, whatever we do, even though these certain people have advised against it, becomes suddenly the only correct, the only possible course. And to think that she had known the Walbroughs only a few days! Fate had been brutal to her these past seven days; but Fate had also been kindly. "But you'll continue to make this your home--for the present, at least," said the judge. "Until this affair is closed." To have refused would have been an unkindness. They wanted her. Clancy was one of those persons who would always be wanted. The judge, as she was leaving, wrote on a card his private-office telephone-number. "If you got the listed one, you might have difficulty in speaking with me. But this wire ends on my desk. I answer it myself." Clancy thanked him. Mrs. Walbrough kissed her, and the judge assumed a forlorn, abused expression. So Clancy kissed him also. A servant stopped her in the hall. "Just arrived, Miss Deane," she said, putting in Clancy's hand a long box, from one end of which protruded flower-stems. Clancy had never been presented with "store" flowers before. In Zenith, people patronize a florist only on sorrowful occasions. And now, gazing at the glorious red roses that filled the box, Clancy knew that she would never go back to Zenith. She had known it several times during the past week, but to-day she knew it definitely, finally. With scandal hovering in a black cloud over her, she still knew it. These roses were emblematic of the things for which she had come to New York. They stood for the little luxuries, the refinements of living that one couldn't have in a country town. Had the greatest sage in the world come to Clancy now and told her of what little worth these things were in comparison with the simpler, truer things of the country, Clancy would have laughed at him. How could a man be expected to understand? Further, she wouldn't have believed him. She had seen meannesses in Zenith that its gorgeous sunsets and its tonic air could not eradicate from memory. She turned back, and up-stairs found Mrs. Walbrough. "I'll fix them for you," said the judge's wife. But Clancy hugged the opened box to her bosom. "These are the first flowers _from a florist's_ that I ever received," she said. "Bless your heart!" said Mrs. Walbrough. "I'll even let you fill the vases." Mrs. Walbrough could remember the first flowers sent her by her first beau. "But you haven't read the card!" she cried. Clancy colored. She hadn't thought of that. She picked up the envelope. "Oh!" she gasped, when she had torn the envelope open and read the sender's name. And there were scribbled words below the engraved script: "To a brave young lady." Mutely she handed the card to her hostess. Mrs. Walbrough smiled. "He isn't as brave as you, my dear. Or else," she explained, "he'd have written, 'To a beautiful young lady.' Why," she cried, "that's what he started to write! Look! There's a blot, and it's scratched----" Clancy's color was fiery. "He wouldn't have!" she protested. "Well, he didn't; but he wanted to," retorted Mrs. Walbrough. Clancy gathered the roses in her arms. She could say nothing. Of course, it was absurd. Mrs. Walbrough had acquired a sudden and great fondness for her, and therefore was colored in her views. Still, there was the evidence. There is no letter "t" in brave, and undeniably there had been a "t" in the word that had preceded "young." She saw visions; she saw herself--she dismissed them. Mr. Philip Vandervent was a kindly, chivalrous young man and had done a thoughtful thing. That's all there was to it. She would be an idiot to read more into the incident. And yet, there had been a "t" in "brave" until he had scratched it out! Her heart was singing as she left the Walbrough house. A score of Spoffords might have been lurking near and she would never have seen them. Suddenly she thought of Randall. Why hadn't he thought of sending her roses? He had come back from Albany, cut short his trip to California to see her, to plead once more his cause. Her eyes hardened. He hadn't pleaded it very strongly. Suddenly she knew why she had been resentful yesterday--because she had sensed his refusal of her. Refusal! She offered to marry him, and--he'd said, "Wait." But she could not keep her mind on him long enough to realize that she was unjust. The glamour of Vandervent overwhelmed her. She walked slowly, and it was after nine when she arrived at Sally Henderson's office. Her employer greeted her cordially. "Easy job--though tiresome--for you to-day, Miss Deane," she said. "Sophie Carey has made another lightning change. Wants to rent her house furnished as quick as we can get a client. You've got to check her inventory. Hurry along, will you? Here!" She thrust into Clancy's hands printed slips of paper and almost pushed her employee toward the door. Clancy caught a 'bus and rode as far as Eighth Street. On the way, she glanced at the printed slips. They were lists of about everything, she imagined, that could possibly be crowded into a house. The task had frightened her at first, but now it seemed simple. Mrs. Carey's maid had evidently recovered from the indisposition of the other day, or else she had engaged a new one. Anyway, a young woman in apron and cap opened the door. Yes; Mrs. Carey was in. In a moment, Clancy had verbal evidence of the fact, for she heard Sophie's voice calling to her. She entered the dining-room. Mrs. Carey was at breakfast. Her husband was with her, but that his breakfast was the ordinary sort Clancy was inclined to doubt. For by his apparently untouched plate stood a tall glass. He rose, not too easily, as Clancy entered. "Welcome to our city, little stranger!" he cried. Clancy shot a glance at Sophie Carey. She was sorry for her. Mrs. Carey's face was white; she looked old. "Going to find me a tenant?" she asked. Her attempt at joviality was rather pathetic. "Take the house herself. Why not?" demanded Carey. "Nice person to leave it with. Take good care ev'rything. Make it pleasant for me when I run into town for a day or so. Nice, friendly li'l brunette to talk to. 'Scuse me," he suddenly added. "Sorry! Did I say anything I shouldn't, Sophie darling? I ask you, Miss Deane, did I say a single thing shouldn't've said. Tell me." "No, indeed," said Clancy. Her heart ached for Sophie Carey. A brilliant, charming, beautiful woman tied to a thing like this! Not that she judged Don Carey because of his intoxication. She was not too rigorous in her judgment of other people's weaknesses. She knew that men can become intoxicated and still be men of genius and strength. But Carey's weak mouth, too small for virility, his mean eyes, disgusted her. What a woman Mrs. Carey would make if the right man---- And yet she was drawn to her husband in some way or another. Possibly, Clancy decided, sheer loneliness made her endure him on those occasions when he returned from his wanderings. Mrs. Carey rose. "You'll excuse us, Don? Miss Deane must go over the house, you know." "Surest thing! Go right 'long. 'F I can help, don't hes'tate t' call on me. Love help li'l brunette." How they got out of the room, Clancy didn't know. She thought that Sophie Carey would faint, but she didn't. As for herself, the feeling that Don Carey's drunken eyes were appraising her figure nauseated her. She was so pitifully inclined toward Sophie that her eyes were blurry. Up-stairs in her bedroom, Mrs. Carey met Clancy's eyes. She had been calm, self-controlled up to now. But the sympathy that she read in Clancy weakened her resolution. She sat heavily down upon the edge of the bed and hid her face in her hands. "O my God, what shall I do?" she moaned. Awkwardly, Clancy advanced to her. She put an arm about the older woman's shoulders. "Please," she said, "you mustn't!" Mrs. Carey's hands dropped to her side. Her eyes seemed to grow dry, as though she were controlling her tears by an effort of her will. "I won't. The beast!" she cried. She rose, flinging off, though not rudely, Clancy's sympathetic embrace. "Miss Deane, don't you ever marry. Beasts--all of them!" Clancy, with the memory of Vandervent's roses in her mind, shook her head. "He--he just isn't himself, Mrs. Carey." The other woman shrugged. "'Not himself?' He _is_ himself. When he's sober, he's worse, because then one can make no excuses for him. To insult a guest in my house----" "I don't mind," stammered Clancy. "I--I make allowances----" "So have I. So have all my friends. But now--I'm through with him. I----" Suddenly she sat down again, before a dressing-table. "That isn't true. I've promised him his chance, Miss Deane. He shall have it. We're going to the country. He has a little place up in the Dutchess County. We're going there to-day. The good Lord only knows how we'll reach it over the roads, but--it's his only chance. It's his last. And I'm a fool to give it to him. He'll be sober, but--worse then. And still-- Hear him," she sneered. Clancy listened. At first, she thought that it was mere maudlin speech, but as Don Carey's voice died away, she heard another voice--a mean, snarling voice. "You think so, hey? Lemme tell you different. All I gotta do is to 'phone a cop, and----" "Go ahead--'phone 'em," she heard Carey's voice interrupt. The other's changed to a whine. "Aw, be sensible, Carey! You're soused now, or you wouldn't be such a fool. Why not slip me a li'l jack and let it go at that? You don't want the bulls comin' in on this." Clancy stared at Sophie. The wife walked to the door. "Don!" she called. "Who's down-stairs?" "You 'tend to your own affairs," came her husband's answer. "Shut your door, and your mouth, too." Mrs. Carey seemed to stagger under the retort. She sat down again. She turned to Clancy, licking her lips with her tongue. "Please--please----" she gasped, "see--who it is--with Don." Down-stairs Clancy tiptoed. Voices were raised again in altercation. "Why the deuce _should_ I give you money?" demanded Carey. "Suppose I did run a fake agency for the pictures? Suppose I did promise a few girls jobs that they never got? What about it? You can't dig any of those girls up. Run tell the police." "Yes; that's all right," said the other voice. "But suppose that I tell 'em that you had a key to Morris Beiner's office, hey? Suppose I tell 'em that, hey?" Something seemed to rise from Clancy's chest right up through her throat and into her mouth. Once again on tiptoe, wanting to scream, yet determined to keep silent, she edged her way to the dining-room door. Don Carey had made no answer to this last speech of his visitor. Peering through the door, Clancy knew why. He was lying back in a chair, his mouth wide open, his eyes equally wide with fright. And the man at whom he stared was the man who had been with Spofford yesterday, the elevator-man from the Heberworth Building! XXVI Hand pressed against her bosom, Clancy stared into the dining-room. She could not breathe as she waited for Carey's reply to his visitor's charge. So Don Carey had possessed a key to the office of Morris Beiner! The theatrical man had been locked in his office when Clancy had made her escape from the room by way of the window. The door had not been forced. And Don Carey had possessed a key! For a moment, she thought, with pity, of the woman up-stairs, the woman who had befriended her, whose life had been shadowed by her husband. But only for a moment. She herself was wanted for this murder; her eyes were hard as she stared into the room. Carey's fingers reached out aimlessly. They fastened finally upon a half-drained glass. [Illustration: _"Who's going to believe that kind of yarn?" Carey demanded_] "Who's going to believe that kind of yarn?" he demanded. "I can prove it all right," said the other. "Well, even if you can prove it, what then?" His visitor shrugged. "You seemed worried about it a minute ago," he said. "Oh, there ain't no use tryin' to kid me, I know what I know. It all depends on you who I tell it to. I ain't a mean guy." His voice became whining. "I ain't a trouble-maker. I can keep my trap closed as well as any one. When," he added significantly, "there's enough in it for me." "And you think you can blackmail me?" demanded Carey. His attempt at righteous indignation sounded rather flat. The elevator-man lost his whine; his voice became sulkily hard. "Sticks and stones won't break no bones," he said. "Call it what you please. I don't care--so long as I get mine." Carey dropped his pretense of indignation. "Well, there's no need of you shouting," he said. He rose to his feet, assisting himself with a hand on the edge of the table. "My wife's up-stairs," he said. "No need of screaming so she'll be butting in again. Shut that door." Clancy leaped back. She gained the stairs in a bound. She crouched down upon them, hoping that the banisters would shield her. But no prying eyes sought her out. One of the two men in the room closed the dining-room door. For a minute after it was shut, Clancy remained crouching. She had to _think_. A dozen impulses raced through her mind. To telephone Vandervent, the judge? To run out upon the street and call for a policeman? As swiftly as they came to her, she discarded them. She had begun to glean in recent days something of what was meant by the word "evidence." And she had none against Carey. Not yet! But she could get it! She _must_ get it! Sitting on the stairs, trembling--with excitement now, not fear--Clancy fought for clarity of thought. What to do? There must be some one correct thing, some action demanded by the situation that later on would cause her to marvel because it had been overlooked. But what was it? She could not think of the correct thing to do. The elevator-man knew something. He was the same man who had identified her to Spofford, the plain-clothes man. The man assuredly knew the motive that lay behind the request for identification. And now, having told a detective things that made Clancy Deane an object of grave suspicion, the man was blandly--he was mentally bland, if not orally so--blackmailing Don Carey. Yet Clancy did not disbelieve her ears merely because what she heard sounded incredible. Nor did she, because she believed that the elevator-man had proof of another's guilt, delude herself with the idea that her own innocence was thereby indisputably shown. Her first impulse--to telephone Vandervent--returned to her now. But she dismissed it at once, this time finally. For a man who brazenly pointed out one person to the police while endeavoring to blackmail another was not the sort of person tamely to blurt out confession when accused of his double-dealing. She had nothing on which to base her accusation of Carey save an overheard threat. The man who had uttered it had only to deny the utterance. Up-stairs was Sophie Carey, torn with anguish, beaten by life and its injustices. The hardness left her eyes again. If she could only be sure that she herself would escape, she would be willing, for Sophie's sake, to forget what she had overheard. She heard Sophie's voice whispering hoarsely to her from the landing above. "Miss Deane, Miss Deane!" Then she saw Clancy. Her voice rose, in alarm, above a whisper. "Has he--did he--dare----" Clancy rose; she ran up the stairs. "No, no; of course not!" she answered. "I--I twisted my ankle." It was a kindly lie. It was, Clancy thought, characteristic of Sophie Carey that she forgot her own unhappiness in sympathy for Clancy. The older woman threw an arm about the girl. "Oh, my dear! You poor thing----" "It's all right," said Clancy. She withdrew, almost hastily, from the embrace. Postpone it though she might, she was going to bring disgrace upon the name of Carey. She _had_ to--to save herself. She could not endure the other's caress now. "Who was it?" asked Mrs. Carey. Clancy averted her eyes. "I don't know," she said. "I---- The door was closed." "It doesn't matter," said the older woman. "I--I--I'm nervous. Don is so----" Her speech trailed away into a long sigh. The deep respiration seemed to give her strength. She straightened up. "I'm getting old, I'm afraid. I can't bear my troubles as easily as I used to. I want to force some one to share them with me. You are very kind, Miss Deane. Now----" She had preceded Clancy into her bedroom. From a desk, she took a slip of paper and a ring from which dangled several keys. "We're all ready to go," she said. "It only remains to check up my inventory. But I'm quite sure that we can trust you and Sally Henderson"--her smile was apparently quite unforced--"not to cheat us. If there are any errors in my list, Sally can notify me." She handed Clancy the paper and key-ring. As she did so, the door-bell rang. Almost simultaneously the door to the dining-room could be heard opening. A moment later, Carey called. "Ragan's here," he shouted. His voice was surly, like that of a petulant child forced to do something undesirable. Clancy thought that there was more than that in it, that there was the quaver that indicates panic. But Mrs. Carey, who should have been sensitive to any vocal discords in her husband's voice, showed no signs of such sensitiveness. "Ready in a moment. Send him up," she called. Ragan was a burly, good-natured Irishman. He grinned at Mrs. Carey's greeting. Here was a servant who adored his mistress, Clancy felt. "Ready to go to the country, Ragan?" asked Mrs. Carey. The big man's grin was sufficient answer. "Ragan," said Mrs. Carey to Clancy, "is the most remarkable man in the world. He can drive a car along Riverside Drive at forty-five miles an hour without being arrested, and he can wait on table like no one else in the world. How's Maria?" she asked him. "Sure, she's fine," said Ragan. "She's at the station now." "Where we'll be in ten minutes," said his mistress. She indicated several bags, already packed. Ragan shouldered them. He started down-stairs. Mrs. Carey turned to Clancy. "Hope an empty house doesn't make you nervous," she smiled. Clancy shook her head. "I'll not be here long, anyway. And isn't your maid here?" "I think she's gone by now," said Mrs. Carey. "But she'll sleep each night here--until you've found me a tenant. For that matter, she'll be back early this afternoon--to wash dishes and such matters." She was not a person to linger over departures. Her husband had sulkily donned hat and coat and was standing in the hall down-stairs, waiting for her. So Mrs. Carey held out her hand to Clancy. "Wish I could ask you to week-end with us sometime, but I don't suppose that the country, in winter-time, means anything in your young life." She seemed to put the statement as a question, almost pleadingly. Impulsively, Clancy answered her. "Ask me sometime, and find out if it does." "I'll do that," said Mrs. Carey. "Coming, Don," she called. Her hand clasped Clancy's a moment, and then she trotted down the stairs. The door banged behind them. A thought came to Clancy. She raised her voice and called. But the door was thick. The Careys could not hear. Frightened, she raced down-stairs. As she passed the dining-room door, she glanced through the opening. Then fear died from her. She had been afraid that the elevator-man from the Heberworth Building still remained in the house. But, when she had seen him talking to Don Carey, his hat and coat were lying on a chair. They were gone now. Still---- Sudden anger swept over her. This lying, blackmailing thing to frighten Clancy Deane? Anger made her brave to rashness. From the fireplace in the dining-room she picked up a short heavy poker. If he were lurking anywhere in this house, if Don Carey, fearful lest his wife note the sort of person who paid him morning visits, had hidden the man away, she, Clancy Deane, would rout him out. She'd make him tell the _truth_! Through the dining-room, into the butler's pantry beyond, through the kitchen, to the head of the cellar stairs she marched, holding the poker before her. Her fingers found a switch: the cellar was flooded with light. Without the least timidity, Clancy descended. But the elevator-man was not there. And as in this tiny house there was but one flight of stairs leading to the upper stories, Clancy knew that the man was not in the house. She suffered reaction. What might have been her fate had she found the man hiding here? Like all women, Clancy feared the past more than the future. She feared it more than the present. She sank down upon the stairs outside the dining-room. Why, the man might have _shot_ her! What good would her poker have been, pitted against a revolver? And, with the Careys up in the country somewhere, she might have lain here, weltering in her gore--she'd read that somewhere, and grinned as she mentally said it. Well, she might as well begin the inventory of Mrs. Carey's household effects. But she was not to begin it yet. Some one rang the door-bell. No weakness assailed Clancy's knees now. Indeed, it never occurred to her that the caller might be any other than the post-man. And so she opened the front door and met the lowering gaze of Spofford, Vandervent's plain-clothes man. XXVII Clancy felt no impulse to slam the door in Spofford's face. Instead, she opened it wider. "Come in," she said. He stepped across the threshold. Just beyond, he paused uncertainly. And now his lips, which had been sullen, Clancy thought, shaped themselves into a smile that was deprecatory, apologetic. "I hope I ain't disturbin' you, Miss Deane," he said. Clancy stared at him. She had never felt so completely in command of a situation. "That depends," she said curtly. "If you are to annoy me further----" Spofford's grin was extremely conciliating. "Aw, don't hit a man when he's down, Miss Deane. Every one has to be a sucker once in a while. It ain't every guy that's willin' to admit it, apologize, and ask for a new deal. Now, if I go that far, don't you think you ought to come a little way and meet me?" Clancy's eyes widened. "Suppose," she said, "we sit down." "Thank you, Miss Deane." Spofford's tone was as properly humble as Clancy could possibly have wished. "A nice little friendly talk, me tryin' to show you I'm a regular guy, and you, maybe, bein, a little helpful. That's it--helpful." He followed her as she led the way into the drawing-room and he seated himself carefully upon the edge of a chair whose slim legs justified his caution. Clancy sat down opposite him. She leaned the poker against the wall. Spofford laughed. "I'll just bet you'd 'a' beaned me one with that as soon as not, eh, Miss Deane?" Clancy suddenly grew cautious. Perhaps this was an attempt to make her admit that she would not shrink from violence. Detectives were uncanny creatures. "I should hate to do anything like that," she said. Spofford guffawed heartily. "I'd sure hate to have you, Miss Deane. But you don't need to be afraid of me." "I'm not," said Clancy. Spofford's nod was the acme of appreciation of a remark that held no particular humor, so far as Clancy could see. He slipped a trifle further back in the chair. He crossed his legs, assisting one fat knee with his hands. He leaned back. From his upper waistcoat pocket he took a cigar. "You wouldn't mind, would you, Miss Deane? I can talk easier." The downward and inward jerk of Clancy's chin gave him consent. From his lower waistcoat pocket, attached to the same heavy chain that Clancy assumed secured his watch, Spofford produced a cigar-clipper. Deliberately he clipped the end from the cigar, lighted it, tilted it upward from one corner of his mouth, and leaned toward Clancy. "Miss Deane, you gotta right to point the door to me; I know it. But--you'd like to know who killed this Beiner guy, wouldn't you? Bein' sort of mixed up in it--bein' involved, so to speak----" His voice died away questioningly. Despite herself, Clancy sighed with relief. Spofford was really the only man she had to fear. And if he believed in her innocence---- "How do you know I didn't do it?" she demanded. "Well, it's this way, Miss Deane: When you come into Mr. Vandervent's office and fainted away after announcin' yourself as Florine Ladue, I couldn't quite swallow what you said about playin' a joke. You don't look like the sort of lady that would play that kind of a joke. Anyway, I have a hunch, and I play it. I get this elevator-man from the Heberworth Building to come down to your living-place----" "How did you know where I lived?" demanded Clancy. Spofford grinned. "Same way I found out that you were down here to-day, Miss Deane. I had a guy follow you. You can't blame me, now, can you?" he asked apologetically. Clancy hid a grin at her own magnanimous wave of her hand. "Well, this elevator-man tells me that he took you up to the fourth floor of the Heberworth Building on Tuesday afternoon. I think I have something. But, then, Judge Walbrough butts in. Well, I begin to figure that I'm _goin'_ a trifle fast. Judge Walbrough ain't the sort of man to monkey with the law. And nobody ain't goin' to fool him, either. So, if Walbrough strings along with you, maybe I'm a sucker to think you got anything to do with this Beiner affair. "And when the guy I have watching the house tells me that you've gone up to Walbrough's, and when I learn that Mr. Vandervent is down at Walbrough's house--well, I do some more figurin'. There's lots of influence in this town; but a pull that will make a man like Walbrough and a man like Vandervent hide a murderess--there ain't that pull here. 'Course, I figure that Walbrough is sendin' for Vandervent to help you out, not to pinch you. "Anyway, what I'm guessin' is that maybe I'd better examine my take-off before I do too much leapin'. And my take-off is that the elevator-man says he saw you in the Heberworth Building. That ain't a hangin' matter, exactly, I tells myself. Suppose I get a little more. "What sort of a lady is this Florine Ladue, I asks myself. An actress, or somebody that wants to be an actress; well, where would she be livin'? Somewhere in the Tenderloin, most likely. So, last evenin', I get busy. And I find at the Napoli that Miss Florine Ladue registered there last Monday and beat it away after breakfast Wednesday mornin'. And that's proof to me that Florine Ladue didn't do the killing. "Now, I'm pretty sure that you're Florine Ladue all right. Madame Napoli described you pretty thoroughly. Even told me that you was readin' a paper, at breakfast, what paper it was, how you got a telegram supposed to be from your mother that called you away. Now, I figure it out to myself: If Miss Ladue's mother wired her, and the wire made Miss Ladue pack her stuff and beat it, why didn't she go home? Because the wire's a fake, most likely. Then why, the next question is, did Miss Ladue put over that fake? The answer's easy. Because she'd just read in the mornin' paper about Beiner's murder. She's read about a young woman climbin' down the fire-escape, thinks she'll be pinched as that young woman, and--beats it. Pretty good?" Clancy nodded. She looked at the man with narrowed eyes. "Still," she said, "I don't understand why you're sure that Miss Ladue didn't kill him." Spofford's smile was complacent. "I'll tell you why, Miss Deane. This Ladue lady is no fool. The way she beat it from the Napoli proves that she was clever. But a clever woman, if she'd murdered Beiner, would have beat it Tuesday afternoon! Miss Deane, if you'd left the Napoli on Tuesday, I'd stake my life that you killed Beiner. No woman, leastwise a young girl like you, would have had the nerve to sit tight like you did on Tuesday night. I may be all wrong, but you gotta show me if I am," he went on emphatically. "Suppose you had killed Beiner, but didn't know that any one had seen you on the fire-escape! Even then, you'd have moved away from the Napoli. I tell you I been twenty-seven years on the force. I know what regular criminals do, and amachures, too. And even if you'd killed Beiner, I'd put you in the amachure class, Miss Deane." "Let's go a little farther," suggested Clancy. "Why did I announce myself to Mr. Vandervent as Florine Ladue and then deny it?" "You was scared," said Spofford. "Then, after you'd sent in that name, you read a paper sayin' Fanchon DeLisle was dead. You knew no one could identify you as Florine. You see, I picked up the paper on the bench where you'd been sittin'." "Mr. Spofford," said Clancy slowly, "I think that you are a very able detective." "'Able?'" Spofford grinned ingenuously. "I'm a _great_ detective, Miss Deane. I got ideas, I have. Now, listen: I've put my cards on the table, I'm goin' to tell the chief that I've been barkin' up the wrong tree. Now, you be helpful." "Just how?" Clancy inquired. "Tell me all that happened that afternoon in Beiner's office," said Spofford. "You see, I _got_ to land the guy that killed Beiner. It'll make me. Miss Deane, I want an agency of my own. I want some jack. If I land this guy, I can get clients enough to make my fortune in ten years. Will you come through?" Clancy "came through." Calmly, conscious of the flattering attention of Spofford, she told of her adventures in Beiner's office; and when he put it in a pertinent question, she hesitated only momentarily before telling him of the part that Ike Weber and Fay Marston had played in her brief career in New York. Spofford stared at her a full minute after she had finished. She brought her story down to her presence in the Carey house and the reason thereof. Then he puffed at his cigar. "Be helpful, Miss Deane, be helpful y' know; somebody else is liable to tumble onto what I tumbled to; he's liable to have his own suspicions. 'S long as you live, you'll have a queer feelin' every time you spot a bull unless the _guy that killed Beiner is caught_. Finish your spiel, eh?" He raised his pudgy hand quickly. "Now, wait a minute. I wouldn't for the world have you say anything that you'd have to take back a minute later. What's the use of stallin'? Tell me, what did Garland say to you?" "'Garland?'" Clancy echoed the name. "Sure, the elevator-man from Beiner's building. Listen, Miss Deane: I get the tip from one of the boys that you've left this Miss Henderson's place and come down here. I beat it down to have a little talk with you, same as we been havin'. And whiles I'm hangin' around, out comes Garland. Why'd you send for him?" "I didn't," said Clancy. Spofford shot a glance at her. "You didn't?" His lips pursed over the end of his cigar. "Then who did send for him? Say, isn't this the Carey house? Mrs. Sophie Carey, the artist? Wife of Don Carey? Wasn't it them that just left the house?" "Yes," said Clancy. "Well, I'm a boob. Don Carey, eh? And him bein' the gossip of Times Square because of the agency he run. Hm; that _might_ be it." "What might be it?" asked Clancy. "A li'l bit of jack to Garland for keepin' his face closed about what went on in Carey's fake office," explained Spofford. "Still---- I dunno. Say, look here, Miss Deane: Loosen up, won'tcha? I been a square guy with you. I come right down and put my cards on the table. I admit I got my reasons; I don't want a bad stand-in with Mr. Vandervent. But still I could 'a' been nasty, and I ain't tried to. Are you tellin' me all you know? Y' know, coppin' off the murderer would put--put a lot of pennies in my pocket." For a moment, Clancy hesitated. Then she seemed to see Sophie Carey's pleading face. Her smile was apparently genuinely bewildered as she replied, "Why, I'd like to help you, Mr. Spofford, but I really don't know any more than I've told you." It was another falsehood. It was the sort of falsehood that might interfere with the execution of justice, and so be frowned upon by good citizens. But it is hard to believe that the recording angel frowned. XXVIII Clancy was prepared to hear Spofford plead, argue, even threaten. Such action would have been quite consistent with his character as she understood it. But to her relief he accepted the situation. He rose stiffly from the chair. "Well, I'll be moseyin' along. I'm gonna look into a coupla leads that may not mean anything. But y' never can tell in this business. Much obliged to you, Miss Deane. No hard feelings?" "None at all," said Clancy. "I think--why I think it's _wonderful_ of you, Mr. Spofford, to be so--so friendly!" Spofford blushed. It was probably the first time that a woman had brought the color to his cheeks--in anything save anger--for many years. "Aw, now--why, Miss Deane--you know I--glad to meetcha," stammered Spofford. He made a stumbling, confused, and extremely light-hearted departure from the house. Somehow, he felt deeply obligated to Clancy Deane. The door closed behind him, and Clancy sat down once again upon the stairs. She felt safe at last. Now that the danger was past, she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Was it past? Before yielding to either emotional impulse, why not analyze the situation? What had Spofford said? That until the murderer was captured, she would always be apprehensive. Until the murderer was caught---- She tapped her foot upon the lower stair. There was no questioning Spofford's sincerity. He did not believe her guilty. But---- The telephone-bell rang. It was Sally Henderson. "Miss Deane?... Oh, is this you? This is Miss Henderson. Man named Randall telephoned a few minutes ago. Very urgent, he said. I don't like giving out telephone-numbers. Thought I'd call you. Want to talk with him?" Like a flash Clancy replied, "No." No pique inspired her reply. Randall had not measured up. That the standard of measurement she applied was tremendously high made no difference to Clancy, abated no whit her judgment. A week ago, she had met Randall. She had thought him kind. She had liked him. She had even debated within herself the advisability, the possibility of yielding to his evident regard. More than that, she had practically offered to marry him. And he had been cautious, had not leaped at the opportunity that, for one golden moment, had been his. Clancy did not phrase it exactly this way, but her failure to do so was not due to modesty. For never a woman walked to the altar but believed, in her heart of hearts, that she was giving infinitely more than she received. "Probably," said Clancy, half aloud, "he's found out that the Walbroughs are still with me, and that Philip Vandervent isn't afraid of me----" She thought of Vandervent's flowers, and the card that had accompanied them. "What did you say?" demanded Sally Henderson. Clancy blushed furiously. She realized that she'd been holding on to the receiver. "I thought that you said something about Judge Walbrough." "Lines must have been crossed," suggested Clancy. "Rotten telephone service," said Miss Henderson. "Oh, and another man!" Clancy felt pleasurably excited. Philip Vandervent---- "I didn't see him. Guernsey told him where you were. Guernsey is an ass! As if you'd have a brother almost fifty." "What? I haven't any brother," cried Clancy. "Lucky girl. When they weren't borrowing your money, they'd be getting you to help them out of scrapes or mind your sister-in-law's babies. Sorry. If you're frightened----" "'Frightened?' Why?" demanded Clancy. "Well, Guernsey told him where you were, and the man left here apparently headed for you." Clancy's forehead wrinkled. "What did he look like?" she asked. "Oh, Guernsey couldn't describe him very well. Said he wore a mustache that looked dyed, and was short and stocky. That's all." "Some mistake," said Clancy. "Perhaps," said Miss Henderson dryly. "Anyway, you needn't let him in. Might be somebody from Zenith who wanted to borrow money." "Probably," said Clancy. "Getting ahead with the work?" "Checking up the inventory now," said Clancy. "All right; take your time." And Miss Henderson hung up. Once again, Clancy sat upon the stairs. Spofford had distinctly said that one of his men had followed Clancy down to this house. The description that Guernsey had given fitted Spofford exactly. Spofford, then, not one of his men, had trailed Clancy down here. Why did he lie? Also, he must have known quite clearly who were the occupants of this house. Why had he expressed a certain surprise when Clancy had told him? He had said that, while he had been waiting outside, Garland had come out. But why had Spofford been waiting outside? Why hadn't he come right up and rung the door-bell? Could this delay have been because he knew that Garland was inside the house, and because he did not wish to encounter him? But how could he have known that Garland was inside with Carey? Well, that was easily answered. He might have arrived just as Garland was entering the house. But there were other puzzling matters. Why had Spofford been so long in recollecting that Don Carey had roused the suspicions of the police because of the office he had maintained in the Heberworth Building? Apparently, it had only occurred to him at the end of his rather long conversation with Clancy. Hadn't Spofford been a little too ingenuous? Could it be that he had some slight suspicion of Don Carey? As a matter of fact, looking at the matter as dispassionately as she could, hadn't Spofford dropped a strong circumstantial case against Clancy Deane on rather slight cause? Against the evidence of her presence in Beiner's office and her flight from the Napoli, Spofford had pitted his own alleged knowledge of human nature. Because Clancy had delayed flight until Wednesday, Spofford had decided that she was innocent. She didn't believe it. It had all been convincing when Spofford had said it. But now, in view of the fact that she had detected in his apparent sincerity one untruth, she wondered how many others there might be. Would fear of the Vandervent and Walbrough influence cause him to drop the trail of a woman whom he believed to be a murderess? No, she decided; it would not. Then why had he dropped the belief in her guilt that had animated his actions yesterday? The answer came clearly to her. Because he felt that he had evidence against some one else. Against Carey? She wondered. If against Carey, why had he gone in search of Clancy at Sally Henderson's office? But she could answer that. He wanted to hear her story. Finding that she was at the very moment in Don Carey's house had been chance, coincidence. He had known that Garland had not come here to see her; he had known that Garland had come to see Carey. How much did he know? What _was_ there to know? Her brain became dizzy. Spofford had certainly not ceased to question the Heberworth Building elevator-man when the man had identified Clancy. Spofford had cunning, at the very lowest estimate of his mental ability. He would have cross-examined Garland. The man might have dropped some hint tying up Carey to the murder. She began to feel that Spofford was not entirely through with her. There was a way, an almost certain way, now, though, to end her connection with the affair. If she told Philip Vandervent or Judge Walbrough the threat that she had heard Garland utter, the elevator-man would be under examination within a few hours. Did she want that? Certainly not, just yet. She knew what scandal meant. She doubted if even Sophie Carey, with her apparently unchallenged artistic and social position, could live down the scandal of being the wife of a man accused of murder. She must be fair to Sophie. Indeed, if she were to live up to her own code--it was a code that demanded much but gave more--she must be more than fair to her. Sophie had gotten her work, had dressed her up. She did not like being under obligation to Mrs. Carey. But, having accepted so much, repayment must be made. It would be a shoddy requital of Sophie's generosity for Clancy Deane to run to the police and repeat the threats of a blackmailer. How did she know that those threats were founded upon any truth? She had heard Garland say that Carey had possessed a key to Beiner's office; she had seen the expression of fright upon Carey's face as Garland made the charge. But fear didn't necessarily imply guilt. Clancy Deane had been a pretty scared young lady several times during the past week, and she was innocent. Don Carey might be just as guiltless. Of course, Judge Walbrough and his wife had been unbelievably friendly, Vandervent had shown a chivalry that--Clancy sighed slightly--might mask something more personal. _Noblesse oblige._ But her first obligation was to Sophie Carey. Until her debts were settled to Sophie she need not consider the payment of others. Especially if the payment of those others meant betrayal of Sophie. And an accusation against her husband was, according to Clancy's lights, no less than that. And so she couldn't make it. There was nothing to prevent her, though, from endeavoring to discover whether or not Don Carey were guilty. If he were--Clancy would pass that bridge when she came to it. Meantime, she was supposed to be earning a salary of fifty dollars a week. A few minutes ago, she had told Sally Henderson that she had begun checking up the Carey household effects. She had not meant to deceive her employer. She'd work very hard to make up for the delay that her own affairs had caused. The Careys' house was not "cluttered up," despite the artistic nature of its mistress. Clancy, who knew what good housekeeping meant--in Zenith, a dusty room means a soiled soul--pursed her lips with admiration as she passed from room to room. Two hours she spent, checking Sophie Carey's list. Then she let herself out of the house, locked the front door carefully behind her, and walked over to Sixth Avenue, into the restaurant where she had met Sophie Carey last Thursday morning. Only that long ago! It was incredible. Whimsically ordering chicken salad, rolls, tea, and pastry, Clancy considered the past few days. It was the first time that she had been able to dwell upon them with any feeling of humor. Now, her analysis of Spofford's words, more than the words themselves, having given her confidence, she looked backward. She wondered, had always wondered, exactly what was meant by the statement that certain people had "lived." She knew that many summer visitors from the great cities looked down upon the natives of Zenith and were not chary of their opinions to the effect that people merely existed in Zenith. Yet she wondered if any of these supercilious ones had "lived" as much as had Clancy Deane in the last week. She doubted it. Life, in the _argot_ of the cosmopolitan, meant more than breathing, eating, drinking, and sleeping. It meant experiencing sensation. Well, she had experienced a-plenty, as a Zenither would have said. From what had meant wealth to her she had dropped to real poverty, to a bewilderment as to the source of to-morrow's dinner. From the quiet of a country town she had been tossed into a moving maze of metropolitan mystery. She, who had envied boys who dared to raid orchards, jealous of their fearlessness of pursuing farmers, had defied a police force, the press---- And she'd _liked_ it! This was the amazing thing that she discovered about herself. Not once could she remember having regretted her ambitions that had brought her to New York; not a single time had she wished herself back in Zenith. With scandal, jail, even worse, perhaps, waiting her, she'd not weakened. Once only had she been tempted to flee the city, and then she'd not even thought of going back to Zenith. And she knew perfectly well that had Spofford failed to visit her this morning, and had some super-person guaranteed her against all molestation if she would but return to her Maine home, she would have refused scornfully. Perhaps, she argued with herself, it was too much to say that she'd enjoyed these experiences, but--she was glad she'd had them. Life hereafter might become a monotonous round of renting furnished apartments and houses; she'd have this week of thrills to look back upon. She ate her salad hungrily. Paying her check, she walked to Eighth Street and took the street car to Sally Henderson's office. She learned that Judge Walbrough had telephoned once during the forenoon and left a message--which must have been cryptic to Sally Henderson--to the effect that he had met the enemy and they were his. Clancy assumed that Philip Vandervent had seen Spofford and that the man had told of his visit to Clancy. She wished that Vandervent hadn't told the judge; she'd have liked to surprise him with the news that Spofford, the one person of all the police whom she dreaded, had called off the chase. Oddly, she assumed that the judge and his wife would be as thrilled over anything happening to her as if it had happened to themselves. This very assumption that people were interested in her, loved her, might have been one of the reasons that they were and did. But it is futile to attempt analysis of charm. She spent the afternoon with Miss Conover, the dressmaker. Business was temporarily slack with Sally Henderson. Until the effects of the blizzard had worn off, not so many persons would go house-hunting. And the kindly interior decorator insisted that Clancy yield herself to Miss Conover's ministrations. Clancy had an eye for clothes. Although nothing had been completed, of course, she could tell, even in their unfinished state, that she was going to be dressed as she had never, in Zenith, dreamed. Heaven alone knew what it would all cost, but what woman cares what clothing cost? Clancy would have starved to obtain these garments. It is fashionable to jibe at the girl who lunches on a chocolate soda in order that she may dine in a silk dress. "She puts everything on her back," her plain sisters say. But understanding persons respect the girl. While marriage, for the mass, remains a market-place, she does well who best displays the thing she has for sale. It was a delightful afternoon, even though Miss Conover lost her good nature as her back began to ache from so much bending and kneeling. Clancy went down Fifth Avenue toward the Walbroughs' home walking, not on snow, but on air. Philip Vandervent had been attracted to her when he saw her in a borrowed frock. When he beheld her in one that fitted her perfectly, without the adventitious aid of pins---- Her smile was most adorable as she looked up at the judge, waiting for her at the head of the stairs. Quite naturally she held up her mouth to be kissed. Clancy unconsciously knew how to win and retain love. It is not done by kisses alone, but kisses play their delightful part. She had never granted them to young men; she had rarely withheld them from dear old men. XXIX Behind the judge stood his wife. Clancy immediately sensed a tenseness in the atmosphere. As she gently released herself from the judge's embrace and slipped into the arms of Mrs. Walbrough, what she sensed became absolute knowledge. For the lips that touched her cheek trembled, and in the eyes of Mrs. Walbrough stood tears. Clancy drew away from her hostess. She looked at the judge, then back again at Mrs. Walbrough, and then once again at the judge. "Well?" she demanded. "It isn't well," said the judge. "But I thought you knew," said Clancy. "Miss Henderson gave me your message. And that Spofford man saw me to-day, and told me that he didn't believe I had anything to do----" She paused, eyeing the judge keenly. She refused to be frightened. She wasn't going to be frightened again. "Of course he doesn't! Spofford went to Vandervent this forenoon. But--the newspapers," said the judge. Clancy's lips rounded with an unuttered "Oh." She sank down upon a chair; her hands dropped limply in her lap. "What do they know?" she demanded. The judge's reply was bitter. "'Know?' Nothing! But a newspaper doesn't have to _know_ anything to make trouble! If it merely suspects, that's enough. Look!" He unfolded an evening newspaper and handed it to Clancy. There, black as ink could make it, spreading the full length of the page, stood the damnable statement, WOMAN SOUGHT IN BEINER MYSTERY Her eyes closed. She leaned back in her chair. The full meaning of the head-line, its terrific import, seeped slowly into her consciousness. She knew that any scandal involving a woman is, from a newspaper standpoint, worth treble one without her. One needs to be no analyst to discover this--the fact presents itself too patently in every page of every newspaper. She knew, too, that newspapers relinquish spicy stories regretfully. Her eyes opened slowly. It was with a physical effort that she lifted the paper in order that she might read. The story was brief. It merely stated that the _Courier_ had learned, through authentic sources, that the district attorney's office suspected that a woman had killed Beiner, and that it was running down the clues that had aroused its suspicions. But it was a bold-face paragraph, set to the left of the main article, that drove the color from her cheeks. It was an editorial, transplanted, for greater effect, to the first page. Clancy read it through. FIND THE WOMAN Another murder engages the attention of police, the press, and the public. The _Courier_, as set forth in another column, has learned that the authorities possess evidence justifying the arrest of a woman as the Beiner murderess. How long must the people of the greatest city in the world feel that their Police Department is incompetent? It has been New York's proudest boast that its police are the most efficient in the world. That boast is flat and stale now. Too many crimes of violence have been unsolved during the past six months. Too many criminals wander at large. How long must this continue? It was, quite obviously, a partisan political appeal to the prejudices of the _Courier_'s readers. But Clancy did not care about that. The fact of publication, not its reason, interested her. She looked dully up at the judge. "How did they find out?" she asked. The judge shrugged. "That's what Vandervent is trying to find out now. He's quizzing his staff this minute. He meant to be up here this evening. He was to dine with us. He just telephoned. Some one will be 'broken' for giving the paper the tip. But--that doesn't help us, does it?" Clancy's lips tightened. Her eyes grew thoughtful. "Still, if that's all the paper knows----" "We can't be sure of that," interrupted Walbrough. "Suppose that whoever told the _Courier_ reporter what he's printed had happened to tell him a little more. The _Courier_ may want a 'beat.' It might withhold the fact that it knew the name of the woman in order that other newspapers might not find her first." Slowly the color flowed back into Clancy's cheeks. She would not be frightened. "But Spofford could never have found me if I hadn't gone to Mr. Vandervent's office," she said. "Spofford may be the man who gave the paper the tip," said the judge. Clancy sat bolt upright. "Would he dare?" The judge shrugged. "He might. We don't know. The elevator-man might have told a reporter--papers pay well for tips like that, you know. It's not safe here." The bottom fell out of the earth for Clancy. It was years since she'd had a home. One couldn't term aunt Hetty's boarding-house in Zenith a _home_, kindly and affectionate as aunt Hetty had been. She'd only been one night in the Walbroughs' house, had only known them four days. Yet, somehow, she had begun to feel a part of their _ménage_, had known in her heart, though of course nothing had been said about the matter, that the Walbroughs would argue against almost any reason she might advance for leaving them save one--marriage. Security had enfolded her. And now she was to be torn from this security. Her mouth opened for argument. It closed without speech. For, after all, scandal didn't threaten her alone; it threatened the Walbroughs. If she were found here by a reporter, the gossip of tongue and print would smirch her benefactors. "You're right. I'll go," she said. "I'll find a place----" "'_Find_ a place!'" There was amazement in Mrs. Walbrough's voice; there was more, a hint of indignation. "Why, you're going to our place up in Hinsdale. And _I'm_ going with you." Youth is rarely ashamed of its judgments. Youth is conceited, and conceit and shame are rarely companions. But Clancy reddened now with shame. She had thought the Walbroughs capable of deserting her, or letting her shift for herself, when common decency should have made her await explanation. They would never know her momentary doubt of them, but she could never live long enough, to make up for it. Yet she protested. "I--I can't. You--you'll be involved." The judge chuckled. "Seems to me, young lady, that it's rather late for the Walbroughs to worry about being involved. We're in, my dear, up to our slim, proud throats. And if we were certain of open scandal, surely you don't think that would matter?" he asked, suddenly reproachful. Clancy dissembled. "I think that you both are the most wonderful, dearest---- You make me want to cry," she finished. The judge squared his shoulders. A twinkle stood in his eye. "It's a way I have. The women always weep over me." His wife sniffed. She spoke to Clancy. "The man never can remember his waist-measurement." The judge fought hard against a grin. "My wife marvels so at her good luck in catching me that she tries to make it appear that she didn't catch much, after all." Mrs. Walbrough sniffed again. "'Luck?' In catching you!" The judge became urbane, bland, deprecatory. "I beg pardon, my dear. Not luck--skill." Mrs. Walbrough's assumption of scorn left her. Her laugh joined Clancy's. Clancy didn't realize just then how deftly the judge had steered her away from possible tears, and how superbly Mrs. Walbrough had played up to her husband's acting. She put one hand in the big palm of the judge and let her other arm encircle Mrs. Walbrough's waist. "If I should say, 'Thank you,'" she said, "it would sound so pitifully little----" "So you'll just say nothing, young woman," thundered the judge. "You'll eat some dinner, pack a bag, and you and Maria'll catch the eight-twenty to Hinsdale. You won't be buried there. Lots of people winter there. Maria and I used to spend lots of time there before she grew too old to enjoy tobogganing. But I'm not too old. I'll be up to-morrow or the next day, to bring you home. For the real murderer _will_ be found. He _must_ be!" Not merely then, but half a dozen times through the meal that followed, Clancy resisted the almost overpowering temptation to tell what she had overheard being said in the Carey dining-room. It wasn't fair to the Walbroughs to withhold information. On the other hand, she must be more than fair to Sophie. Before she spoke, she must know more. But how, immured in some country home, was she to learn more? Yet she could not refuse flight without an explanation. And the only explanation would involve Don Carey, the husband of the woman who had been first in New York to befriend her. She couldn't tell--yet. She must have time to think, to plan. And so she kept silence. Had she been able to read the future, perhaps she would have broken the seal of silence; perhaps not. One is inclined to believe that she would have been sensible enough to realize that even knowledge of the future cannot change it. For millions of us can in a measure read the future, yet it is unchanged. We know that certain consequences inevitably follow certain actions. Yet we commit the actions. We know that result follows cause, yet we do not eliminate the cause. If we could be more specific in our reading than this, would our lives be much different? One is permitted doubts. The train, due to the traffic disturbances caused by the blizzard, left the Grand Central several minutes behind its scheduled time. It lost more time _en route_, and the hour was close to midnight when Clancy and Mrs. Walbrough emerged from the Hinsdale station and entered a sleigh, driven by a sleepy countryman who, it transpired, was the Walbrough caretaker. It was after midnight, and after a bumpy ride, that the two women descended from the sleigh and tumbled up the stairs that led to a wide veranda. The house was ablaze in honor of their coming. It was warm, too, not merely from a furnace, but from huge open fires that burned down-stairs and in the bedroom to which Clancy was assigned. The motherly wife of the caretaker had warm food and hot drink waiting them, but Clancy hardly tasted them. She was sleepy, and soon she left Mrs. Walbrough to gossip with her housekeeper while she tumbled into bed. Sleep came instantly. Hardly, it seemed, had her eyes closed before they opened. Through the raised window streamed sunlight. But Clancy was more conscious of the cold air that accompanied it. It was as cold here as it was in Maine. At least, it seemed so this morning. She was quite normal. She was not the sort of person who leaps gayly from bed and performs calisthenics before an opened window in zero weather. Instead, she snuggled down under the bedclothes until her eyes and the tip of her nose were all that showed. One glimpse of her breath, smoky in the frosty air, had made a coward of her. But sometimes hopes are realized. Just as she had made up her mind to brave the ordeal and arise and close the window, she heard a knock upon the door. "Come in. Oh, _pul-lease_ come in!" she cried. Mrs. Walbrough entered, followed by the housekeeper, who, Clancy had learned last night, was named Mrs. Hebron. Mrs. Walbrough closed the window, chaffing Clancy because a Maine girl should mind the cold, and Mrs. Hebron piled wood in the fireplace. By the time that Clancy emerged from the bathroom--she hated to leave it; the hot water in the tub made the whole room pleasantly steamy--her bedroom was warm. And Mrs. Walbrough had found somewhere a huge bath robe of the judge's which swamped Clancy in its woolen folds. There were orange juice and toast and soft-boiled eggs and coffee made as only country people can make it. It had been made, Clancy could tell from the taste, by putting _plenty_ of coffee in the bottom of a pot, by filling the pot with cold water, by letting it come to a boil, removing it after it had bubbled one minute, and serving it about ten seconds after that. All this was set upon a table drawn close to the fire. "Why," said Clancy aloud, "did I ever imagine that I didn't care for the country in the winter?" Mrs. Walbrough laughed. "You're a little animal, Clancy Deane," she accused. "I'll tell the world I am," said Clancy. She laughed at Mrs. Walbrough's expression of mock horror. "Oh, we can be slangy in Zenith," she said. "What else can you be in Zenith?" asked Mrs. Walbrough. Clancy drained her cup of coffee. She refused a second cup and pushed her chair away from the table. She put her feet, ridiculous in a huge pair of slippers that also belonged to the judge, upon the dogs in the fireplace. Luxuriously she inhaled the warmth of the room. "What else can we be?" she said. She had talked only, it seemed, about her troubles these past few days. Now, under the stimulus of an interested listener, she poured forth her history, her hopes, her ambitions. And, in return, Mrs. Walbrough told of her own life, of her husband's failure to inherit the vast fortune that he had expected, how, learning that speculation had taken it all from his father, he had buckled down to the law; how he had achieved tremendous standing; how he had served upon the bench; how he had resigned to accept a nomination for the Senate; how, having been defeated--it was not his party's year--he had resumed the practise of law, piling up a fortune that, though not vast to the sophisticated, loomed large to Clancy. They were still talking at luncheon, and through it. After the meal Hebron announced that there would be good tobogganing outside after the course had been worn down a little. To Clancy's delighted surprise, Mrs. Walbrough declared that she had been looking forward to it. Together, wrapped in sweaters and with their feet encased in high moccasins--they were much too large for Clancy--they tried out the slide. The Walbrough house was perched upon the top of a wind-swept hill. The view was gorgeous. On all sides hills that could not be termed mountains but that, nevertheless, were some hundreds of feet high, surrounded the Walbrough hill. A hundred yards from the front veranda, at the foot of a steep slope, was a good-sized pond. Across this the toboggan course ended. And because the wind had prevented the snow from piling too deeply, the toboggan, after a few trials, slid smoothly, and at a great pace, clear across the pond. It was dusk before they were too tired to continue. Breathlessly, Mrs. Walbrough announced that she would give a house-party as soon as---- She paused. It was the first reference to the cause of their being there that had passed the lips of either to-day. Both had tacitly agreed not to talk about it. "Let's hope it won't be long," said Clancy. "To drag you away from the city----" "Tush, tush, my child," said Mrs. Walbrough. Clancy tushed. It was at their early dinner that the telephone-bell rang. Clancy answered it. It was Vandervent. He was brisk to the point of terseness. "Got to see you. Want to ask a few questions. I'll take the eight-twenty. Ask Mrs. Walbrough if she can put me up?" Mrs. Walbrough, smiling, agreed that she could. Clancy told Vandervent so. He thanked her. His voice lost its briskness. "Are you--eh--enjoying yourself?" Clancy demurely replied that she was. "I wish you had time for some tobogganing," she ventured. "Do you really?" Vandervent was eager. "I'll make time--I--I'll see you to-night, Miss Deane." Clancy smiled with happy confidence at the things that Vandervent had not said. She played double solitaire with her hostess until eleven o'clock. Then Mrs. Hebron entered with the information that her husband had developed a sudden chest-cold, accompanied by fever, and that she really dreaded letting him meet the train. Clancy leaped to the occasion. She pooh-poohed Mrs. Walbrough's protests. As if, even in these motorful days, a Zenith girl couldn't hitch an old nag to a sleigh and drive a few rods. And she wouldn't permit Mrs. Walbrough to accompany her, either. Alone, save for a brilliant moon, a most benignant moon, she drove down the hill and over the snow-piled road to the Hinsdale station. It was a dreamy ride; she was going to meet a man whose voice trembled as he spoke to her, a man who was doing all in his power to save her from dangers, a man who was a Vandervent, one of the great _partis_ of America. Yet it was as a man, rather than as a Vandervent, that she thought of him. So, engrossed with thoughts of him, thoughts that submerged the memory of yesterday's paper, that made her forget that she had seen no paper to-day, she gave the old horse his head, and let him choose his own path. Had she been alert, she would have seen the men step out from the roadside, would have been able to whip up her horse and escape their clutch. As it was, one of them seized the bridle. The other advanced to her side. "So you've followed me up here," he said. "Spying on me, eh?" The moonlight fell upon the face of the man who held the horse's head. It was Garland. The man who spoke to her was Donald Carey. She had not known before that Hinsdale was in Dutchess County. XXX Clancy was afraid--like every one else--of the forces of law and order. She was afraid of that menacing thing which we call "society." To feel that society has turned against one, and is hunting one down--that is the most terrible fear of all. Clancy had undergone that fear during the past week. Panic had time and again assailed her. But the panic that gripped her now was different. It was the fear of bodily injury. And, because Clancy had real courage, the color came back into her cheeks as swiftly as it had departed. More swiftly, because, with returning courage, came anger. Clancy was not a snob; she would never be one. Yet there is a feeling, born of legitimate pride, that makes one consciously superior to others. Clancy held herself highly. A moment ago, she had been dreaming, triumphantly, of a man immeasurably superior in all ways to these two men who detained her. That this man should anticipate seeing her--and she knew that he did--raised her in her own self-esteem. That these two men here dared stop her progress, for any reason whatsoever, lowered her. She was decent. These two men were not. Yet one of them held her horse's head, and the other hand was stretched out toward her. They dared, by deed and verbal implication, to threaten her. Her pride, just and well founded, though based on no record of material achievement, would have made her brave, even though she had lacked real courage. Although, as a matter of fact, it is hard to conceive of real courage in a character that has no pride. Carey's left hand was closing over her right forearm. With the edge of her right hand, Clancy struck the contaminating touch away. She was a healthy girl. Hours of tobogganing to-day had not exhausted her. The blow had vigor behind it. Carey's hand dropped away from her. With her left hand, Clancy jerked the reins taut. A blow of the whip would have made Garland relinquish his grasp of the animal. But Clancy did not deliver it then. No man, save Beiner, had ever really frightened her. And it had not been fear of hurt that had animated her sudden resistance toward the theatrical agent; it had been dread of contamination. She had been born and bred in the country. In Zenith, the kerosene street-lamps were not lighted on nights when the moon was full. Sometimes it rained, and then the town was dark. Yet Clancy had never been afraid to walk home from a neighbor's house. So now, indignant, and growing more indignant with each passing second, she made no move toward flight. Instead, she asked the immemorial question of the woman whose pride is outraged. "How dare you?" she demanded. Carey stared at her. He rubbed his forearm where the hard edge of her palm had descended upon it. His forehead, Clancy could vaguely discern, in the light that the snow reflected from a pale moon, was wrinkled, as though with worry. "Some wallop you have!" he said. "No need of getting mad, is there?" Had Clancy been standing, she would have stamped her foot. "'Mad?' What do you mean by stopping me?" she cried. "'Mean?'" Behind his blond mustache the weakness of Carey's mouth was patent. "'Mean?' Why--" He drew himself up with sudden dignity. "Any reason," he asked, "why I shouldn't stop and speak to a friend of my wife's?" Suddenly Clancy wished that she had lashed Garland with the whip, struck the horse with it, and fled away. She realized that Carey was drunk. He was worse than drunk; he was poisoned by alcohol. The eyes that finally met hers were not the eyes of a drunkard temporarily debauched; they were the eyes of a maniac. Her impulse to indignation died away. She knew that she must temporize, must outwit the man who stood so close to where she sat. For she realized that she was in as great danger as probably she would ever be again. Danger dulls the mind of the coward. It quickens the wit of the brave. The most consummate actress would have envied Clancy the laugh that rang as merrily true as though Carey, in a ballroom, had reminded her of their acquaintance and had begged a dance. "Why, it's _you_, Mr. Carey! How silly of me!" Carey stepped back a trifle. His hat swung down in his right hand, and he bowed, exaggeratedly. "'Course it is. Didn't you know me?" Clancy laughed again. "Why should I? I never expected to find you walking along a road like this." "Why shouldn't you?" Carey's voice was suddenly suspicious. "Y' knew I was coming up here, didn't you?" "Why, no," Clancy assured him. "You see Dutchess County doesn't mean anything to me. Mrs. Carey said that you were going to Dutchess County, but that might as well have been Idaho for all it meant to me. Where is Mrs. Carey?" he asked. "Oh, she's all right. Nev' min' about her." He swayed a trifle, and seized the edge of the sleigh for support. "Point is"--and he brought his face nearer to hers, staring at her with inflamed eyes--"what are you doin' up here if you didn't know I was here?" "Visiting the Walbroughs," said Clancy. She pretended to ignore his tone. "Huh! Tell me somethin' I don't know," said Carey. "Don't you suppose I know _that_? Ain't Sam and I been watchin' you tobogganing with that fat old Walbrough dame all afternoon?" "Why didn't you join us?" asked Clancy. "Join you? Join you?" Carey's eyes attempted cunning; they succeeded in crossing. "Thass just _it_! Didn't want to join you. Didn't want you to sus--suspect--" His hand shook the sleigh. "You come right now and tell me what you doin' here?" "Why, I've told you!" said Clancy. "Yes; you've _told_ me," said Carey scornfully. "But that doesn't mean that I believe you. Where you going now?" "To the railroad station," Clancy answered. "What for?" demanded Carey. Clancy's muscles tightened; she sat bolt upright. No _grande dame_'s tones could have been icier. "You are impertinent, Mr. Carey." "'Impertinent!'" cried Carey. "I asked you a question; answer it!" "To meet Mr. Vandervent," Clancy told him. She could have bitten her tongue for the error of her judgment. Carey's hand let go of the side of the seat. He stepped uncertainly back a pace. "What's he doing up here? What you meeting him for? D'ye hear that, Garland?" he cried. The elevator-man of the Heberworth Building still stood at the horse's head. He was smoking a cigarette now, and Clancy could see his crafty eyes as he sucked his breath inward and the tip of the cigarette glowed. "Ain't that what I been tellin' you?" he retorted. "Didn't Spofford go into your house yesterday and stay there with her an hour or so? Wasn't I watchin' outside? And ain't he laid off her? Didn't he tell me to keep my trap closed about seein' her go to Beiner's office? Ain't he workin' hand in glove with her?" Carey wheeled toward Clancy. "You hear that?" he demanded shrilly. "And still you try to fool me. You think I killed Beiner, and--" His voice ceased. He licked his lips a moment. When he spoke again, there was infinite cunning in his tone. "You don't think anything foolish like that, now, do you?" He came a little closer to the sleigh. His left hand groped, almost blindly, it seemed to Clancy, for the edge of the seat again. "Why, even if Morris and I did have a little row, any one that knows me knows I'm a gentleman and wouldn't kill him for a little thing like his saying he----" "Lay off what he said and you said," came the snarling voice of Garland. "Stick to what you intended saying." "Don't use that tone, Garland," snapped Carey. "Don't you forget, either, that I'm a--I'm a--gentleman. I don't want any gutter-scum dicta--dictating to me." He spoke again to Clancy. "You're a friend of my wife," he said. "Just wanted to tell you, in friendly way, that friend of my wife don't mean a single thing to me. I want to be friendly with every one, but any one tries to put anything over on me going to get theirs. 'Member that!" "Aw, get down to cases!" snarled Garland. There was something strange in the voice of the man at the horse's head. There was a snarling quaver in it that was not like the drunken menace of Carey. Suddenly Clancy knew; she had never met a drug fiend in her life--and yet she knew. Also, she knew that what Don Carey, even maniacally drunk, might not think of doing, the undersized elevator-man from the Heberworth Building would not hesitate to attempt. Common sense told her that these two men had stopped her only for a purpose. They had watched her to-day. They knew that she was on her way to meet Philip Vandervent. They were reading into that meeting verification of their suspicions. And they were suspicious, because--she knew why. Carey had killed Beiner. Garland knew of the crime. Garland had blackmailed Carey; Garland feared that exposure of Carey would also expose himself as cognizant of the crime. So they were crazed, one from drink, the other from some more evil cause. No thought of risk would deter them. It was incredible that they would attack her, and yet---- "Now, listen, lady," came the voice of Garland: "We don't mean no harm to you. Get me?" Incredibly, crazed though the man's voice was, Clancy believed him. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "We just want a little time, Carey and me. We want you to promise to keep your mouth shut for a week or so; that's all. Your word'll be good with us." Again Clancy believed him. But now she was able to reason. She believed Garland, because he meant what he said. But--would he mean what he said five minutes from now? And, then, it didn't matter to her whether or not the man would mean it five years from now. He was attempting to dictate to her, Clancy Deane, who was on her way to meet Philip Vandervent, she who had received flowers from Philip Vandervent only yesterday. Vandervent was a gentleman. Would he temporize? Would he give a promise that in honor he should not give? Where there had been only suspicion, there was now certainty. She _knew_ that Don Carey had killed Morris Beiner. On some remote day, she would ponder on the queer ways of fate, on the strange coincidences that make for what we call "inevitability." With, so far as she knew, no evidence against him, Don Carey had convicted himself. He was a murderer. By all possible implication, Carey had confessed, and Garland had corroborated the confession. And they asked her to become party to a murder! She would never again be as angry as she was now. It seemed to her inflamed senses that they were insulting not merely herself but Vandervent also. They were suggesting that she was venal, capable of putting bodily safety above honesty. And, in belittling her, they belittled the man who had, of all the women in the world, selected her. For now, in the stress of the moment, it was as though Vandervent's flowers had been a proposal. She fought not merely for herself, but, by some queer quirk of reasoning, for the man that she loved. Her left hand held whip and reins. She dropped the reins, she rose to her feet and lashed savagely at Garland's head. She heard him scream as the knotted leather cut across his face. She saw him stagger back, relinquishing his hold of the bridle. She turned. Carey's two hands sought for her; his face was but a yard away, and into it she drove the butt of the whip. He, too, reeled back. Her hand went above her head and the lash descended, swishingly, upon the side of the horse. There was a jerk forward that sat her heavily down upon the seat. A sidewise twist, as the animal leaped ahead, almost threw her out of the sleigh. She gripped at the dashboard and managed to right herself. And then the sleigh went round a bend in the road. The snow was piled on the left-hand side. The horse, urged into the first display of spirits that, probably, he had shown in years, bore to the left. The left runner shot into the air. Clancy picked herself out of a snow-drift on the right-hand side as the horse and sleigh careened round another turn. For a moment, she was too bewildered to move. Then she heard behind her the curses of the two men. She heard them plunging along the heavy roadway, calling to each other to make haste. She was not panicky. Before her was a narrow roadway, branching away from the main highway. Up it she ran, as swiftly as her heavily-shod feet--she wore overshoes that Mrs. Hebron had pressed upon her--could carry her over the rough track. Round a corner she glimpsed lights. A house stood before her. She raced toward it, her pace slackening as a backward glance assured her that Garland and Carey must be pursuing the empty sleigh, for they certainly were not following her. But the horse might stop at any moment. He was an aged animal, probably tired of his freedom already. Then the two men would turn, would find her tracks leading up this road. She refused to consider what might happen then. One thing only she knew--that she had justified herself by refusing to treat with them. It was an amazingly triumphant heart that she held within her bosom. She felt strangely proud of herself. Across a wide veranda she made her way. She rang a door-bell, visible under the veranda-light. She heard footsteps. Now she breathed easily. She was safe. Carey and Garland, even though they discovered her tracks, would hardly follow her into this house. Then the door opened and she stood face to face with Sophie Carey. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Mrs. Carey held out her hand. "Why, Miss Deane!" she gasped. Perfunctorily Clancy took the extended fingers. She stepped inside. "Lock the door!" she ordered. Sophie Carey stared at her. Mechanically she obeyed. She stared at her guest. "Why--why--what's wrong?" she demanded. Her voice shook, and her eyes were frightened. Clancy's eyes clouded. She wanted to weep. Not because of any danger that had menaced her--that might still menace her--not because of any physical reaction. But Sophie Carey had befriended her, and Sophie Carey was in the shadow of disgrace. And she, Clancy Deane, _must_ tell the authorities. "Your husband----" she began. Mrs. Carey's face hardened. Into her eyes came a flame. "He--he's dared to----" There was a step on the veranda outside. Before Clancy could interfere, Sophie had strode by her and thrown open the door. Through the entrance came Carey, his bloodshot eyes roving. In his hand he held a revolver. XXXI Until she died, Clancy would hold vividly, in memory, the recollection of this scene. Just beyond the threshold Carey stopped. His wife, wild-eyed, leaned against the door which she had closed, her hand still on the knob. For a full minute, there was silence. Clancy forgot her own danger. She was looking upon the most dramatic thing in life, the casting-off by a woman of a man whom she had loved, because she has found him unworthy. Not that Sophie Carey, just now--or later on, for that matter--stooped to any melodramatic utterance. But her eyes were as expressive as spoken sentences. Into them first crept fear--a fear that was different from the alarm that she had shown when Clancy had mentioned her husband. But the fear vanished, was banished by the fulness of her contempt. Her eyes, that had been wide, now narrowed, hardened, seemed to emit sparks of ice. Contemptuous anger heightened her beauty. Rather, it restored it. For, when Clancy had staggered into the house, the beauty of Sophie Carey, always a matter of coloring and spirits rather than of feature, had been a memory. She had been haggard, wan, sunken of cheek, so pale that her rouge had made her ghastly by contrast. But now a normal color crept into her face. Not really normal, but, induced by the emotions that swayed her, it was the color that should always have been hers. It took years from her age. Her figure had seemed heavy, matronly, a moment ago. But now, as her muscles stiffened, it took on again that litheness which, despite her plumpness, made her seem more youthful than she was. But it was the face of her husband that fascinated Clancy. Below his left eye, a bruise stood out, crimson. Clancy knew that it was from the blow that she had struck with the butt of the whip. She felt a certain vindictive pleasure at the sight of it. Carey's mouth twitched. His blond mustache looked more like straw than anything else. Ordinarily, it was carefully combed, but now the hairs that should have been trained to the right stuck over toward the left, rendering him almost grotesque. Below it, his mouth was twisted in a sort of sneer that made its weakness more apparent than ever. His hat was missing; snow was on his shoulders, as though, in his pursuit, he had stumbled headlong into the drifts. And his tie was undone, his collar opened, as though he had found difficulty in breathing. The hand that held the revolver shook. Before the gaze of the two women, his air of menace vanished. The intoxication that, combined with fear, had made him almost insane, left him. "Why--why--musta scared you," he stammered. Sophie Carey stepped close to him. Her fingers touched the revolver in his hand. Her husband jerked it away. Its muzzle, for a wavering moment, pointed at Clancy. She did not move. She was not frightened; she was fascinated. She marveled at Sophie's cool courage. For Mrs. Carey reached again for the weapon. This time, Carey did not resist; he surrendered it to her. Then Clancy understood how tremendous had been the strain, not merely for her but for Sophie. The older woman would have fallen but for the wall against which her shoulders struck. But her voice was steady when she spoke. "I suppose that there's some explanation, Don?" Clancy wondered if she would ever achieve Sophie's perfect poise. She wondered if it could be acquired, or if people were born with it. It was not pretense in Sophie Carey's case, at any rate. The casualness of her tone was not assumed. Somehow, she made Clancy think of those _grandes dames_ of the French Revolution who played cards as the summons to the tumbrils came, and who left the game as jauntily as though they went to the play. For Clancy knew that Sophie Carey had forgiven her husband the other day for the last time; that hope, so far as he was concerned, was now ashes in her bosom forever. To a woman of Mrs. Carey's type, this present humiliation must make her suffer as nothing else in the world could do. Yet, because she was herself, her voice held no trace of pain. "'Explanation?'" Carey was mastered by her self-control. "Why--course there is! Why----" He took the refuge of the weak. He burst into temper. "'Course there is!" he cried again. "Dirty little spy! Trying to get me in bad. Stopped her--wanted to scare her----" "Don!" His wife's voice stopped his shrill utterance. She straightened up, no longer leaning against the wall for support. "You stopped her? Why?" She raised her hand, quelling his reply. "No lies, Don; I want the truth." Carey's mouth opened; it shut again. He looked hastily about him, as though seeking some road for flight. He glanced toward the revolver that his wife held. For a moment Clancy thought that he would spring for it. But if he held such thought, he let it go, conquered by his wife's spirit. "'The truth?'" He tried to laugh. "Why--why, Miss Deane's got some fool idea that I killed Morris Beiner, and I wanted to--I wanted to----" "'Beiner?' 'Morris Beiner?'" Sophie was bewildered. "Theatrical man. You read about it in the papers." Again Carey tried to laugh, to seem nonchalantly amused. "Because I had an office in the same building, she got the idea that I killed him. I just wanted her to quit telling people about me. Just a friendly little talk--that's all I wanted with her." "'Friendly?' With this?" Mrs. Carey glanced down at the weapon in her hand. "Well, I just thought maybe that she'd scare easy, and----" "Don!" The name burst explosively from his wife's lips. Her breath sucked in audibly through her parted lips. Carey stepped back, away from her. "Why--why----" "A murderer," cried Mrs. Carey. "It's a lie!" said Carey. "We had a li'l fight, but----" Mrs. Carey glanced at Clancy. "How did you know?" she whispered. Clancy shook her head. She made no reply. Sophie Carey didn't want one. She spoke only as one who has seen the universe shattered might utter some question. "Why?" demanded Mrs. Carey. "He butted in on some business of----" "I don't mean that," she interrupted. "I mean--isn't there anything of a man left in you, Donald? I don't care why you killed this man Beiner. But why, having done something for which a price must be paid, you attack a woman----" She slumped against the wall again. The hand holding the revolver dangled limply at her side. So it was that it was easily snatched from her hand. Clancy had been too absorbed in the scene to remember Garland. Sophie Carey, apparently, knew nothing of the man. The snow had been swept from the veranda only in front of the door. It muffled the elevator-man's approach to one of the French windows in the living-room, off the hall, in which the three stood. Garland crept to the door, sized up the situation, and, with a bound, was at Sophie's side. He leaped away from her, flourishing the weapon. "'S all right, Carey! We got 'em!" he shouted. Clancy had become used to the unexpected. Yet Carey's action surprised her. In a moment when danger menaced as never before, danger passed away. Carey had been born a gentleman. He had spent his life trying to forget the fact. But instinct is stronger than our will. He could lie, could murder even, could kill a woman. But a gutter-rat like Garland could not lay a hand on his wife. The elevator-man, never having known the spark of breeding, could not have anticipated Carey's move. The revolver was wrested from him, and he was on hands and knees, hurled there by Carey's punch, without quite knowing what had happened, or why. Carey handed the revolver to his wife. She accepted it silently. The husband turned to Garland. "Get out," he said. His voice was quiet. All the hysteria, all the madness had disappeared from it. It had the ring of command that might always have been there had the man run true to his creed. He was a weakling, but weakness might have been conquered. Garland scrambled to his feet. Sidewise, fearful lest Carey strike him again, his opened mouth expressing more bewilderment than anger, he sidled past Carey to the door, which the latter opened. He bounded swiftly through, and Carey closed the door. The patter of the man's feet was heard for a moment on the veranda. Then he was gone. "Thank you, Don," said Sophie quietly. It was, Clancy felt, like a scene from some play. It was unreal, unbelievable, only--it was also dreadfully real. "Don't suppose the details interest you, Sophie?" said Carey. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Don." He shrugged. "That's more than I have any right to expect from you, Sophie." His enunciation was no longer thick; it was extremely clear. His wife's lower lip trembled slightly. "There--there isn't any way----" He shook his head. "I've been drinking like a fish, and thought there was. I--I'm not a murderer, Sophie. I almost was--a few minutes ago. But Beiner--just a rat who interfered with me. I--I--you deserved something decent, Sophie. You got me. I deserved something rotten, and--I got you. And didn't appreciate-- Oh, well, you aren't interested. And it's too late, anyway." He smiled debonairly. His lips, Clancy noticed, did not tremble in the least. Though she only vaguely comprehended what was going on, less she realized that, in some incomprehensible fashion, Don Carey was coming into his own, that whatever indecencies, wickednesses, had been in the man, they were leaving him now. Later on, when she analyzed the scene, she would understand that Carey had spiritually groveled before his wife, and that, though she could not love him, could not respect him, despite all the shame he had inflicted upon her, she had forgiven him. But of this there was no verbal hint. Carey turned to her. "Insanity covers many things, Miss Deane. It would be kind of you, if you are able, to think of me as insane." He stepped toward his wife. She shrank away from him. "I'm not going to be banal, Sophie," he told her. "Just let me have this." From her unresisting fingers he took the revolver. He put it in his coat pocket. He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had lucid moments, even in the past week," he said, "and in one of them I knew what lay ahead. It's all written down--in the steel box up-stairs, Sophie. It--it will save any one else--from being suspected." He turned and his hand was on the door-knob. "Don!" Sophie's voice rose in a scream. The aplomb that had been hers deserted her. Strangely, Carey seemed the dominating figure of the two, and this despite the fact that he was beaten--beaten by his wife's own sheer stark courage. He turned back. The smile that he gave to his wife was reminiscent of charm. Clancy could understand how, some years ago, the brilliant and charming Sophie Carey had succumbed to that smile. Slowly he shook his head. "Sophie, you've been the bravest thing in the world. You aren't going to be a coward now." He was through the door, and it slammed behind him before his wife moved. Then she started for the door. She made only one stride, and then she slumped, to lie, a huddled heap, upon the hallway floor. How long Clancy stood there she couldn't have told. Probably not more than a few seconds, yet, in her numbed state, it seemed hours before she moved toward the unconscious woman. For she thought that Sophie Carey was dead. It was a ridiculous thought, nevertheless it was with dread that she finally bent over the prostrate figure. Then, seeing the bosom move she screamed. From up-stairs Ragan, the chauffeur, Jack-of-all-trades whom she had seen at the Carey house in New York the other day, came running. His wife followed. Together they lifted Mrs. Carey and bore her to a couch in the living-room. But no restoratives were needed. Her eyes opened almost immediately. They cleared swiftly and she sat up. "Ragan!" "Yes, ma'am?" "Mr. Don!" "Yes, ma'am." "He--he--has a revolver. He's--outside--somewhere----" "I'll find him, ma'am." There seemed to be no need for explanation. Ragan's white face showed that he understood. And now Clancy, amazed that she had not comprehended before, also understood. Her hands went swiftly up over her eyes as though to shut out some horrible sight. The fact that Don Carey had pursued her half an hour ago with murderous intent was of no importance now. She heard Ragan's heavy feet racing across the room and out of the house. She heard the piteous wail from Mrs. Ragan's mouth. Then, amazed, as she removed her hands from her eyes, she saw Sophie Carey, mistress of herself again, leap from the couch and race to a window, throwing it open. "Ragan," she called. "Ragan!" "Ma'am?" faintly, from the darkness, Ragan answered. "Come here." Firm, commanding, Sophie Carey's voice brooked no refusal. "Coming, ma'am," called Ragan. A moment later he was in the living-room again. "Ragan, go up-stairs," commanded his mistress. The man looked his surprise. "But, ma'am, Mr. Donald----" "Must be given his chance, Ragan," she interrupted. "'His chance,' ma'am? Him carryin' a revolver?" "There are worse things than revolvers, Ragan," said his mistress. "Oh, my darlin' Miss Sophie," cried his wife. She turned on them both. "They'll capture him. They'll put him in jail. They'll sentence him-- It's his way out. It mustn't--it _mustn't_ be taken from him!" Her voice rose to a scream. She held out her arms to Clancy. "Don't let them--don't let them--" She could not finish; once again she tumbled to the floor. Uncertainly, the servants looked at Clancy. It was the first time in her life that Clancy had come face to face with a great problem. Her own problem of the past week seemed a minor thing compared with this. She knew that what Don Carey purposed doing was wrong, hideously wrong. It was the act of a coward. Yet, in this particular case, was there not something of heroism in it? To save his wife from the long-drawn-out humiliation of a trial-- Sophie Carey had appealed to her. Yet Sophie Carey had not appealed because of cowardice, because she feared humiliation; Sophie appealed to her because she wished to spare her husband a felon's fate. Exquisitely she suffered during the few seconds that she faced the servants. Right or wrong? Yet what was right and what was wrong? Are there times when the end justifies the means? Does right sometimes masquerade in the guise of wrong? Does wrong sometimes impersonate right? Nice problems in ethics are not solved when one is at high emotional pitch. It takes the philosopher, secluded in his study, to classify those abstractions which are solved, in real life, on impulse. And then decision was taken from her. In later life, when faced with problems difficult of solution, she would remember this moment, not merely because of its tragic associations, but because she had not been forced to decide a question involving right and wrong. Life would not always be so easy for her. But now-- Somewhere out in the darkness sounded a revolver shot. Whether or not it was right to take one's life to save another added shame no longer mattered. Whether or not it was right to stand by and permit the taking of that life no longer mattered. The problem had been solved, for right or wrong, by Carey himself. For the second time in a week, for the second time in her life, Clancy Deane fainted. XXXII She was still in the living-room when she came to her senses. Sophie Carey was gone; the Ragans were also gone. Clancy guessed that they were attending to their mistress. As for herself, she felt the need of no attention. For her first conscious thought was that the cloud that had hung over her so steadily for the past week, which had descended so low that its foggy breath had chilled her heart, was forever lifted. She was not selfish--merely human. Not to have drawn in her breath in a great sigh of relief would have indicated that Clancy Deane was too angelic for this world. And she was not; she was better than an angel because she was warmly human. And so her first thought was of herself. But her second was of the woman up-stairs--the woman who had shown her, in so brief a time, so many kindnesses, and who now lay stricken. What a dreadful culmination to a life of humiliation! She closed her eyes a moment, as though to shut out the horror of it all. When she opened them, it was to look gravely at the two men in the room. Randall she looked at first; her eyes swept him coolly, but she was not cool. She was fighting against something that she did not wish to show upon her countenance. When she thought that it was under control, she transferred her grave glance to Vandervent. As on that day last week when she had fainted in his office he held a glass of water in his hand. Also, his hand shook, and the water slopped over the rim of the tumbler. She was sitting in a chair. She wondered which one of these two men had carried her there. She wanted to know at once. And so, because she was a woman, she set herself to find out. "Mrs. Carey--she's--all right?" She addressed the question to both. And it was Randall who replied. "I think so--I hope so. I helped Mrs. Ragan carry her up-stairs, while Ragan waited--outside." Clancy shuddered. She knew why Ragan waited outside, and over what he kept watch. Nevertheless, if Randall had carried Sophie up-stairs, Vandervent must have deposited herself, Clancy Deane, in this chair. An unimportant matter, perhaps, but--it had been Vandervent who picked her up. She looked at Vandervent. "I--couldn't meet you at the train," she said. Vandervent colored. "I--so I see," he said. That his remark was banal meant nothing to Clancy. She was versed enough in the ways of a man with a maid to be glad that Vandervent was not too glib of speech with her. Vandervent set down the glass. He looked at her. "If you don't care to talk, Miss Deane----" "I do," said Clancy. Vandervent glanced toward the window. "Then----" "He killed Morris Beiner," said Clancy. Vandervent started. "He confessed," said Clancy, "and then----" There was no need to finish. Vandervent nodded. Carey had done the only possible thing. "But you--how does it happen you're here?" Swiftly Clancy told them. Silently they listened, although she could tell, by his expression, that, time and again, Vandervent wanted to burst into speech, that only the fact that Carey lay dead in the snow outside prevented him from characterizing the actions of the man who had killed Morris Beiner. "And Garland?" he asked finally. Clancy shrugged. "I don't know. He left, as I've told you." Vandervent's jaws set tightly. Then they parted as he spoke. "He'll explain it all. He'll be caught," he said. "Mr.--Mr. Carey said that it was all written down. It's up-stairs," said Clancy. Vandervent nodded. "That simplifies it." He rose and walked uncertainly across the room. "If we could catch Garland right away and--shut his mouth----" Clancy knew what he meant. He was thinking of how to protect her from possible scandal. "How did you happen to know that I was here?" asked Clancy. After all, murder was murder and death was death. But love was life, and Clancy was in love. The most insignificant actions of a loved one are of more importance, in the first flush of love's discovery, than the fall of empires. "We came upon the horse, down by the station. I--I guessed that it must be yours." Vandervent colored. So did Clancy. He could not have more clearly confessed that he feared for her; and people frequently love those for whom they are fearful. "So Randall and I-- We met in the train---- "Mrs. Carey 'phoned me this afternoon. She--said that she was frightened," said Randall. "I see," said Clancy. Despite herself, she could not keep her tone from being dry. How quickly, and how easily, Randall had returned to Sophie Carey! Safety first! It was his motto, undoubtedly. And now, of course, that Mrs. Carey was a widow-- Months from now, Clancy would find that her attitude toward Randall was slightly acidulous. She'd always be friendly, but with reservations. And as for Sophie Carey, she'd come to the final conclusion that she didn't really want Sophie as her dearest and closest friend. But just now she put from her, ashamed, the slight feeling of contempt that she had for Randall. After all, there are degrees in love. Some men will pay a woman's bills but refuse to die for her. Others would cheerfully die for her rather than pay her bills. Randall would never feel any ecstasy of devotion. He would love with his head more than with his heart. He was well out of her scheme of things. "So," continued Vandervent, "inasmuch as there was no one around, we took the horse and sleigh. I turned in at this drive, intending to leave Randall. We saw a man run across the snow, stop--we heard the shot. We ran to him. We couldn't help him. It--it was too late. We came into the house and sent Ragan out to watch the--to watch him. You and Mrs. Carey had fainted. I ought to telephone the coroner," he said abruptly. Yet he made no move toward the telephone. "You see," he went on, "what you've told me about Garland--if we could find him----" He stopped short; there were steps upon the veranda outside; and then the bell rang. Vandervent moved swiftly from the room. Clancy heard him exclaim in amazement. A moment later, she understood, for Spofford entered the room, and by the wrist he dragged after him Garland. "Got one of 'em," he announced triumphantly. "Now--the other guy. Where's Carey?" he demanded. "Dead," said Vandervent crisply. Spofford's mouth opened. He dropped into a chair, loosing his grasp on Garland. "Beat me to it!" he said bitterly. "Had him dead to rights--came up here all alone." He looked up surlily. "Listen here, Mr. Vandervent; I ran this case down all by myself. You're here, and I suppose you'll grab all the glory; but I wanta tell you that I'm entitled to my share." His gaze was truculent now. "You may have it," said Vandervent quietly. "Eh? I don't get you," said Spofford. "Where's the string tied to it?" "Perhaps not any--perhaps just one," was Vandervent's reply. "Huh!" Spofford grunted noncommittally. "Where is Carey?" Vandervent pointed out the window. "Sent for the coroner?" demanded the plain-clothesman. "Not--yet," admitted Vandervent. "Why not?" Vandervent stared at Garland. "What's this man to do with it?" he asked. "Material witness," said Spofford. "But, if Carey left a written confession, you wouldn't need a witness," said Vandervent. "H'm--no," conceded Spofford. "Only--an accessory after the fact--that's what this guy is----" Vandervent turned to Randall. "Take this man outside--and watch him," he ordered. Garland's mouth opened in a whine. "I didn't have a thing to do with it," he said. "It's a frame-up." "Take him out, Randall," ordered Vandervent. Randall obeyed. Of course, Vandervent was an assistant district-attorney of New York and his position, though outside his jurisdiction now, was an important one. Nevertheless, Clancy knew that it was the man whom Randall obeyed, not the official. It gave her added proof that her judgment of the two men had been correct. Clancy loved with her head, too, though not so much as with her heart. "Spofford," said Vandervent. "I've promised you all the glory--on one condition. Now tell me how you discovered that Carey was the murderer." Spofford hesitated for a moment. "Well, first I got the idea that Miss Deane was the one. When I found that you and Judge Walbrough was interested in protectin' her, I began to wonder. I rounded up all the tenants in the Heberworth Building. And one of them said he had a vague recollection of having seen a man enter Beiner's office sometime after five o'clock, last Tuesday. He described the man pretty well. I looked over the tenants. I found that Carey looked like the man. I got the other tenant to look at Carey. He couldn't swear to him, but thought he was the one. "Now Carey'd been skirting the edges of the law for some time. There was a pretty little scandal brewing about the fake theatrical agency Carey was running. One or two of the girls that had been in that office had been talking. Find the woman! That's my motto when a man's been killed. I looked up those girls! One of them told me of another girl. I went to see her. She was an old sweetie of Beiner's. Carey had taken her away. It looked like something, eh? She admitted Carey had quarreled with Beiner over her. Name of Henty. Promised to keep her out of it if I could." He drew a long breath. "That didn't make the man a murderer, but it might tie him up with Beiner. Somehow, I ain't entirely satisfied with the way that Garland talks. He's pretty ready to identify Miss Deane, but still-- I keep my eye on Garland. I watch him pretty closely. Monday, I think I'll have another talk with Miss Deane. I find out from the place she works that she's down at Carey's house." He glanced at Clancy. "You'll excuse me, Miss Deane, if I didn't tip all my mitt to you the other day." He resumed his story. "I go down to Carey's. Just as I get there, Garland comes out. He don't see me, but I see him all right. A few minutes later out comes Carey and a lady that I take to be his wife. Well, I don't worry about them then. They're too well known to get very far away. "But Garland was in the house with them. Naturally, I began to do a whole lot of thinkin'. I ring the bell, on the chance that Miss Deane is inside. I have a talk with her, and tell her that I'm convinced she don't have anything to do with the murder. I am, all right. I have a hunch that maybe she can tell me something if she wants, but I figure I can wait. "I leave her and go up to the Heberworth Building. Garland ain't reported for work. I go up-stairs. I do some quick thinkin'. If I let any one else in on this, I lose my chance." He glared defiantly at Vandervent. "It's a big chance," he exclaimed. "I'm gettin' on. I'll never be a day younger than I am to-day. I don't look forward to existin' on a measly pension. I want some jack. And the only way I can get it is by startin' a detective agency. And before I can do that, with any chance of makin' a clean-up, I got to pull somethin' spectacular. "Well, you never win a bet without riskin' some money. I'm standin' in the hall outside Carey's office. Nobody's lookin'. I ain't been pinchin' guys all my life without pickin' up a trick or two. It takes me ten seconds to open that door and close it behind me. "It may put me in the pen, burglarizin' Carey's office, but--it may put him in the chair. So I don't delay. He sure was flooey in the dome--this guy Carey. Booze has certainly wrecked his common sense. For I find papers around that show that him and Beiner been tied up in several little deals. I even find letters from Beiner threatenin' Carey unless he comes through with some coin. Motive, eh? I'll say so." He chuckled complacently. "But I find more than that. I find a bunch of keys. And one of them unlocks the door to Beiner's office. I've got opportunity now--motive and opportunity. Also a witness who _thinks_ he saw Carey at the door of Beiner's office. "It ain't everything, but--I got to Garland's house. I learn from his landlady that Garland's packed a bag, paid his rent and skipped. That was yesterday. To-day I did a bit of scoutin' around and find out that the Careys own a country place up here. Of course, that don't prove they've gone there in the middle of a winter like this, but I telephone their house. A servant answers. I ask for Mr. Carey. The servant says that he's out. I hang up the 'phone. I knew that Carey's up there. And I just decide to come up and get him. In the road outside I meet Garland--and grab him." "Have you a warrant?" asked Vandervent. "I'll say I have," grinned Spofford. "But it ain't no use. He beat me to it." He looked ghoulishly regretful that he didn't have a live prisoner instead of a dead man. And not regretful that death had occurred, but that it had interfered with his plans. "And now--that little condition?" he asked. "Carey has confessed," said Vandervent. "A written confession. Suppose that I hand you that confession?" "Well?" Spofford didn't understand. "Garland, I take it, has committed blackmail." "_And_ been accessory after the fact, Mr. Vandervent," said Spofford. Vandervent nodded. "Of course. Only, if Garland testifies, he may mention Miss Deane. In which case I shall feel compelled to maintain that it was I who traced the murderer, who won from him his confession." "You can't prove it," blustered Spofford. "Think not?" Vandervent smiled. Spofford's forehead wrinkled in thought. "The idea, of course, is that you want Miss Deane's name left completely out of this affair," he said. "You grasp it completely," smiled Vandervent. "Well, worse guys than Garland are takin' the air when they feel like it," said Spofford. "He's a scoundrel," said Vandervent, "but if punishing him means smirching Miss Deane's name, he'd better go free." Spofford rose to his feet. "You'd better 'phone the coroner," he said. Vandervent shook his head. "You're the genius who discovered the murderer. You do the telephoning, Spofford." Spofford grinned. "Much obliged, Mr. Vandervent. There won't be a yip outa me." He bowed toward Clancy. "It ain't hard for me to agree to something that saves a lady like you from bein' annoyed, Miss Deane. I may have sounded nasty, but it means something to me--this advertisin' I'll get." He left the room before Clancy could answer. But she spoke to Vandervent. "Have you the right to let a man like Garland go free?" she asked. "Certainly not," he replied. "But there are occasions when one considers the greater good." It was no time for Clancy to be hypersensitive about Vandervent's honor. He'd have been something less than a man if he had not made his bargain with Spofford. Yet, to Clancy, it seemed that he had done the most wonderful thing in the world. There are women who would place a meticulous point of honor above love, but Clancy Deane had never been one of those bloodless persons intended for the cloister. Perhaps her eyes showed her gratitude. For Vandervent stepped nearer. But the speech that Clancy believed trembled on the tip of his tongue was not uttered then. For Spofford reëntered the room. "I've got the coroner, Mr. Vandervent. He'll be over in five minutes." "What about Garland?" demanded Vandervent. "There's a train for New York at midnight. I took the cuffs off him, and he'll be on that train. He'll keep his mouth shut. Leastwise, if he does talk, no one'll believe him. He's a hop-head, that guy. But not so far gone but that he may not come back. The fear of God is in him to-night, sir. Maybe he'll straighten up." He shuffled his feet. "Please, sir, I think Miss Deane ought to be gettin' out of sight. The coroner'll ask questions, and the fewer lies need be told him----" "Mrs. Carey? May she talk?" asked Vandervent. Spofford shook his head. "We'll keep him away from her until to-morrow. By that time, I'll have her coached--Miss Deane won't be in it, sir." "Fair enough," said Vandervent. Spofford moved toward the door. But, suddenly, Clancy didn't wish to be alone with Vandervent. She wanted time, as a woman always does. And so, because Vandervent must remain and see the coroner, Clancy drove home to the anxious Mrs. Walbrough alone. Physically alone, but in spirit accompanied by the roseate dreams of youth. XXXIII Mrs. Walbrough was one of those women who are happiest when trouble impends or is at hand. She had fallen in love with Clancy almost at sight; but her affection had been rendered durable and lasting as soon as she had discovered that Clancy was in danger. Wives who are not mothers but who have always craved children furnish the majority of this kind of woman. And now, when Clancy's story had been told to her, and she had exclaimed, and colored in rage and grown white with apprehension, and after she had tucked Clancy securely in bed, so that there was no more to be done for her protégée, the thoughts of the motherly woman turned to Sophie Carey. "Would you be afraid," she asked, "if I went over to the Carey place? Poor thing! I never forgave her for marrying Don Carey; I don't think I've been kind enough to her." The remark caused Clancy to remember that not, during the entire day, had Mrs. Walbrough mentioned the fact that the Careys were such near neighbors. Of course, that might be accounted for by the fact that Mrs. Walbrough had no idea that Sophie and her husband were at their country place. But she realized that Mrs. Walbrough imagined that her attitude toward Sophie had not been as generous as she now wished. So, even if she had feared being left alone in the house, she would have denied it. Mrs. Walbrough, Clancy readily understood, was like all whose natural affections have not sufficient outlet. They wonder if "So-and-So" will misinterpret their remarks, if "Such-and-Such" has been offended. "I don't believe," she said, "that you've ever been anything but sweet and good to every one. But, of course, I don't mind your going. 'Afraid?'" She laughed heartily at the idea. And so, with many motherly injunctions about the hot-water bottle at her feet and the heavy woolen blankets drawn up about her shoulders, Mrs. Walbrough departed. Clancy reached for the electric button at the head of her bed. She turned off the lights. She was not sleepy, yet she felt that she could think better in the dark. But it was a long time before her mental processes were coherent. She was more tired than she knew. To-day's exertions upon the snow-covered hill would ordinarily have been no tax at all upon her youthful strength. But excitement saps vitality. And when one combines too much exercise with too much mental strain, one becomes bewildered. So, as she lay there, her thoughts were chaotic, nightmarish. Like one in an audience, she seemed to detach herself, not merely from her body but from her brain. She found amusement in her own mental wanderings. For from some incident of childhood her mind leaped to the studio-dance at Mrs. Carey's city house. From there it went to her motion-picture ambitions, thence to Vandervent's flowers with their somewhat illegible card. She thought of Randall's conveyance of her to the Napoli on that night, so shortly ago, when she had mistaken him for a taxi-man. She thought of her entrance into Vandervent's office, with confession trembling on her lips. Always, her mind came back to Vandervent. And finally, her mental gyrations ceased. Steadily she thought of him. She wondered at the thing we call "attraction." For she was sure that neither his great name nor his wealth had anything to do with this irresistible something that drew her to him. Not that she would ever delude herself with the idea that wealth and position meant nothing to her. They did. They meant a great deal, as is right and proper. But had Philip Vandervent been poor, had his prospects been inconsiderable, she would still have been ready, aye, anxious to yield herself to him. She wondered why. Of course, she knew that he was decent, kindly, possessor of all those virtues which are considered ordinary, but are really uncommon. But it is none of these things, unhappily, that make for love. Combined with love, they make for happiness, but alone they never won the fickle heart of woman. He was intelligent; she knew that. He was, perhaps, brilliant. She had no proof of that. Their conversations could hardly afford evidence either way, they had been interchanges of almost monosyllabic utterances. So, at any rate, reviewing them, it seemed to Clancy. What was it, then, that drew her to him? Not his looks; she had known many handsomer men. She smiled whimsically. Highly as she appraised her own beauty, she supposed that somewhere was a more lovely woman. And Vandervent might have seen her. Why did he reserve his love for Clancy? Then, for the first time, doubt came to her. She sat bolt-upright in bed. Suppose that she'd been deluding herself? She smiled, shaking her head. She knew. She didn't know why she knew, but--she knew. Women almost always do. And slowly she took less interest in the problem. Sleep descended lightly upon her. So lightly that whisperings outside her door woke her. "Who is it?" she called. "Sophie Carey. May I come in?" Clancy switched on the light. "Of course," she said. Sophie entered. She sat immediately down upon the edge of the bed. Her face was deathly pale and wore no rouge. Her cheeks were sunken. She looked forty. Rather, she would have looked forty but for her eyes. For they were softened, somehow; yet through their softness shone a brilliance that spoke of youth. It was as though some heavy burden had been lifted from her. Clancy could not censure her. Sophie would have been less than human if she had not responded, in some expression, to the hidden relief that must have come to her, even though through tragedy and scandal. She put her arms quickly round Clancy. "I think," she said, "that you are the sweetest, bravest person I have ever met." "Why--why--" stammered Clancy. "You had every reason to suspect that Don had--done what he did. Mr. Vandervent has told me all that you told him. And yet--you didn't say anything." "I would have," said Clancy, honestly, "had I been sure." Sophie nodded gravely. "But most persons, on the faintest of suspicions, to clear themselves-- Oh, I can't talk about it." Suddenly she kissed Clancy. "Miss Deane, I hope--I know--that you are going to be very happy." She was gone at once. Clancy didn't ponder long over her last remark. She went to sleep, this time in earnest. It was bright day when she awoke. Mrs. Walbrough entered a moment after Clancy had thrown the coverlets from her and was on her way to the windows, to shut them. "I wondered if you could still be sleeping," said her hostess. "Do you know the time, young lady?" Clancy shivered and yawned. "Eight o'clock?" "Eleven-thirty," said Mrs. Walbrough. "And in the country we have luncheon early, as you know. Would you like your coffee here, or will you wait?" "I want to eat with you," said Clancy. "And with Tom and Philip Vandervent, too, I suppose." "Are they here?" Mrs. Walbrough nodded gravely. "I got Tom on the 'phone after you went to bed last night. He came on the first train this morning. He wanted, of course, to do anything for Mrs. Carey that he could. But Mr. Randall is attending to everything. He and Mrs. Carey left on an early train for New York." "And Mr. Vandervent?" Timidly, Clancy asked the question. Mrs. Walbrough smiled. "There were certain matters that had to be gone over with the Dutchess County authorities. He stayed. That's why he _said_ he stayed." Clancy's expression was innocence personified. "What other reason could there be?" Mrs. Walbrough hugged her. "Don't you dare attempt to deceive me, young lady." She slapped her gently. In something less than half an hour Clancy was down-stairs, in the dining-room, attacking healthily a meal that Mrs. Walbrough described, because it was really neither breakfast nor lunch, as "brunch." During the meal, in response to Walbrough's questions, Vandervent told the gist of the written confession that Don Carey had left behind him. It was a sordid tale. Carey, in that pursuit of pleasure which kills, had started an alleged office where young women applied for theatrical positions. Beiner, more legitimately engaged in the same business, had become acquainted with Carey. Spofford's discoveries were verified in Carey's own handwriting. Beiner had introduced Carey to a young woman. Carey, retaining some decency, did not mention the girl's name. He said, however, that Beiner had become jealous of his attentions to the young woman, and friendship between the two men had ceased. Learning what Carey was doing, Beiner had attempted blackmail. Carey, intending to have it out with Beiner, had knocked on Beiner's door. During the intimacy that had existed previous to Beiner's blackmailing attempts, Beiner had given Carey a key to his office. Carey had heard a groan coming from behind the locked door. He had entered, with Beiner's key, and found the man lying, half-conscious, upon the floor. The scene, to Carey's drink-inflamed mind, spelled opportunity. He had snatched the paper-knife from Beiner's desk and stabbed the man to death. Then he had quietly left the office, locking it after him. And that was all. Although the newspapers, naturally enough, "played it up" to the extent of columns, it was a crime in what is known as "high life," and they do not come too often for the public. Judge Walbrough had brought the early editions of the afternoon papers with him and permitted Clancy to look at them. Spofford had not missed his chance. He was hailed as the greatest detective genius of the day. "Poor Mrs. Carey!" said Clancy. The others nodded gravely. "Not another woman in New York could live it down," said the judge. "Why not?" demanded Clancy. "She did nothing wrong." The judge shrugged. "Scandal has touched her intimately. That is enough--for any other woman, but not for Sophie Carey. She has too many friends, is too great an artist--let's hope she finds happiness now." The judge pushed back his chair and left the room, ostensibly in search of a pipe. The others drifted into the living-room. Clancy, staring out at the snow, was suddenly conscious that Vandervent stood at her elbow. She turned, to find that Mrs. Walbrough was no longer with them. "Nice--nice view--" stammered Vandervent. Clancy colored. She felt her heart beating. "Isn't it?" she agreed. Vandervent's trembling nervousness communicated itself to her. She half turned toward him, ready to yield herself. But his eyes, that, a moment ago, she had known were fixed upon the back of her head now stared out the window, over her shoulder. She turned again. Up the Walbrough drive was coming a sleigh, an open affair. Besides the driver there was only one man. She looked up at Vandervent; His brows were knitted; behind his glasses his eyes gleamed angrily. Involuntarily she drew near to him. "I--I'll have to see him," he exclaimed. "Reporter from the _Era_. Thought that I was all through with him. I wonder----" The man descended from the sleigh. They saw him advance up the veranda steps, and then they heard his ring. A moment later, Mrs. Hebron entered the room. "A gentleman to see Miss Deane," she announced. And now Clancy understood why Vandervent had withheld the speech that she knew he wanted to utter, why he had seemed alarmed. She gasped. Then she grew reassured as she felt Vandervent's fingers on her own. "Show him in here," said Vandervent. Mrs. Hebron left the room. "Just--say nothing," whispered Vandervent. "Leave him to me." Clancy knew. The scandal that she had thought forever averted was about to break again. Her fingers were limp in Vandervent's clasp. She released them as Mrs. Hebron returned, followed by the young man who had descended from the sleigh. "Miss Deane? Ah, how do, Mr. Vandervent?" he said. "How do, Penwell? Miss Deane, let me present my good friend Roscoe Penwell, the _Era_'s greatest reporter." Penwell laughed. "Why limit yourself when you're paying compliments? Why not the _world's_ greatest reporter?" he asked. "I amend my statement," smiled Vandervent. Clancy held out her hand. Penwell bowed over it. He was a good-looking youngster, not so very many years older than herself, Clancy judged. "Penwell," said Vandervent, "will publish his memoirs some day. Be nice to him, Miss Deane, and you'll receive a gift-copy." Penwell colored. "Quit it!" he grumbled. The mirth went out of his voice. "Miss Deane, the _Era_ wants a statement from you." Before she could reply, Vandervent spoke. "Then we _weren't_ mistaken. The maid said you asked for Miss Deane, but----" Penwell shook his head. "Naughty, naughty, Mr. Vandervent! You can't fool me." "Then I won't try," said Vandervent crisply. "What is it that you want?" His tone was business-like. Penwell's reply was equally so. "The _Era_ has learned, from an authoritative source, that Miss Deane was in the office of Morris Beiner shortly before he was murdered; that, in short, she was sought by the police on suspicion of having committed the crime." "Carey's dead, and left a confession," said Vandervent. Penwell shrugged. "Even so." "Authoritative source, you said?" questioned Vandervent. "I suppose that means a drug fiend named Garland." Penwell nodded. "You should have locked that bird up, Mr. Vandervent, until he lost his love for talk." "And money," amended Vandervent. "Not much. Fifty dollars." "Cheap at the price. Still," said Vandervent, "rather expensive when you can't use what he told you." "No?" Penwell was politely interested. For all his youth, one would have judged him a good poker player. "Miss Deane was unfortunate; a victim of circumstances. The _Era_ wouldn't drag her into a nasty scandal, would it?" demanded Vandervent. "News is news," stated Penwell. "Listen to a trade?" asked Vandervent. "Always willing to," smiled Penwell. Vandervent blushed. "Unfortunately, sometimes, a Vandervent is always a Vandervent." "Thou speakest truth, O Sage!" laughed the young man. "And what a Vandervent eats for breakfast makes snappy reading, I think you'd call it, for _hoi polloi_, eh?" "Continue. You interest me strangely," said Penwell. "My engagement--its announcement rather--would be a 'beat' of some value?" Penwell bowed to Clancy. "Miss Deane, gaze upon a man so sinful that he takes a bribe." He turned to Vandervent. "The _Era_ won't print a word about Miss Deane. Who's the lady?" "Miss Deane," said Vandervent. For a moment Penwell stared at the young girl. Then, slowly, he spoke. "Miss Deane, I didn't want this assignment. But a reporter does what he's told. I can't tell you how glad I am that I can turn in something bigger for the paper. Why, Mr. Vandervent, the paper wouldn't dare take a chance on printing something that Garland said about your _fiancée_!" "It might prove rather expensive for the _Era_," said Vandervent. But Penwell didn't hear him. He was staring at Clancy. And smiling. "Miss Deane, I don't know anything about you. I hope you'll tell me something for the paper. But whoever you may be, you've done well in your engagement. You're going to marry one of the whitest--tell me, when was the engagement contracted?" Clancy colored to the roots of her hair. Vandervent gently pushed the reporter toward the door. "Come back," he said, "in five minutes and we'll answer that question." Penwell looked from one to the other. Then he grinned. Then he backed out of the room. For a moment, there was silence between the girl and the man. Vandervent spoke first. "Was I--impertinent? Do I--assume too much?" Slowly Clancy turned until she faced him. The heart of her stood in her eyes. Yet, because she was a woman, she must ask. "Did you--is it because you want to save me--or do you really----" He didn't answer. He crushed her in his arms. She had not known that he was so strong. And within his arms she found the answer to her question. She owned the "Open, Sesame"--youth. Her challenging gray eyes might some day grow dim; the satiny luster of her black hair might give way to silver, but the heart of her would ever be young, and so the world would be hers. For it is only the young in spirit who win life's battles; youth cannot comprehend defeat, and so it knows only victory. And she had come to New York, which jibes at age, but bends a supple knee to youth. And because she was young, would always be young, Clancy Deane would be bound by no rules, no mental timetables would fetter her. For the old, on learning that the train has gone, surrender to despair. The young take another train. Neither road nor the destination matters to youth, and so--it always arrives. She had come to work, to win a career. She would, instead, be a wife. For the present, happily, willingly, she surrendered ambition. But it would come back to her. Whether it would speak to her in terms of her husband's career, or of her own--that was on the knees of the gods. For the moment, she was beaten--beaten by love. But the Clancy Deanes are never beaten by circumstances. If they bow to love, it is because from love they build a greater triumph than from ambition. Youth always is triumphant when it surrenders to youth. She found the answer in his arms. And nestled there, she vowed that she would keep the answer there. And because age would never touch her, she could fulfil her vow if she chose. Clairvoyantly, she looked ahead; suddenly she knew that she would always choose. Her lips went up to his. 
36445	----	LINDA LEE INCORPORATED _A Novel_ By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright 1921-1922 By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE THE COAST OF COCKAIGNE Copyright 1922 By THE MCCALL COMPANY _All rights reserved including those of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ To HARRY PAYNE BURTON because he made me write it AUTHOR'S NOTE There are no portraits of living persons in the following pages. The incidents related in illustration of present-day methods of motion-picture production are, on the other hand, with one minor exception, drawn from first-hand observation in the California studios. Under the title of THE COAST OF COCKAIGNE, an abridged version of this story was published serially, during the Winter of 1921-22, in McCall's Magazine. LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE Darien, 20 January, 1922. LINDA LEE INC. I "Mrs. Bellamy Druce! Rather a mouthful, that." "Is that why you make a face over it?" "Didn't expect me to relish it, did you, Cinda?" "I'm afraid I wasn't thinking of you at all, Dobbin, when I took it." "Meaning, if you had been, you might have thought twice before taking?" "No fear: I was much too madly in love with Bel." "Was?" "Dobbin!" "Sorry--didn't mean to be impertinent." "I don't believe you. Still, I'm so fond of you, I'll forgive you--this once." "Won't have to twice. I only--well, naturally, I wanted to know whether or not it had taken." "Taken?" "Your matrimonial inoculation." "I think one may safely say it has. I've grown so old and wise in marriage, it really seems funny to remember I was ever an innocent." "Four years----" "Going on five." "It's seemed a long time to me, too, Cinda--five years since these eyes were last made glad by the sight of you." "At least, time hasn't impaired your knack at pretty speeches." "Nor your power to inspire them." "I'm not so sure. To myself I seem ever so much older." Lucinda Druce turned full face to the man on her left, anxiety feigned or real puckering the delicately pencilled brows. "Doesn't it show at all, Dobbin, the ruthless march of advancing years?" The man narrowed critically his eyes and withheld his verdict as if in doubt; but a corner of his mouth was twitching. "You are lovelier today than ever, lovelier even than the memories of you that have quickened my dreams----" "All through these years? How sweet--and what utter tosh! You know perfectly well your heart hasn't been true to Poll----" "Unfortunately, the damn' thing has. Oh, I'm not pretending I didn't do my level best to forget, tried so hard I thought I had won out. But it only needed this meeting tonight to prove that the others were merely anodynes for a pain that rankled on, as mortal hurts do always, 'way down beneath the influence of the opiate." "Truly, Dobbin, you've lost nothing of your ancient eloquence. That last speech quite carried me back to the days when, more than once, you all but talked me off my feet and into your arms." "Pity I ever stopped talking." "I wonder!" "You wonder----?" "Whether it's really a pity you never quite succeeded in talking me into believing I loved you enough to marry you, whether we wouldn't all have been happier, you, Bel, and I." "Then you aren't altogether----" "Hush! I haven't said so." "No; but you've had time to find out." "Perhaps...." "And you know your secrets are safe with me." "That's why I'm going to say--what I am going to say." "O Lord! now I shall catch it." "Don't be afraid, Dobbin, I'm not going to scold. But I know you so well, how direct and persistent you are--yes, and how sincere--it's only fair to tell you, the traditions of our kind to the contrary notwithstanding, I'm still in love with my husband." For a moment Richard Daubeney was silent, staring at his plate. Then he roused with a light-hearted shrug and smile. "And that's that!" Lucinda nodded with amiable emphasis: "That's that." The black arm of a waiter came between them, and the woman let an abstracted gaze stray idly across the shimmering field of the table, while the man at her side ceased not to remark with glowing appreciation the perfection of her gesture, at once so gracious, spirited, and reserved. Never one to wear her heart on her sleeve, Lucinda. Look at her now: Who would ever guess she had lived to learn much, to unlearn more, in so brief a term of married life? Surely the sweet lift of her head, the shadowy smile that lurked ever about her lips, the exquisite poise of that consummate body bespoke neither disillusionment nor discontent. And who should say the dream was not a happy one that clouded the accustomed clearness of her eyes? Unclouded and serene once more, these turned again his way. "It's like you, Dobbin, to start making love to me all over again, precisely as if my being married meant nothing, in the first minutes of our first meeting in five years, without offering to tell me a single thing about yourself." "Nothing much to tell. Everybody knows, when you engaged yourself to marry Druce, I rode off to the wars. Oh, for purely selfish motives! If I'd stayed, I'd have made a stupid exhibition of myself one way or another, taken to drink or something equally idiotic. So vanity prompted me to blaze a trail across the waters for my beloved country to follow when its hour struck." "And when the war was over, what did you then?" "Knocked about a bit with some pals I'd picked up." "We heard you'd taken up ranching in the Argentine, and made a tidy fortune." "I didn't do badly, that's a fact. But what is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" "Please don't look at me as if I knew the answer." "It's a question we've all got to face, soon or late." "You forget the life one leads: a studied attempt to forget that such a question ever was asked." "Find it succeeds?" "Only part of the time, at best. But is one to understand you lost your soul in the Argentine? It sounds so amusingly immoral." "At least I realized down there my soul was in a fair way to prove a total loss. We were rather out of the world, you know, away back from anywhere; so I had lots of time to think, and learned I hadn't found what I'd gone to France to seek; that there'd been nothing really elevating or heroic about the war, only sound and fury; in other words that, when all was said and done, you were all that had ever really mattered. So I sold out and shipped for home." "Hoping to find me unhappy enough with Bel----?" "That's unworthy of you, Cinda. No: simply to be in the same world with you." After a little Mrs. Bellamy Druce said severely: "Dobbin, if you keep on that tack, you will make me cross with you; and that wouldn't be nice, when I'm so glad to see you. Let's talk about anything else. How does New York look to an exile of long standing? Much changed?" "Oh, I don't know. Skirts and morals both a bit higher, jazz a little more so, Prohibition just what one expected, society even more loosely constituted--a vast influx of new people. Time was when it would have seemed odd to see a strange face at one of the Sedley's dinners. But tonight--I don't know half these people. Astonishing lot of pretty girls seem to have sprung up since my time. Who's the raving beauty on Bill Sedley's right?" "Amelie Severn, Amelie Cleves that was before she married. Surely you remember her." Daubeney stared in unaffected wonder. "Good heavens! she was in long dresses when I saw her last." "Pretty creature, don't you think?" "Rather. Can't blame the chap next her for his open infatuation." Laughter thrilled in Lucinda's reply: "Why, don't you recognize him? That's Bel." As if the diminutive pronounced in the clear accents of his wife had carried through the murmur of talk, Bellamy Druce looked up. Perceiving Lucinda's smile at the end of an aisle of shaded lights, he smiled in turn, but with the muscles of his face alone. And looking from him to the flushed and charming countenance of the young woman on his left, bending low over her plate to hide confusion engendered by Bel's latest audacity, Lucinda thought, with a faint pang, more of impatience than of jealousy: _He's in love again._ II With a small sigh of animal delight in the caress of fur and the chill, sweet draught from the open window upon her face, as well as in the sense of effortless power animating that luxurious fabric which the gods had so thoughtfully provided for her ease, Lucinda Druce settled back in the town-car, aware yet unmindful of the fluid nocturne of Fifth avenue, a still, black river streaming beneath the car, its banks of soft fire strung with linked globes of milky light, its burnished surface scoured by the fleet gondolas of landsmen, in number beyond counting, skimming, swooping, stopping, shoaling. Bel had asked to be dropped at the Brook, alleging a rendezvous of one sort or another, safely masculine of course. Beyond reflecting that Bel was in all likelihood lying, Lucinda had paid slight heed to his excuses. It didn't matter whether they were fair or false, so long as he wanted to do whatever it was he wanted to do with the rest of his evening. She had little faith in that theory with which too many are infatuate, on which too many marriages are wrecked, that affection is to be persuaded, that loyalty comes of being made to toe the mark. Then, too, she was not ill-pleased with having herself all to herself, in this thoughtful mood which had become hers since leaving the Sedleys', not an unhappy mood, but one curiously mused. Besides, Bel had been making too free with the Sedley cellar. Not that she was disposed to hold this a grievance, thoroughgoing mondaine that she was, saturate with the spirit of a day that was learning to look tolerantly upon intemperateness as a fashionable form of protest against Prohibition. No: it wasn't that, it was the fact, established by long observation, that Bel seldom drank more than he could manage gracefully unless on the verge of some new gallantry. A little wearily, Lucinda wondered why. Bel assuredly didn't need anything to stimulate his enterprise. She fancied it must be that alcohol served as a sort of anæsthetic for his conscience. She had a smile transiently bitter. Bel's conscience! The most feather-headed, irresponsible of philanderers, the most incorrigible; between whiles the most contrite.... That, she supposed, was why she had always found it in her heart to forgive him, why she had never experienced any real pain because of his perennial peccadilloes. He couldn't help himself, it was his nature so to do. And somehow or other she always found him out, the poor boy was singularly unfortunate in his efforts to keep her in the dark, singularly clumsy and sanguine at one and the same time. Or else cynical. Sometimes she was tempted to think Bel didn't care, or thought she oughtn't to. Often his attitude seemed to be posed upon the assumption that everybody was doing it; so why affect a virtuous eccentricity? On the other hand, his fits of penitence were terribly real, when she caught him misbehaving. Or was that, too, merely part of the game with Bel? Was it just a conventional gambit to make-believe repentance and promise faithfully never, never to be naughty again? A disquieting question was raised by the circumstance that she seemed to be taking tonight's discovery less to heart than ever before. Somehow it didn't seem to matter so much. Was she growing hardened, then, beginning to care less for Bel than she had always cared? Or was it.... Between her dreaming eyes and the silhouetted backs of the footman and chauffeur imagination made a memory momentarily real; she saw, as it were limned darkly upon the plate-glass partition, the face of Dobbin, Richard Daubeney as that night had reintroduced him: the bold, brown face, lighted by clear eyes and an occasional gleam of teeth, of the adventurer into whom exile had metamorphosed Dobbin. Understanding, self-reliant, dependable: qualities that might have made Dobbin a rival for Bellamy to reckon with had he been able to boast them of old. But in those days he had been no more than ardent and eloquent and dear. He had needed to go away to war to find what he had lacked to make him--well, yes, dangerous. Dangerous, that is, to any but a woman well in love with her husband.... She discovered that the car was already at a standstill. Immersed in reverie, she hadn't noticed the turn off from the Avenue. As always, her home enfolded her in its comfortable atmosphere of security from every assault of adversity by virtue of the solid wealth upon which it was founded, that formidable whole into which two great fortunes had been fused by her marriage with Bellamy. Neither she nor Bel had ever known one qualm of financial uneasiness, neither by chance conceivable ever would. That irking insecurity which so largely poisons the common lot was something wholly foreign to the ken of the Druces, they must brew their own poisons to take its tonic place. None the less the feeling of her home's stability was precious, Lucinda basked in it like a cat on an accustomed hearth, wanting it she must have felt hopelessly lost and forlorn. She went slowly up to her rooms. And here, where so large a part of her life was lived, the sense of completely satisfying personal environment was more than ever strong. Pensively giving herself into the hands of her maid, she stood opposite a long mirror. A shade of concern tinged the regard she bent upon that charming counterfeit, her interest grew meticulous as she observed that slender and subtly fashioned body emerge from its silken sheaths. Where were the signs of age, of fading charm? What was it Bel saw in other women and failed to see in her? What could they give him that she had not to give? Was her real rival only man's insatiable appetite for some new thing? She was as vain as any woman, if no more so than the next; and if she failed to perceive flaws, she failed with more excuse than most could claim. Supple and young and fair, and slighted.... Her heart, too, she searched. But there was nothing wanting there that the most exacting husband and lover could require. She had told Dobbin the simple truth: she still loved Bel. But love and beauty, it seemed, were not enough. For a long time she lay awake in bed, the book unopened in her hands, again a creature of unthinking gratification in the consciousness of Home. Dark and still but warm with the life she had breathed into it, monolithic in the mass and firmness of its institution yet a web of her own weaving, it endured about and around her, cradled her, dug its roots deep into earth that it might sustain her, held its head up to the skies that it might shield her from the elements, opposed the thickness of its walls between her and the world of ungenerous passions: her Home, the one thing in her life she could assert she had created. Twenty-six, mistress of riches she had never needed to compute, safe at anchor in an enviable station, idle but for an ordered round of duties and diversions so stale it was hardly of more mental moment to her than the running of her blood, not yet a mother.... At length she opened the book. But its lines of print ran and blended, hypnogogic images, fugitive and fragmentary, formed and faded on the type-dark pages: Dobbin's face again, so changed yet the same, with that look at once disturbing and agreeable of curbed hunger in the eyes; the face of Amelie Severn, with a stagey effect of shadows cast by table-lights, piquant with mirthful mischief as she looked round, at once challenging and apprehensive of Bel's next essay in amorous impudence; and Bel's face with glimmering eyes and that tensity in the set of the jaw which, in the sight of his wife, had but one meaning.... An echoless clap of sound penetrated the walls, the slam of a cab door. Lucinda dropped her book. The front doors crashed resoundingly. She turned out her light and lay listening, watchful. Beneath the door that communicated with Bel's room a rim of gold shone out. She heard him stumble against a chair and swear at it, turned quietly on her side, away from the door, and composed herself to sleep. Some minutes after, a yellow light splashed athwart her bed. "Linda?" Bel's tongue, as thick as she had expected it to be, called again, insistently: "Linda? 'Wake, Linda?" She made no stir at all, and presently he closed the door and she heard him grumbling, then a click as he switched off his bedside lamp. Later he began to snore, something he never did unless he had been drinking heavily. Her drowsy time had passed, not to return. She lay for hours, looking wide-eyed into darkness, thinking. How had Dobbin known--or guessed--she was unhappy? She wasn't, she was neither happy nor unhappy, she was just a little lonely ... wasted.... III Bellamy Druce began the day frugally with grapefruit, the headlines of the _Herald_, and coffee. It is no more than fair to state that he seemed to hold all three in one degree of disfavour. The interest he showed in the other dishes set forth for his sustenance and delectation on the small table in the bow-window of his sitting-room, was limited to a single jaundiced glance at the ensemble. From the news of the day, too, he turned affronted eyes. Strong daylight on white paper was trying to optic nerves this morning. Over his coffee he lighted a cigarette, but after a few puffs took it from his lips and examined it with louring distrust which suggested the birth of a suspicion that his tobacconist was not a true friend. Hastily putting the thing from him, he shuffled listlessly the dozen or so envelopes on the breakfast table, put these aside in turn, and for a time sat morosely contemplating his joined fingers, trying to recollect something confoundedly elusive. The mental effort contributed nothing toward assuaging a minor but distinct headache, just back of his eyes. At thirty-five or something less, Bellamy was beginning to notice that even a few drinks tended to play the deuce with one's memory. He liked to boast and believe he never drank to excess, but it was none the less true that, of late, his alcoholic evenings were frequently much of a blur in retrospect. After a while he unlaced his hands, held them out to the light with fingers spread, and frowned to observe their slight but unmistakable tremor. In a petulant voice he asked the time of his valet and, learning it, ruefully digested the reflection that he had eight hours more of life to live, if it could fairly be called living, before the hour of the first cocktail. As a man of strong principles, he made it a rule never to drink before six in the evening. After another minute of wasted endeavour to put salt on the tail of that tricky memory, he made a disconsolate noise, told his valet to order the car round, and bestirred himself to finish dressing. Bellamy Druce buttoned himself into his coat before a mirror. Like many men who make no pretensions to deserve the term handsome, he was inordinately finical about his person. His relations with his tailors, boot and shirt-makers, were intimate and marked by conferences as solemn and consequential as those which keep European premiers out of mischief, but no more so. No valet had yet succeeded in earning his confidence in such questions as that of the right shirt for the lounge suit of the day. But the inspection he gave his attire this morning was perfunctory, his graver concern was with the tone of his complexion and the look of his eyes. To his relief the one proved to be clear and of good colour, the other betrayed ravages of dissipation only in a hint of heaviness. More than this, the tremor of his hands had in the last few minutes become barely perceptible. Already a strong constitution, hardened by an athletic history and inured to abuse, was beginning to react to restorative measures taken immediately after waking, deep breathing, a steaming hot bath, an icy needle-shower, a rub-down. Drawing one more long breath, he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin a trifle, and went to pay his matutinal addresses to Lucinda, hoping she wouldn't notice anything, or, if she did, would be enough of a sportswoman to let it pass without comment. He found Lucinda seated on a chaise-longue in her boudoir, running through her morning's mail by way of preparation for the daily half-hour with her secretary which it demanded. Posed with unfailing grace in a négligé scarcely more than a sketch in lace and ribbon, with the light from the windows seemingly drawn to a focus by hair abundant, always rebellious, and the hue of ripe corn-silk, she seemed as pretty, as fair and fragile as a porcelain figurine. Bellamy needed only to see her thus to know a stab of shame and self-reproach. Why must he be such a fool as ever to let himself be flattered into forgetting sheer perfection was to be found nowhere if not within the walls of his own home? Bending to kiss his wife, he put that thought behind him. He couldn't afford to dwell upon it. Already he was too far committed in this new affaire to withdraw without losing face. But he would find some way soon to make an end of it (thank God! they all had an end sometime) and this would be the last--"and after this, never again!" He really meant it this time, he vowed he did.... "Rest well, dear? Don't need to ask that, though, only need to look at you. Besides, you know you went to sleep as soon as you got home; you were dead to the world when I came in." "You didn't stay late at the Brook?" "As a matter of fact, made excuses to get away early. But you were too quick for me, my dear." Bellamy sat down on the foot of the chaise-longue and helped himself to one of Lucinda's cigarettes. To his relief, it tasted remarkably like tobacco. "Never looked sweeter in your life than last night, Linda. I was quite jealous of old Daubeney, monopolizing you...." "You needn't have been, Bel." "Don't know about that. Dick took it pretty hard when you accepted me, and if I'm any judge now, he's come back only to be hit twice as hard, in the same place, too. If not, he's got no right to look at you the way he does." "I don't think you were in a good condition to judge." Bel winced, because he had laid himself open to this, and it could be taken two ways, neither comforting. It was actually a relief to hear Lucinda add: "You seemed to be fairly preoccupied yourself, at the table." "Oh, bored to tears, assure you. Amelie's a pretty little thing, amiable enough, but nobody to talk to--no conversation whatever." Lucinda limited comment to a mildly quizzical look. Her maid, having answered the door, was announcing that the car was waiting for Mr. Druce. Bellamy nodded, but seemed in no hurry. What was on his mind? "Doing anything special today?" Lucinda shook her head slowly, watching him with a half-smile lambent with lazy intelligence. He felt vaguely uneasy, as who should of a sudden find himself hard by the brink of some abysmal indiscretion. "Thought we might meet somewhere for luncheon, if you're lunching out." "I'd love to." Lucinda put out an arm deliciously rounded beneath skin of a texture fairer and finer than any other Bellamy had ever seen, and took a morocco-bound engagement book from her escritoire. "Let me see...." She riffled the leaves. "I know I've got some shopping to do----" "Have you, now!" "And Mrs. Rossiter Wade's bridge-tea for some charity or other this afternoon, but.... Oh, yes! I'm having Fanny Lontaine to lunch at the Ritz, with Nelly Guest and Jean Sedley. What a pity. Though nothing can prevent your coming, too, if you like." A dark suspicion knitted Bellamy's eyebrows. "Some actress? Sounds like it." "Fanny Lontaine?" Needless to ask which he meant, the other women were fixtures of their immediate circle. Lucinda laughed. "Nothing of the sort. Fanny was at school with me--Frances Worth----" "Chicago people?" Bellamy put in with symptoms of approval. "Not a bad lot. Old man Worth--'Terror of the Wheat Pit', they called him--died not long ago in the odour of iniquity, leaving eighty millions or so. Your little schoolmate ought to be fairly well-fixed." "I don't know, I'm sure. I believe it's something to do with the will that brought them over. Fanny's father disliked Harry Lontaine, so Fanny had to run away to marry him and was duly excommunicated by the family. She's lived in England ever since; her husband's an Englishman." "I see: another of your charity cases." "Hardly. They're stopping at the Ritz, that's where I met Fanny the other day." "Anybody can stop there, but not everybody can get away." "Does it matter?" "It's only I don't like seeing you made use of, Linda. Your name makes you fair game for every climber and fortune-hunter who can claim or scrape acquaintance with you." "But my friends----" "Oh, you're forever being too friendly with stray cats. Why did you ask Nelly and Jean to meet this woman if it wasn't in the hope they'd take her up, too?" Lucinda shrugged. "Come to my luncheon and see for yourself. Not that I think you'd care for Fanny, though she is pretty to death." "Why not, if you like her so much?" "She's not at all the type you seem to find most attractive. Why is it, I've often wondered, the women you lose your head about are almost always a bit--well----!" Bellamy flushed sullenly. It was one of his crosses that he seemed never to have the right answer ready for Lucinda when she took that line. After all, there is only one salvation for a man married to a woman cleverer than himself: to do no wrong. "Oh, if you're going to rake up ancient history----!" But Lucinda pursued pensively, as if she hadn't heard: "I presume you've got to run after that sort, Bel, because they don't know you as well as I do--can't." Even a slow man may have wit enough not to try to answer the unanswerable. Bellamy got stiffly to his feet. "I'll drop in at the Ritz if I can make it." "Do, dear ... And Bel!" Lucinda rose impulsively and ran to him. "I'm sorry, Bel, I was so catty just now. Only, you know, there are some things one can't help feeling keenly. Dear!" She clung to him, lifting to his lips a face tempting beyond all telling. Insensibly his temper yielded, and catching her to him, he kissed her with a warmth that had long been missing in his caresses. "Linda: you're a witch!" "I wish I were ... enough of a witch, at least, to make you realize nobody cares for you as I do, nor ever will. Bel: don't go yet. There's something I want to ask you...." "Yes?" He held her close, smiling down magnanimously at that pretty, intent face. As long as she loved him so, couldn't do without him, all was well, he could do pretty much as he liked--within reasonable limits, of course, bounds dictated by ordinary discretion. "What's on the busy mind?" "I've been wondering if we couldn't go away together somewhere this Winter." Lucinda divined hostility in the tensing of the arm round her waist. "We're not really happy here, dearest----" "But you were in Europe all Summer." "Not with you, except for a few weeks. You took me over but left me to come back to business affairs that could have got along perfectly without you. And while you were with me, what was different from our life here? Nothing but the geography of our environment. Meeting the same people, doing the same things, living in the self-same groove abroad as at home--that sort of thing's no good for us, Bel." "What's wrong with the way we live?" "Its desperate sameness wears on us till we turn for distraction to foolish things, things we wouldn't dream of doing if we weren't bored. Look through my calendar there; you'll find I'm booked up for weeks ahead, and week in and week out the same old round. And so with you. Consciously or unconsciously you resent it, dear, you're driven to look for something different, some excitement to lift you out of the deadly rut. As for me ... Would you like it if I took a lover simply because I was bored silly, too?" "Linda!" "But don't you see that's what we're coming to, that is how it's bound to end with us if we go on this way, all the time drifting a little farther apart? Why can't we run away from it all for a while, you and I, forget it, and find ourselves again? Take me to Egypt, India, any place where we won't see the same people all the time and do the same things every day. I feel as if I'd lost you already----" "What nonsense!" "Oh, perhaps not altogether yet. But slowly and surely I am losing you. Bel: I want my husband and--he needs me. Give me a chance to find him again and prove to him I'm something better than--than a boutonnière to a man of fashion." "Boutonnière?" "A neglected wife, the finishing touch." Bellamy laughed outright, and Lucinda's earnestness melted into an answering smile. "What a notion! How did you get it, Linda?" "Thought it up all out of my own head, strange as it may appear. You see--this is the danger of it all--you make me think, dear. And if you keep that up, first thing you know I'll be all mental--and that would be too awful!" Bel laughed again, more briefly, and slackened his embrace; and she understood from this that, if she had not actually lost, she had gained nothing. "Perhaps you're right. At all events, it's worth thinking about." "You will think it over, Bel--promise?" "Word of honour. But now--late for an appointment--must run." Against the better counsel of her instinct, Lucinda put all she had left unsaid into her parting kiss--and felt that his response was forced. In chagrin she wandered to a window and stood gazing blankly out till recalled by a new voice: "Good morning, Mrs. Druce." Lucinda wadded the handkerchief into her palm and turned to her secretary, an unruffled countenance. "Good morning, Elena." Elena Fiske was conscientiously unalluring in the livery affected by intellect in reduced circumstances. Thanks to a cultivated contempt for powder, her good features wore an honest polish. She walked with a stride and looked you in the eye. Erroneously she conceived her opinion of Lucinda to be privately entertained. "If you're ready for me," she suggested with perfect poise. "Yes, quite ready." Elena consulted a sensible note-book. "I was to remind you to telephone Mrs. Rossiter Wade." "Oh, yes." Lucinda took up the telephone but only to find the wire already in use; that is to say, somebody in another part of the house was talking without having thought to disconnect the boudoir extension. Recognizing Bel's voice, she would have hung up at once had she not overheard a name. "Lucky to catch you in, Amelie," Bellamy was saying in the blandishing accents she knew too well. "About our luncheon, you know----" "See here, Bel: you're not going to put me off at the last minute!" "Rather not! But for reasons which I confidently leave to your imagination, it might be better to make it any place but the Ritz. What do you say to the Clique? It's at least discreet----" "But Bel!" the mocking voice of Amelie Severn put in----"we settled on the Clique instead of the Ritz last night, just before you went home. What's happened to the old memory?" Bellamy was still stammering sheepishly when Lucinda cutoff. IV Frost in the air of that early Winter day lent its sunlight the cold brilliance of diamond-dust. The sky was turquoise glaze, more green than blue, incredibly hard, shining, high and resonant. Though the new year was well launched, snow had not yet fallen, no dismal sierras of mud, slush and rubbish disfigured the city streets and hindered their swift business. But on Fifth avenue, by that mid-morning hour, the crush of motor-cars had grown so dense that one could hardly hope to drive from the Plaza to Thirty-fourth street in less than thirty minutes. Bellamy, nursing a mood blackly malcontent, fumed over every halt dictated by the winking semaphore lights of the traffic towers. He could have made far better time afoot, and would infinitely have preferred the exercise--indeed, felt need of it. But in his understanding it was essential that the car should set him down in front of the sedate pressed-brick structure on East Thirtieth street whose entrance was flanked by an ever-stainless plate of brass advertising in dignified black letters OFFICES OF THE DRUCE ESTATE--necessary for the planting of what he was pleased to term his "alibi." It made his mind easier to know he could prove by the chauffeur that he had "gone to business." What he did with himself after passing through those austere portals the chauffeur couldn't know, couldn't be expected to know, consequently couldn't tell. It was true, Lucinda had never deigned to question a servant about his comings and goings, he had no reason to believe she would ever be so far forgetful of her dignity. Still, if one will flirt with fire, the first rule is to take out insurance. Notwithstanding the numerous occasions when his own laches and errors of judgment had betrayed Bellamy, his life of a licensed philanderer (so he rated himself) remained one endless intrigue of evasion, a matted tangle of lies, equivocations, shifts and stratagems, to keep account of which was not only a matter of life and death with him but a task to tax the wits of any man. The wonder was less that feet which trod such treacherous ground were known to slip, than that they slipped so seldom. Merely to admit the need for all this involution of ambiguity and double-dealing grievously affronted self-esteem. Deceit was strangely distasteful to this man who was forever floundering in a muck of it, a quagmire from whose grim suck his feet were never wholly free. In saner interludes, times of disillusion and clear inner vision such as this, he loathed it all, himself most of all. Naturally fastidious, he felt himself defiled, much as if he were constrained continually to dabble those well-manicured hands in a kennel. He would have given half of all he possessed to be free of this feeling of personal dishonor which was the fruit of self-indulgence. A quaint contradiction was to be read in the fact that he knew no way to satisfy his vanity but at the cost of giving his vanity offence. Today found Bellamy more out of humour with himself than ever before, more disposed to consider turning over a new leaf, a project often mooted by his conscience (always when he was falling out of love) often approved but never seriously tackled. Now, however, he had every incentive: self-esteem sick to death in sequence to last night's dissipation, anxiety to reanimate it with a noble gesture; mortification due to that lapse of memory which had laid him open to Amelie's derision, accompanied by reluctance to see the lady soon again; most of all, Lucinda's unmistakable appeal to his senses and sensibilities both, in their interview just ended. There was no one like Linda, not a woman in New York who could hold a candle to her for looks, wit and intelligence, none other whom he could trust, no one who loved him so well. And it would be such a simple matter to do as she suggested, humour her, make her happy--clear out of New York and not return till time had wiped the slate clean of his score, then settle down to behave, and incidentally to respect, himself. Where was the sense in holding on this tack, ignoring Linda, making her miserable, storing up sure retribution, and meantime playing the silly goat, all for the sake of a few hours of facile excitement? It wasn't as if he couldn't help himself, as if his fatal beauty rendered it impossible for women to resist him. No: the women he flirted with were as ready to flirt with any other man who has as much to offer them.... Why, then go on? Bellamy assured himself he was damn' sorry that he hadn't, while calling Amelie up from the library, obeyed his first impulse and broken off the appointment altogether. Chances were her resentment would have resulted in a permanent breach. In which event all hands would have been happier. While if he went on now to meet her at this shady Clique Club, the end might easily be, what the outcome of persistence in his present courses must surely be, heart-break, unhappiness, the slime of the divorce courts. Thrice in the course of the scant hour he spent at his desk Bellamy put out a hand to the telephone, meaning to call up Amelie and call it off; and thrice withheld his hand, partly because he hated the thought of a wrangle over the wire, partly because he was afraid the girl at the switchboard might listen in. In the end he left his office half an hour earlier than he need have, and telephoned the Severn apartment from the Waldorf, only to learn from her maid that Mrs. Severn was not at home. Divided between relief and annoyance, he took a taxi to the Clique, arriving twenty minutes before the time appointed, and Heaven alone knew how long before he might expect Amelie. For Amelie was one of those who, having no personality of their own worth mentioning, build themselves one of appropriated tricks and traits, as a rule those which are least considerate of the comfort of others. Amelie believed a certain distinction inhered in being always late for an appointment. Now Bellamy detested waiting, especially in a public place, and never more than in the little foyer of the Clique, with its suggestively discreet lighting; the last place where one cared to be hung up on exhibition. The Clique Club was a post-Prohibition institution of New York, run in direct, more or less open, and famously successful defiance of the Eighteenth Amendment. One had to become a member in order to obtain admission, or else be introduced as the guest of a member; and the initiation fee was something wholly dependent on one's rating in the esteem of the Membership Committee, whose powers had been delegated en bloc to an urbane brigand, the club steward, Theodore by name: in more humid days the more than ordinarily supercilious, courted and successful maître-d'hotel of a fashionable restaurant. Once a member and within those unhallowed precincts, "everything went," in the parlance of its frequenters, "you could get away with murder." There was a floor for dancing, with the inevitable jazz band, rather a good one. Rooms were provided for private dinner parties of every size, however small. In the restaurant proper an improper degree of privacy was obtainable at will simply by drawing the curtains of the booths in which the tables were individually set apart. The cooking was atrocious, the wines and liquors only tolerable, the tariffs cynical. Amelie Severn kept Bellamy kicking his heels a bad quarter of an hour longer than she need have; and those fifteen minutes, added to the twenty which he had inflicted upon himself, served to draw his temper fine. Nothing of this, however, was apparent in his reception of her, in fact much of it was obscured for the first few minutes by the admiration which her undeniable good looks could hardly have failed to excite. There was, after all, a measure of compensation in the knowledge that one had made a conquest of so rare a creature. It didn't count that there had been more truth than good faith in Bellamy's statement to his wife that Amelie was "amiable enough, but nobody to talk to." Good humour, easy, spirits, grace of manner and charm of person will carry even a dull woman far. Amelie was neither stupid nor witty; she was shrewd. Mainly through instinct but in part through education she was shrewd, she knew what she wanted, which was every luxury, and how to go about obtaining it, which was simple; all one needed to do was to fix on some tedious man to flatter with one's attentions. For the more dull the man, the better the dividends returned by such inexpensive investments; the more keen-witted, the more disposed to count the cost. If there was nothing subtle in the philosophy of Amelie, it boasted this rare virtue, it was practical and practicable in the extreme; just as it is practised to an extent few men dream of. To women of this type love is the poppy of hallucination, calling for ruthless extermination if found in one's own garden, but sure to produce goodly crops if cultivated by fair, skilled hands in the fields of the neighbouring sex. Amelie had married Ross Severn because he was well-to-do, uninteresting, middle-aged, of good family; and had quickly repented because he spoiled her and showed no intention of ceasing to be a good insurance risk. So she craved much exciting indiscretions as this assignation with another's husband at the Clique Club of questionable repute. She frankly owned as much while Bellamy was helping her with her wrap in the semi-seclusion of their as yet uncurtained booth. "--Thrilled to a jellybean!" she declared, employing an absurdity which she had promptly pirated upon hearing the laugh that rewarded its use by another woman. "Thanks, old dear." She shrugged out of her furs, planted elbows upon the table, cradled her chin upon the backs of engaged fingers, and peered about the room with quick, inquisitive, bird-like glances. "Ross would be furious." "Hope so. If he weren't, he ought to be spoken to about it. Or don't you think he has any right to object to your doing as you please?" "Oh, why worry about Ross's rights? He's just a husband." "And husbands haven't any rights worth considering. Quite so! All the same, sometimes they assert 'em." "I'd like to see Ross...." A laugh of lazy insolence rounded off Amelie's thought. "Besides, I'm not doing anything wrong...." "Not yet," Bellamy admitted equably. He nodded to their hovering waiter. "What kind of cocktail, Amelie? Everything else is ordered." "Thank goodness: I'm famished. A T-N-T, please." The waiter noted down this frightful prescription with entire equanimity, but lingered. "And monsieur----?" "Nothing, thank you." "Nothing, monsieur?" Professional poise was sadly shattered for an instant. Why should one punish oneself with the cuisine of the Clique and reject the solitary compensation the establishment had to offer? Ejaculating "Nothing!" once more, in a tone of profound perturbation, the waiter retired. Bellamy tried to cover his annoyance with a laugh, but surprised a look of dark resentment in Amelie's eyes and opened his own. "Hello?" "Why did you do that? Simply to mortify me?" "Afraid I don't follow----" "Do you want the waiters to think you bring me here solely to satisfy _my_ appetite for liquor? It isn't as if you were a plaster saint in that line yourself--not exactly." "Sorry, Amy. Make it a rule never to drink before evening." "Then why come here at all?" "Thought we'd agreed a little everyday discretion wouldn't do us any harm." "What are you afraid of? Your wife?" Bellamy answered only with a fatigued look. The cocktail was being served. "And the melon, monsieur--shall I bring it at once?" "Please." The tone was crisp if the word was civil. Amelie sipped her mixed poisons, mysterious malice informing the eyes that watched Bellamy over the rim of the glass. "Why take it out on the waiter if you're in a temper with me?" "I'm not, Amy, I--" Bellamy caught himself, and permitted impatience to find an outlet in a sound of polite expostulation: "Really!" Amelie put aside an empty glass. Refreshed and fortified, she brooded with sultry eyes while wedges of under-ripe casaba bedded in cracked ice were set before them. "You know, Bel," she observed in the dispassionate accents of the friend who wouldn't for worlds mention it, only it's for your own good--"you really ought to be more careful about your drinking. You barely escaped being pretty awful at times, last night." An indictment the more unkind because a cloudy memory refused to affirm or deny its justice. Bellamy began to repent his fidelity to the six o'clock rule. "Fancy your forgetting we'd agreed to meet here instead of at the Ritz. That ought to show you how lit you were." "Sorry----" "That's all very well: but suppose you hadn't had sense enough to call up this morning, suppose I had come here to meet you, just as we'd arranged, and had to go home after waiting around for hours like some shop-girl forgotten on a street corner----" "Poetic justice, if you ask me--something to offset some of the hours you've kept me fidgeting, wondering if you meant to show up at all." Injudiciously, Bellamy added a smile to the retort, by way of offsetting its justice. "So it amuses you to think of making an exhibition of me in a place like this!" "Oh, I don't know." Bellamy surveyed the restaurant without bias. "Not a bad little hole for people in our position." The melon, inedible and uneaten, was removed, soup in cups was substituted. "'People in our position'! I'm to understand, then, any 'little hole' is good enough for me, so long as I don't interfere with Lucinda's parties at the Ritz." Bellamy straightened his spine and put down his spoon. An understanding captain of waiters read his troubled eye and made casual occasion to draw the curtains across the front of the booth. "It is because Lucinda's lunching at the Ritz today, isn't it?" "My dear Amy," said Bellamy coolly: "I'm unaware of having done anything to provoke this, and if I've sinned unwittingly, I beg your pardon very truly. Won't you believe that, please, and let me off for today? I'm feeling rather rusty myself, my dear, and this is beginning to get on my nerves." At his first words the woman drew back, flushing, eyes stormy above a mouth whose gentle allure lost itself in a hardening line. Then swiftly reconsideration followed, visibly the selfish second thought took shape in the angry eyes and melted their ice to a mist of unshed tears beneath lids newly languorous. The petulant lips, too, refound their tremulous tenderness. Amelie's hand fell upon Bellamy's in a warm, convulsive clasp. She leaned across the corner of the table. "Kiss me, Bel--I'm so wretched!" He kissed her adequately but without any sort of emotion, thinking it strange, all the while her mouth clung to his, that he should so clearly know this to be good acting, no more than that, no less. Bellamy was not accustomed to see through women at so young a stage of intimacy; that came later, came surely; but never before had it come so soon. And in a little quake of dread he wondered if it were because he had grown old beyond his years, too aged in sentimental tippling to have retained the capacity for generous credulity of his younger years. Or was it that the woman's insincerity had so eaten out her heart, no technical perfection could lend persuasion to her playing, her caresses potency? Or that he had, since morning, fallen in love with his wife all over again and so truly that no rival passion could seem real? It was true, at least, that his thoughts were quick and warm with memories of Linda even while he was most engaged with the effort to do justice to Amelie's lips. And perceiving this to be so, self-contempt took hold of him like a sickness. They resumed their poses of nonchalant and sophisticated creatures amiably discussing an informal meal. But first the woman made effective use of a handkerchief. "Forgive me, dear," she murmured. "I know it was perfectly rotten of me, but I couldn't help it. I'm a bit overwrought, Bel, not too happy; being in love with you has made the way things are at home doubly hard to endure, you must know that; and then--of course"--she smiled nervously--"I'm jealous." He was silent, fiddling with a fork, avoiding her eye. "Of Lucinda--you understand." He said heavily: "Yes...." She waited an instant, and when he failed to say more began to see that she had overplayed her hand. "You do love me, don't you, Bel?" "Of course." "Then you must know how hard it is for me, you can't blame me for growing impatient." This time he looked up and met her gaze. "Impatient for what?" "Why, for what every woman expects when she's in love and the man whom she loves loves her; something definite to look forward to, I mean. We can't go on like this, of course." "No, not like this." "I'm not the kind of a woman for a hole-and-corner affair, Bel. If I were, you wouldn't be in love with me." He nodded intently: "What do you propose?" "I've been waiting for that to come from you, dear; but you never seem to live for anything but the moment." "I've got to know what's in your mind, Amy. Tell me frankly." "Well, then!"--she saw the mistake of it instantly, but for the life of her couldn't muffle the ring of challenge--"I fancy it means Reno for both of us." "Meaning I'm to divorce Linda and marry you?" She gave a deprecating flutter of hands. "What else can we do?" Bellamy said with a stubborn shake of his head: "Never without good cause; and as far as I know, Linda's blameless. I'm a pretty hopeless proposition, I know, but not quite so bad as all that." Amelie sat back, her colour rising. She could not misinterpret the determination in his temper; yet vanity would not permit her to forego one last attempt. "But if she should divorce you?" "Deal with that when it comes up. Frankly, don't believe it ever will. Don't mean to give Linda any reason I can avoid." "What you mean is, you really love----!" "I mean," he cut in sharply, "whatever my shortcomings, I respect Linda, I won't hurt her if I can help it." "How charming of you!" For all acknowledgment she received a silent inclination of his head; and she began to laugh dangerously, eyes abrim with hatred, the heat in her cheeks shaming their rouge. "Well, thank God I've come to understand you before we went any farther!" "Amen to that." "And so all your love-making has been simply----" "The same as yours, Amy." "Then why did you ever make love to me at all, please?" "Because you let me see you wanted me to." The brutal truth of that lifted the woman to her feet. "I don't think I care for any more luncheon," she said in a shaking voice. "If you don't mind...." Bellamy rose, bowing from his place: "Not at all." He offered to help her with her fur, but she wouldn't have that, threw the garment over her arm and flung round the table, then checked and looked back. "You understand--this ends it--for all time?" "I couldn't do you the injustice of thinking anything else." She made a tempestuous exit through the curtains. Bellamy grunted in self-disgust, lighted a cigarette, and looked up to see the suavely concerned countenance of Theodore. "Something is wrong, Mr. Druce? The lady----?" "Was suddenly taken ill. Be good enough to cancel the rest of the order, Theodore, and let me have my bill. And--yes, think I will--you may send me a Scotch and soda." Bellamy consulted his watch. Just on two: Linda's luncheon party would be in full swing. He had nothing better to do, might as well look in at the Ritz. Linda would like it.... V "Three o'clock, Thomas, say a quarter to." "Yes, madam." The footman performed a faultless salute and doubled round to hop into place beside the chauffeur, while the door-porter shut the door with a bang whose nicely calculated volume told all the world within ear-shot that the door-porter of the fashionable hotel of the day was banging the door to Mrs. Bellamy Druce's brougham. The technique of every calling is similarly susceptible of refinement into an art. Two Lucinda Druces crossed the sidewalk and passed through the turnstile of bright metal and plate-glass which served as a door at the Forty-sixth street entrance to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel--the one perceptible to mortal vision a slender and fair young person costumed in impeccable taste and going her way with that unstudied grace which is the last expression of man's will to make woman a creature whose love shall adorn him. To the luncheon-hour mob that milled in the meagre foyer of this hotel, which holds its public by studiously subjecting it to every Continental inconvenience, she presented the poise of a pretty woman who has never known care more galling than uncertainty as to her most becoming adornment. Not even the shadow of that other Lucinda who walked with her, who was no more separate from her than her own shadow, who ceased not to beat her bosom and cry to Heaven for help, was to be detected in the composed, steady eyes that searched swiftly, but without seeming to see, the faces of that congested congregation of fashionables and half-fashionables and would-be fashionables, their apes and sycophants and audience. Seeing nowhere those whom she was seeking, Lucinda made her way to the lounge; or it would be more true to say a way was made for her by the simple prestige of her presence, by the magic whisper of her name from mouth to mouth commanding a deference neither beauty nor breeding alone could have earned her. The lounge was at that hour three-quarters invested by an overflow of tables from the dining-room proper, only at its eastern end a few easy chairs and settees had been left for the accommodation of those lucky enough to win past the functionary who guarded the portals, charged with winnowing the sheep from the goats, admitting the elect to this antechamber to the one true Olympus, shunting off the reject to the limbo of the downstairs grill. Sighting Lucinda from afar, with a bow of ineffable esteem this one glided forward. "Mrs. Sedley and Mrs. Guest are waiting for you, Mrs. Druce." At the same time Lucinda herself discovered her friends occupying a settee, with Fanny Lontaine between them. "Your table is quite ready. Do you wish luncheon to be served at once?" Lucinda assented pleasantly and passed on. Immediately the headwaiter caught the eye of a subaltern in the middle of the room, and in intimate silence conversed with him without moving a muscle more than the superciliary. The confederate acknowledged this confidence by significantly dropping his lashes, then in even more cryptic fashion flashed on the inspiring intelligence to that statuesque figure which, from the head of the stairs, between lounge and oval dining-room, brooded with basilisk eyes over the business of both. Thus a minor miracle was worked, bringing that one at once to life and down to earth; in another moment the maître-d'hôtel himself was attentive at Lucinda's elbow. "But I never dreamed you three knew one another!" she was exclaiming in the surprise of finding Fanny Lontaine on terms with those whom she had bidden to meet her. "Fanny, why didn't you tell me----?" "But I didn't know--how should I?--your Nelly Guest was Ellen Field married." "That's so; I'd completely forgotten you both come from Chicago." "Hush!" Nelly Guest gave a stage hiss. "Someone might hear. You never forget anything, do you? And all these years I've tried so hard to live it down! It's no fair...." Impressively convoyed, the quartet proceeded to "Mrs. Druce's table" in the oval room. Rumour of gossip and turning of heads attended their progress, flattery to which Lucinda, Nelly and Jean were inured, of which they were aware only as they were of sensuous strains of stringed music, the orderly stir of waiters, the satisfying sheen of silver and napery, the brilliance and brouhaha of that gathering of amiable worldlings, and the heady breath of it, a subtly blended, oddly inoffensive mélange of scents of flowers and scented flesh, smells of cooked food and cigarette smoke. But in the understanding of Fanny Lontaine, accustomed to admiration as she was, and no stranger to the public life of European capitals, the flutter caused by the passage of her companions through a phase of existence so polite and skeptical conferred upon them an unmistakable cachet. She had been long abroad and out of touch, she had never been on intimate terms with New York ways, but the busy mind at work behind her round eyes of a child was like a sponge for the absorption of delicate nuances and significant signs of all sorts. Life had made it like that. Six years married, and two years older than Lucinda Druce, Fanny retained, and would till the end, whatever life might hold in store for her, a look of wondering and eager youthfulness. Romance trembled veritably upon her lashes. She had a way of holding her lips slightly apart and looking steadily at one when spoken to, as if nothing more interesting had ever been heard by the ears ambushed in her bobbed, ashen hair. Her eyes of a deep violet shade held an innocence of expression little less than disconcerting. Her body seemed never to have outgrown its adolescence, yet its slightness was quite without any angularity or awkwardness, it achieved roundness without plumpness, a stroke of physical genius. In the question of dress she showed a tendency to begin where the extreme of the mode left off, a fault held venial in view of her apparent immaturity. And then, of course, she had lived so long in England, where people are more broad-minded.... Apparently not talkative but a good listener, she had a knack of making what she did say stick in memory, not so much for its content as for its manner, a sort of shy audacity that pointed observations often racy and a candour sometimes devastating. But unless one happened to be looking at Fanny when she spoke, her remarks were apt to seem less memorable, her humour less pungent. "It's heavenly," she now declared, coolly staring at their neighbours through the smoke of her cigarette--"simply divine to be home. I'm sure I'd never want to see Europe again if it weren't for Prohibition." "You're not going to suffer on that account today," Jean Sedley promised, producing from her handbag a little flash of jewelled gold. "But I shall!" Fanny protested with tragic expression. "It's the frightful hypocrisy that's curdling my soul and ruining my insides. It makes one homesick for England, where people drink too much because they like it, and not to punish themselves for electing a government which conscientiously interprets the will of the people--and leaves them to interpret their wont." "No dear, thanks." Smilingly Nelly Guest refused to let Jean fill her glass. "The figure?" Jean enquired in deep sympathy. "I've positively got to," Nelly sighed. She cast a rueful glance down over her plump, pretty person. "Compassionate Columbia simply must not waddle when she pokes her horn of plenty at famine-stricken China." "Oh, that wretched pageant!" Lucinda roused from a lapse into communion with the Lucinda who made an unseen fifth. "When is it? I'd forgotten all about it." Nelly Guest named a day two weeks in the future. "And I haven't even thought about my costume! Oh, why do we punish ourselves so for Charity's sweet sake?" "Because deep down in our hearts we all like to parade our virtues." "Much virtue in that plural," Nelly Guest commented. "Well, I don't like parading mine in pageants, I assure you." "Don't you, honestly, Cindy?" Fanny asked. "I should think you'd love that sort of thing. You used to be perfectly mad about acting." "So is every woman--isn't she?--at one stage or another of her life convinced she's truly a great actress cheated out of her birthright." "I know. All the same you know you've got talent. Don't you remember our open-air performance of _Much Ado About Nothing_? You were a simply ravishing Rosalind." "Heavens! What do amateur theatricals prove?" "For one thing," Jean Sedley commented, "how long-suffering one's friends can be." "And one's enemies. Consider what they sit through just to see us make public guys of ourselves." "Well!" Nelly Guest lamented: "my pet enemies are going to have a real treat at the pageant unless I can find some way to reduce, inside a fortnight." "There was a man in London had a marvelous system," Fanny volunteered. "Everybody was going to him last Season. There ought to be somebody like him over here." Duly encouraged, she launched into a startlingly detailed account of London's latest fad in "treatment"; and Lucinda's thoughts turned back to her other self, insensibly her identity receded into and merged with its identity again and became lost in its preoccupations. How to go on, how to play out this farce of a life with Bel when faith in him was dead? Strange that faith should have been shattered finally by such a minor accident as her overhearing that morning's treachery. As if it had been the first time she had known Bel to be guilty of disloyalty to her! But today she could not forget that neither love nor any kindly feeling for his wife, nor even scruples of self-respect, but only dread of a contretemps had decided Bel against lunching Amelie in that very room, making open show o£ his infatuation before all those people who knew them both and who, being human, must have gloated, nudged, and tittered; who, for all Lucinda knew to the contrary, were even now jeering behind their hands, because they knew things about Bel and his gallivantings which all the world knew but his wife. Even the servants----! Her cheeks kindled with indignation--and blazed still more ardently when she discovered that she had, in her abstraction, been staring squarely at Richard Daubeney, who was lunching with friends at a nearby table. But Dobbin bowed and smiled in such a way that Lucinda's confusion and her sense of grievance were drowned under by a wave of gratitude. She nodded brightly and gave him a half-laughing glance. Good old Dobbin! She had never appreciated how much she was missing him till he had turned up again last night and offered to take his old place in her life, on the old terms as nearly as might be, the old terms as necessarily modified by her own change of status. _What a pity!_ Those three words were so clearly sighed in her mental hearing that Lucinda, fearing lest she had uttered them aloud, hastily consulted the faces of her companions. But they had exhausted the subject of reducing régimes and passed on naturally--seeing that Nelly and Jean were approaching that stage when such matters become momentous--to that of "facials." "... Parr's fuller's earth and witch hazel. Make a thick paste of it and add a few drops of tincture of benzoin, then simply plaster it all over your face, but be careful not to get it near your eyes, and let it dry. It only takes a few minutes to harden, and then you crack and peel it off, and it leaves your skin like a baby's." "Elizabeth Baird charges twenty-five dollars a treatment." "But my dear, you can see for yourself how stupid it is to pay such prices to a beauty specialist when the materials cost only a few cents at any drug-store, and anybody can apply it, your maid if you don't want to take the trouble yourself...." _What a pity!_ But was it? Would she have been happier married to Dobbin? Was it reasonable to assume that Dobbin would not have developed in the forcing atmosphere of matrimony traits quite as difficult as Bel's to deal with? In this wrong-headed world nobody was beyond criticism, and anybody's faults, condonable though they might seem at a distance, could hardly fail of exaggeration into vices through daily observation at close range. Impossible to imagine any two human creatures living together, after the first raptures had begun to wane, without getting on each other's nerves now and then. Wasn't the fault, then, more with the institution than with the individuals? Lucinda remembered having once heard a physician of psycho-analytic bent commit himself to the statement that in ten years of active professional life he had never entered one ménage where two people lived in wedded happiness. And sifting a list of married acquaintances, Lucinda found it not safe to say of one that he or she was happy; of most it was true that they had the best of reasons for being unhappy. It was true of Nelly Guest and Jean Sedley, it was true of herself, doubtless it was true of Fanny. Lucinda had yet to meet Lontaine, and if Fanny's looks were fair criterion, she was the most carefree of women; and yet... Fanny caught Lucinda eyeing her and smiled. "What under the sun are you thinking about so solemnly, Cindy?" "You, dear. You haven't told me anything about yourself yet." "No chance. Give me half a show"--Fanny glanced askance at Jean and Nelly, now amiably engaged in bickering about the merits of various modistes--"and you shall know All." "I'd dearly love to. You must lunch with me at home some day soon; and then I want you and your husband to dine with us--say next Thursday?" "I don't know. That's one of the exciting things about being married to Harry Lontaine, one never knows what tomorrow will bring forth. We've got to go to Chicago soon, because--daresay you know--father relented enough to leave me a little legacy, nothing to brag about, but nothing people in our position can afford to despise, either." Lucinda made a sympathetic face and said something vague about everybody in England still feeling the pinch of the War. But Fanny elected to scorn generalizations. "Oh, the only effect the War could have had on our fortunes would have been to kill off the half a dozen relatives that stand between Harry and the title. But he was out of luck--served three years in France and Flanders and got all shot up and decorated with the dearest little tin medals on the prettiest ribbons, while his precious kinsmen held down cushy berths in the Munitions and kept in training for the longevity record." "But how proud you must have been----!" "Of Harry? On account of his decorations? My dear: heroes are three-a-penny in England today. You see, everybody, more or less, barring Harry's family, had a shot at active service, just as almost everybody has a shot at marriage sooner or later; only, of course, the percentage of unscarred survivors of the War was higher." (Fanny, too! What a world!) "For all that, I do want to meet your husband." "You will, soon enough. He's lunching some men down in the grill, a business luncheon, American cinema people; and I told him when he got rid of them to wait for me in the lounge. Very likely we'll find him there on our way out." "How nice. He's interested in the motion-picture business then?" "In a way. That is, he was, in England, for a while, after the War. And when we decided to come over about my legacy, he secured options on the American rights to some Swedish productions. Somebody told him you were having a run on foreign films over here, so Harry said he might as well try to turn an honest penny. I told him it wouldn't do him any harm, he'd enjoy the adventure." "I see," said Lucinda a bit blankly. "I don't know much about it, of course, almost never go to see a motion picture; that is, unless it's Elsie Ferguson, I've always been mad about her." She looked round to the waiter who was substituting a finger-bowl for her neglected sweet. "We'll all want coffee, Ernest, and you may bring it to us in the Palm Room." "Four demi-tasses: yes, Mrs. Druce." "Nelly! Jean!" These Lucinda haled forth from the noisome morass of the newest divorce scandal. "Fanny's first husband is waiting for her in the lounge, and she's getting nervous." "Good-looking, I suppose?" Jean Sedley enquired, and got a merry nod from Fanny. "She ought to be nervous. A New York Winter is the open season for other women's good-looking husbands, it doesn't do to leave them standing round loose--here of all places!" VI Fanny's husband came in shortly after Lucinda and her guests had settled down to coffee and cigarettes in a Palm Room now rapidly regaining its legitimate atmosphere of a lounge, as the extemporized tables were vacated, dismantled, and spirited away. He fitted so neatly into the mental sketch of Lucinda's unconscious preconception, that she was naturally prejudiced in his favour. She liked Englishmen of that stamp, even if the stamp was open to criticism as something stereotyped, liked their manner and their manners and the way they dressed, with an effect of finish carelessly attained, as contrasted with the tight ornateness to which American men of the same caste are so largely prone. Tall and well made, Lontaine had the good colour of men who care enough for their bodies to keep them keen and clean of the rust that comes of indoor stodging. The plump and closely razored face seemed perhaps a shade oversize for features delicately formed, and the blue eyes had that introspective cast which sometimes means imagination and frequently means nothing at all more than self-complacence. He affected a niggardly moustache, and when he spoke full lips framed his words noticeably. His habit was that of a man at ease in any company, even his own, who sets a good value on himself and confidently looks for its general acceptance. He talked well, with assurance, some humour, and a fair amount of information. He had lived several years in the States, off and on, and on the whole approved of them. In fact, he might say there were only two sections of the country with which he was unacquainted, the South and the Pacific Coast; defects in a cosmopolitan education which he hoped to remedy this trip, as to the Coast at least. He had pottered a bit with the cinema at home, and it was just possible he might think it worth his while to jog out to Los Angeles and see what was to be seen in that capital of the world's motion-picture industry. England, he didn't mind admitting, had a goodish bit to learn from America in the cinema line. They were far too conservative, the cinema lot at home, behind the times and on the cheap to a degree that fairly did them in the eye when it came to foreign competition. On the Continent, too, the cinema was making tremendous strides, while in England it was merely marking time. If you asked Lontaine, it was his considered belief that the really top-hole productions of the future would come of combining American brilliance of photography and investure with European thoroughness in acting and direction. This by no means unintelligent forecast was uttered with an authority that impressed even Lucinda, elaborately uninterested as she was. Conscious of a rather pleasing deference in Lontaine, who was addressing himself to her more directly than to any of the others, she maintained a half-smile of amiable attention which would have deceived a sharper man, and let her thoughts drift on dreary tides of discontent. Hour by hour the conviction was striking its roots more deeply into her comprehension that life with Bel on the present terms was unthinkable. And yet--what to do about it? She hadn't the remotest notion. Obviously she would have to arrive somehow at some sort of an understanding with Bel. But how? The one way she knew had failed her. And she knew no one to confide in or consult. Her father had died several years before her marriage, her mother soon after. Of her immediate family there remained only an elder sister, married and living in Italy. She saw herself a puny figure, with only her bare wits and naked need for allies, struggling to save her soul alive from a social system like a Molock of the moderns, a beast-god man has builded out of all that he holds hateful, all his fears and lusts and malice, envy, cruelty and injustice, and to which, having made it, he bows down in awe and worship, sacrificing to it all that he loves best, all that makes life sweet and fair.... A losing fight. One were mad to hope to win. Already Bel was lost, caught in the mad dance of the system's bacchants, already drunkard and debauchee.... Nor might all her love redeem him.... And O the pity! Aware of pain welling in her bosom, a sense of suffocation, tears starting to her eyes, she jumped up hastily lest her friends should see, mumbled an excuse, and made her way out to the foyer, turning toward the women's cloak-room. A few moments alone would restore equanimity, a little rouge and powder mend the wear of her emotions. The foyer was still fairly thronged; she was almost in Bel's arms before she saw him, so near to him, when she stopped in shocked recognition of his grimace of affection, that she caught, as she started back, a heavy whiff of breath whiskey-flavoured. She heard him say, "Why, hello, Linda! what's the hurry?" and cut in instantly with a gasp of indignation: "What are you doing here?" "Thought I'd look in on your party. You know, you asked me----" She could not trust her tongue. If she said more in her anger, she would say too much, considering that time and place, lose what poor vestiges of self-control remained to her, make a scene. She cried all in a breath: "Well, go away, then! I don't want you, I won't have you!"--and pushing past Bel, fled into the cloak-room. He lingered half a minute, with perplexed eyes meeting the amused stares of those who had been near enough to catch an inkling of the altercation; then drew himself up sharply and ironed out all indications of his embarrassment, assuming what he believed to be a look of haughty indifference. But he was hurt, stricken to the heart by Lucinda's treatment. He couldn't think what he'd done to deserve it, he felt sure she couldn't have noticed the few drinks that had constituted luncheon for him. But whatever had been the matter, obviously it was up to him to find some way to placate Linda. He was through with Amelie and all such foolishness, from now on he was going to be good to Linda; and it wouldn't do at all to begin his new life by getting on the outs with her. His gaze focused intelligently upon the glass case that displays the wares of the hotel florist. Women liked flowers. But there were four in Linda's party, her guests would think it funny if he joined them bringing flowers for his wife only.... A tough problem. He decided to step round to the club and mull it over.... He had disappeared by the time Lucinda felt fit to show herself again. Inwardly still forlorn and disconsolate, but outwardly mistress of herself, she resumed her chair; and had hardly done so when she saw Richard Daubeney pass by with his luncheon party, pause at the door and take leave, then turn back and make directly for her corner. And instantaneously Lucinda experienced a slight psychic shock and found herself again the individual self-contained, the young woman of the world whom nothing could dismay. Dobbin knew everybody except the Lontaines; and when the flutter created by his introduction had subsided, he found a chair by Lucinda's side and quietly occupied himself with a cigarette until the conversation swung back to the pageant; whereupon he took deft advantage of the general interest in that topic to detach Lucinda's attention. "I couldn't resist the temptation to butt in, Cinda. Hope you don't mind." "I do, though, fearfully. It's always nice to see you." "Many thanks. Appreciation makes up for a lot of neglect." "Poor old soul: somebody been neglecting you again?" "Somebody's always neglecting me and my affectionate disposition. That's why I've wiggled to your side, wagging a friendly tail, ready to lick your hand at the first sign of an inclination to adopt me." Lucinda eyed him in grave distrust. "Dobbin: are you trying to start something? I thought we'd settled all that last night, agreed I wasn't in a position to adopt stray men, no matter how nice." "That was last night. You've had time to sleep on it. Lots of things can come up overnight to change a woman's mind. Don't tell me: I can see something unusual has happened." "Oh! you can?" "Don't be alarmed: you're not wearing your heart on your sleeve. I can see you're troubled about something, simply because I know you so much better than anybody else. Oh, yes, I do. You never knew how thoroughly I studied you in the dear, dead days of yore. I'll lay long odds no one else has noticed anything, but to my seeing eye you've been flying signals of distress all during luncheon. That being so, it wouldn't be decent of me not to give you a hail and stand by in case I'm needed--now would it?" Momentarily Lucinda contended against temptation. Then, "You are a dear, Dobbin," she said almost regretfully. "But it isn't fair of you to see too much. If it's true I have secrets I don't want to share, it would be kinder to let me keep them--don't you think?" "Lord bless you, yes! But it's my observation the human being in trouble has got to talk to somebody, and will to the wrong body if the right isn't handy. Not only that, but you'll find most people will listen to your troubles only to get a chance to tell you their own; whereas I have none except the one you know all about. So you needn't fear reprisals." She pondered this, sweetly serious, then in little better than a whisper said: "At least, not now...." Jean Sedley was claiming her attention. "What do you think of that, Cindy? Isn't it a ripping idea?" "Afraid I didn't hear--I was flirting with Dobbin." "Yes, I know. But Mr. Lontaine has just made a priceless suggestion about the pageant. He says we can have moving-pictures taken as we enter the ball-room and shown before the evening is over." "But is that possible?" "Oh, quite," Lontaine insisted--"assure you. It's really extraordinary how they do these things, three or four hours is all they require to develop and prepare a film for projection. Say your pageant starts at ten: by one you can see yourself on the screen." "Everybody would adore it!" Nelly Guest declared with deep conviction. "And you could arrange it, Mr. Lontaine?" "Easily, Mrs. Druce--that is to say, if I'm still in New York." "What do you think, Cindy?" Jean urged. "Almost everybody is moving-picture mad. We could sell twice as many tickets on the strength of such a novelty. And it is a charity affair, you know." "Meaning to say," Dobbin put in, "you're rather keen about it yourself." "Of course--crazy to see myself as others see me. So is every woman--Fanny, Jean, Cindy----" "I don't know," Lucinda demurred. "It must be a weird sensation." "Not one you need be afraid of," Lontaine promised. "If you don't mind my saying so, you would screen wonderfully, Mrs. Druce." "You think so, really?" "Oh, no doubt about it, whatever. You're just the type the camera treats most kindly. If you wanted to, you could make a fortune in the cinema. No, seriously: I'm not joking." "I'm glad of that," Lucinda returned soberly. "It wouldn't be at all nice of you to trifle with my young affections. Still, I will admit I'm skeptical." "Tell you what," Lontaine offered eagerly: "Suppose you take test, what? No trouble at all to fix it up for you--chaps I know--only too glad--anything I say. I'd like to prove I know what I'm talking about. Take us all, for that matter, just as we are. What do you say?" "I say it's perfectly damn' splendid!" Jean Sedley declared. "We'd all love it. When can you arrange it?" "Any time you like--this afternoon, if that suits everybody. Only have to telephone, and in half an hour they'll be all ready for us. Shall I?" Lontaine got out of his chair. "Do say yes, all of you. Mrs. Druce? I know the others will if you do?" "I don't mind...." "Right-O! Give me five minutes...." VII Lontaine brought back a gratified countenance from the telephone booths. As he had promised, so had he performed. This cinema chap he knew, Culp, had professed himself only too delighted. Rum name, what? A rum customer, if you asked Lontaine, diamond in the rough and all that sort of thing, one of the biggest guns in the American cinema to boot. Dobbin wanted to know if Mr. Culp wasn't the husband of Alma Daley, the motion-picture actress. Lontaine said he was. Extraordinary pair. Married a few years ago when they were both stoney, absolutely. Now look at them; Culp a millionaire and better, Miss Daley one of the most popular stars. You might say he'd made her and she'd made him. Showed the value of team-work in marriage, what? You pulled together, and nothing could stop you. You pulled in opposite directions, and what happened? You stood still! What? (Lucinda remarked the patient smile with which Fanny listened. But repetition is, after all, a notorious idiosyncrasy of the married male.) Charming little woman, Miss Daley. As it happened, she was working in a picture at the studio now. Rare luck; they'd get a look in at practical producing methods in addition to getting shot for their tests. Not bad, what? Somebody echoed "shot" with a puzzled inflection. But that term, it appeared, was studio slang; one was shot when one was photographed by a motion-picture camera. No doubt because they first aimed the camera at one, then turned the crank--like a machine-gun, Lontaine meant to say. Lucinda discovered that it was already three o'clock, and wondered how long they would need to get properly shot. Lontaine protested it would take no time at all. Astonishing chaps, these American cinema people, absolutely full of push and bounce, did everything in jig-time, if you knew what he meant. With two cars at its disposal, the party split up into threes, Mrs. Sedley, Mrs. Guest, and Lontaine leading the way. On the point of entering her own car after Fanny, however, Lucinda recalled her promise to look in at the bridge-tea for the Italian Milk Fund, and bidding Dobbin keep Fanny amused while they waited for her, turned back into the hotel to telephone Mrs. Wade that she would be a little late. Having seen no more of Bellamy since their encounter near the cloak-room, she had assumed that he had taken her at her word, and had dismissed from her calculations the possibility of his returning. The surprise was so much the more unwelcome, consequently, when on leaving the telephone booth she saw her husband with his hat on the back of his head and his arms full of lavender orchids, wavering irresolutely in the entrance to the Palm Room, surveying with a dashed expression its now all but deserted spaces; a festive spectacle that left no room for surmise as to what he had been up to. And with sickening contempt added to the bitterness already rankling in her heart, Lucinda made hastily for the revolving door. Simultaneously Bel caught sight of her and, with a blurred travesty of his really charming smile, and a faltering parody of that air of gallant alacrity which she had once thought so engaging, moved to intercept Lucinda. And finding her escape cut off, she paused and awaited him with a stony countenance. "Ah! there you are, eh, Linda! 'Fraid I'd missed you. Sorry couldn't get back sooner, but----" "I'm not," Lucinda interrupted. "Had to go over to Thorley's to find these orchids...." Bel extended his burden as if to transfer it to Lucinda's arms and, when she prevented this by falling back a pace, looked both pained and puzzled. "Ah--what say? What's matter?" "I said," Lucinda replied icily, "I'm not sorry you couldn't get here sooner. Surely you can't imagine I'd care to have my friends see you as you are, in the middle of the afternoon. It's bad enough to have them know you get in this condition nearly every night." "But--look here, Linda: be reasonable----" "I think I have been--what you call reasonable--long enough--too long!" Bellamy hesitated, nervously moistening his lips, glancing sidelong this way and that. But there was nobody in the foyer at the moment but themselves; even the coatroom girls had retired to their office and were well out of ear-shot of the quiet conversational key which, for all her indignation, Lucinda had adopted. For all of which the man should have been abjectly grateful. Instead of which (such is the wicked way of drink) Bellamy took heart of these circumstances, their temporary isolation and Lucinda's calculated quietness, and offered to bluster it out. "Here--take these flowers, won't you? Plenty for you and all your friends. Tha's what kept me so long--had to go all over to find enough." Again Lucinda defeated his attempt to disburden himself. "Oh, Bel!" she cried sadly--"how can you be such a fool?" "How'm I a fool? Like flowers, don't you? Thought I was going to please you.... And this is what I get!" "You know all the orchids in New York couldn't make up for your drinking." "Why cut up so nasty about a little drink or two? Way you talk, anyone'd think I was reeling." "You will be before night, if you keep this up." "Well, I'm not going to keep it up. I've made arrangements to have the afternoon free, just to be with you. We'll go somewhere--do something----" "Thank you: I'd rather not." "Don't talk rot." Most unwisely, Bellamy essayed the masterful method. "Of course we'll go some place----" "We will not," Lucinda told him inflexibly. "My afternoon is booked full up already, and----" "Where you going? I don't mind tagging along----" "Sorry, but I don't want you." Injudiciously again, Bellamy elected to show his teeth, stepped closer to Lucinda and with ugly deliberation demanded: "See here: where you going? I've got a right to know----" "Have you, Bel? Think again. I never ask you such questions. If I did, you'd either lose your temper or lie to me, and justify yourself by asserting that no man ought to be asked to stand prying into his affairs. So--I leave you to your affairs--and only ask that you leave me to mine." "Meaning you won't tell me where you're going?" Lucinda shrugged and turned away; but Bellamy swung in between her and the exit. "See here, Linda! there are limits to my patience." "And to mine--and you have found them. Let me go." She didn't move, but her face had lost colour, her eyes had grown dangerous. Neither spoke in that clash of wills until Bellamy's weakened, his eyes shifted, and he stepped aside, slightly sobered. "Please!" he begged in a turn of penitence. "Didn't mean.... Frightfully sorry if I've been an ass; but--you know--pretty well shot to pieces last night--had to pull myself together somehow to talk business at luncheon----" "Oh! it was a business luncheon, then?" asked Lucinda sweetly, pausing. "Of course." With an ominous smile she commented: "It has come to that already, has it?" "Ah--what d'you mean?" "Since you tell me it was a business luncheon, you leave me to infer that your affair with Amelie has reached the point where you take her to the Clique Club to talk terms." Bellamy's jaw sagged, his eyes were dashed with consternation. "What else do you wish me to think, Bellamy?" He made a pitiable effort to pull himself together. "Look here, Linda: you're all wrong about this--misinformed. I can explain----" "You forget I know all your explanations, Bel; I've heard them all too often!" "But--but you must give me a chance! Damn it, you can't refuse----!" "Can't I? Go home, Bel, get some sleep. When you wake up, if you still think you have anything to say--consider it carefully before you ask me to listen. Remember what I tell you now: you've lied to me for the last time, one more lie will end everything between us, finally and for all time!" Conscious though she was that her wrath was righteous, she experienced an instant of irresolution, of yielding and pity excited by the almost dog-like appeal in his eyes. But immediately she remembered Amelie, hardened her heart and, leaving him agape, pushed through the door to the street. And instantly she effected one of those shifts of which few but the sensitive know the secret, who must hide their hurts from alien eyes though they spend all their strength in the effort; instantly she sloughed every sign of her anger and with smiling face went to rejoin Fanny and Dobbin. As soon as she appeared the latter jumped out of the car and offered his hand. He said something in a jocular vein, and Lucinda must have replied to the point, for she heard him chuckle; but she could not, a minute later, recollect one word of what had passed between them. With her hand resting on Dobbin's she glanced back and saw Bellamy--still with his armful of orchids--emerge from the hotel. He halted, his face darkening as he watched Daubeney follow Lucinda into the car. It drew away quickly, giving him no chance to see for himself that it held another passenger. He stood still upon the steps, deep in sombre and chagrined reflection, till a touch on his arm and a civil "Pardon!" roused him to the fact that he was obstructing the fairway. As he moved aside he was hailed by name. "Well, I'm damned! Bellamy Druce drunk, dressed up, and highly perfumed." In his turn, he recognized the speaker, a personage of the theatrical world with modest social aspirations and a noble cellar. "Why, hello, Whittington!" said Bellamy, smiling in spite of his disgruntlement, to see that carved mask of a wise clown upturned to his. "All by yourself? What's happened to the girl crop you should be so lonesome?" Without direct reply, Mr. Freddie Whittington linked his arm and began to walk toward Fifth avenue. "Just the man I'm looking for," he declared without a smile. "Come along. Got a thousand women I want you to meet 'safternoon. They'll take care of your orchids." "Well," Bellamy conceded, "that sounds reasonable. But what do you say, we drop in at the Club? Got something there won't do us any good--in my locker." VIII On the far West Side, well beyond the drab iron articulation of the Ninth Avenue Elevated, in a region of New York whose every aspect was foreign to Lucinda's eyes, the brougham drew to a shuddering stop, in thoroughbred aversion to such surroundings, before a row of blank-avised brick buildings whose façades of varying heights and widths showed them to have been originally designed for diverse uses. That they were today, however, united in one service was proved by the legend that linked them together, letters of black on a broad white band running from end to end of the row beneath its second-story windows: ALMA DALEY STUDIOS--CULP CINEMAS INC.--BEN CULP, PRES'T. Across the way unsightly tenements grinned like a company of draggletail crones who had heard a rare lot about the goings-on of picture actors and, through this happy accident of propinquity, were in a position to tell the world it didn't know the half of it. Children liberally embellished with local colour swarmed on sidewalks where ash and garbage-cans flourished in subtropical luxuriance, and disputed the roadway with the ramshackle wagons and push-carts of peddlers, horse-drawn drays, and grinding, gargantuan motor-trucks that snarled ferociously at the aliens, the frail, pretty pleasure cars from Fifth avenue. Apparently an abattoir was languishing nearby, discouraged in its yearning to lose consciousness of self in the world's oblivion. At the end of the street the Hudson ran, a glimpse of incredible blue furrowed by snowy wakes. Such the nursery in which what Mr. Culp (or his press agent) had brilliantly imaged as the youngest, fairest sister of the plastic arts was fostering the finest flower of its expression, to wit, the artistry of Alma Daley.... "Like a lily springing from the mire," Fanny Lontaine murmured. Lucinda laughed and gave Fanny's arm a mock-pinch, grateful for any gleam of wit to lighten life's dull firmament. The temper in which she had left Bel at the Ritz had been quick to cool; and though its cooling had not affected her determination to brook no longer his misconduct, she was beginning to experience premonitions of that débâcle whose event was certain if this breach, so lately opened, were to widen. If it should come to a break asunder, what would become of her? of the home she loved so well? and what of Bel, whom she loved best of all? In the eyes of Dobbin, as he waited for her at the main entrance to the building, she read too shrewd a question; and understanding that she had for a moment let fall her mask, she hastily resumed that show of debonair amusement which was her heart's sole shield against the tearing beaks and talons of envy, malice and all manner of uncharitableness. Fortunately there was something to jog her sense of humour in the utter absence of preparations to receive them, such as Lontaine had confidently promised. A sense of hostility made itself felt even in the bare antechamber, a vestibule with makeshift walls of match-boarding, and for all features a wooden bench, a card-board sign, NO CASTING TODAY, a door of woven iron wire at the mouth of a forbidding tunnel, and a window which framed the head of a man with gimlet eyes, a permanent scowl, and a cauliflower ear. Interviewed by Lontaine, this one grunted skeptically but consented to pass on the name and message to some person unseen, then resumed his louring and distrustful watch, while beyond the partition the professional sing-song of a telephone operator made itself heard: "Lis'n, sweetheart. Mista Fountain's here with a party, says he's got 'nappointmunt with Mista Culp.... Wha' say?... Oh, a'right, dearie. Say, Sam: tell that party Mista Culp's into a conf'rince, but they kin go up to the stage if they wanta an' stick around till he's dis'ngaged." With every symptom of disgust the faithful watchdog pressed a button on the window ledge, a latch clicked, the wire door swung back, the party filed through and in twilight stumbled up two flights of creaking steps to a tiny landing upon which a number of doors stood all closed, and each sternly stencilled: PRIVATE. After a moment of doubt during which even Lontaine began to show signs of failing patience, one of the doors opened hastily and ejected a well-groomed, nervously ingratiating young man, who introduced himself as Mr. Lane, secretary to Mr. Culp, and said he had been delegated to do the honours. A public-spirited soul, he shook each visitor warmly by the hand, protested that he was genuinely pleased to meet them all, then threw wide another of the PRIVATE doors. "This is the main stage, ladies. Miss Daley is working on one of the sets now, making the final scenes for her latest picture, 'The Girl in the Dark'; so if you'll be kind enough not to talk out loud while she's before the camera.... Miss Daley is very, er, temperamental, y'understand...." Reverently the barbarians obeyed a persuasive wave of Mr. Lane's hand and tiptoed into the studio, to huddle in a considerately awe-stricken group on one side of an immense loft with a high roof of glass. Stage, as the layman understands that term, there was none; but the floor space as a whole was rather elaborately cluttered with what Lucinda was to learn were technically known as "sets," in various stages of completion and demolition; a set being anything set up to be photographed, from a single "side" or "flat" with a simple window or door, or an "angle" formed of two such sides joined to show the corner of a room, up to the solid and pretentious piece of construction which occupied fully one-half of the loft and reproduced the Palm Room at the Ritz-Carlton, not without discrepancies to be noted by the captious, but by no means without fair illusion. On a modest set near at hand, apparently a bedchamber in a home of humble fortunes, a bored chambermaid in checked shirt and overalls, with a cigarette stuck behind his ear, was making up the bed. In another quarter a number of workmen were noisily if languidly engaged in knocking down a built wall of real brick and lugging away sections of a sidewalk which had bordered it, light frames of wood painted to resemble stone. At the far end of the room a substantial set represented a living-room that matched up with the bedchamber nearer at hand, or seemed to, for a good part of it was masked from Lucinda's view by a number of massive but portable metal screens or stands arranged in two converging ranks, at whose apex stood a heavy tripod supporting a small black box. To these stands lines of insulated cable wandered over the floor from every quarter of the room. Just back of the tripod several men were lounging, gazing off at the set with an air of listless curiosity. The spaces between the screens afforded glimpses of figures moving to and fro with, at that distance, neither apparent purpose nor animation. Elsewhere about the studio, in knots, by twos and singly, some twenty-five or thirty men and women, mostly in grease-paint and more or less convincing afternoon dress, were lounging, gossiping, reading newspapers, or simply and beautifully existing. An enervating atmosphere of apathy pervaded the place, as if nothing of much moment to anybody present was either happening or expected to happen. An effect to which considerable contribution was made by the lugubrious strains of a three-piece orchestra, piano, violin, and 'cello, stationed to one side of the living-room set. At first sight this trio intrigued Lucinda's interest. To her its presence in a motion-picture studio seemed unaccountable, but not more so than patience with its rendition of plaintive and tremulous melodies of a bygone period, tunes which one more familiar with the cant of the theatre would unhesitatingly have classified as "sob stuff," and to which nobody appeared to be paying any attention whatever. Mystified to the point of fascination, she studied the musicians individually. The pianist, perched sideways on his stool and fingering the keyboard of an antique upright without once looking at the music on its rack, as often as not played with one hand only, using the other to manipulate a cigarette which he was smoking in open defiance of the many posted notices that forbade this practice. The violinist, stretched out with ankles crossed, occupied a common kitchen chair which his body touched at two places only, with the end of his spine and the nape of his neck. His eyes were half-shut, his bowing suggested the performance of a somnambulist. The 'cellist, too, seemed to be saved from falling forward from his chair solely by the instrument which his knees embraced. His head drowsily nodding to the time, the fingers of his left hand automatically stopped the strings at which his right arm sawed methodically. An honest soul, a journeyman who for a set wage had contracted to saw so many chords of music before the whistle blew and was honestly bent on doing his stint.... Mr. Lane, having excused himself for a moment, returned from consulting some member of the group round the tripod. "'Sall right," he announced with a happy smile. "They won't begin shooting a while yet. You can come closer if you want, I'll show you where to stay so's you won't be in the way." Guided by him, the exotics gingerly picked their way across the banks, coils, loops and strands of electric cable that ran in snaky confusion all over the floor, like exposed viscera of the cinema; and Lucinda presently found herself on the side lines of the living-room, between it and the dogged orchestra, and well out of range of the camera. She could now see three people on the set, two men with a girl whom, thanks to the wide circulation of the lady's photographs, she had no difficulty in identifying as Alma Daley herself--a prepossessing young person with bobbed hair, a boldly featured face, comely in the flesh rather than pretty, and a slight little body whose emaciation told a tale of too-rigorous dieting and which she used not unpleasingly but with a rather fetching effect of youthful gaucherie. Her make-up for the camera was much lighter and more deftly applied than seemed to be the rule. Gowned effectively if elaborately in a street dress hall-marked by the rue de la Paix, she was leaning against a table and lending close if fatigued attention to the quiet conversation of the two men. Of these one was tall and dark, with a thick mane of wavy black hair, a wide and mobile mouth, and great, melancholy eyes. His well-tailored morning-coat displayed to admiration a splendid torso. The other was a smaller, indeed an undersized man, who wore a braided smoking-jacket but no paint on his pinched, weather-worn face of an actor. His manner was intense and all his observations (and he was doing most of the talking) were illustrated by gesticulation almost Latin in its freedom and vividness. "King Laughlin," Mr. Culp's secretary informed Lucinda--"man in the smoking-jacket, he always wears one when he's working--greatest emotional director in the business, nobody can touch him. Why, alongside him, Griffith's a joke in a back number of Judge. You wouldn't guess what he gets: thirty-five hundred." "That's almost a thousand a week, isn't it?" "Thousand a _week_!" Mr. Lane suspiciously inspected Lucinda's profile. Could it be possible that this well-born lady was trying to kid him? But no; he could see she was quite guileless. In accents of some compassion he corrected: "Three-thousand five-hundred every week's what King Laughlin drags down in the little old pay en_vel_ope. But that's Mr. Culp all over; expense's no object when he's making an Alma Daley picture, nothing's too good." "I'm sure...." Lucinda agreed vaguely. Out of the corner of an eye the director had become aware of a new audience and one worthy of his mettle, and he was already preparing to play up to it. Dropping the easy, semi-confidential manner in which he had been advising the younger and taller man, with surprising animation Mr. King Laughlin snatched a silk hat and stick from the other's unresisting hands. "Right-O, Tommy!" he said in the nasal tone of the English Midlands. "I think you've got me now, but just to make sure I'll walk through it with Alma." He turned graciously to the woman: "Now, Alma dear...." Miss Daley, herself not unconscious of a fashionable gallery, shrugged slightly to signify that she didn't mind if Mr. Laughlin thought it really worth while, it was all in the day's drudgery, and made a leisurely exit from the set by way of a door in its right-hand wall. At the same time Mr. Laughlin walked off by a door approximately opposite, and the young man in the morning-coat strolled down to the front of the set and settled himself to observe and absorb the impending lesson. Mr. Laughlin then re-entered in character as a dégagé gentleman with an uneasy conscience, indicating this last by stealthily opening and peering round the edge of the door before coming in and closing it with caution, and gentility by holding hat and stick in one hand and carelessly trailing the ferrule of the stick behind him. Relieved to find the room untenanted, he moved up to the table, placed the hat on it crown-down, propped the stick against it, turned and gave the door in the right-hand wall a hard look, then bent over the table and pulled out and began to ransack one of its drawers. Thus engaged, he said clearly: "_All right, Alma!_" and immediately gave a start, whereby it appeared that he had heard footfalls off, and slammed the drawer. At this Miss Daley entered, a listless little figure so preoccupied with secret woe that she quite failed at first to see Mr. Laughlin, and when she did gave a start even more violent than his had been, clasping both hands to her bosom and crying out in a thrilling voice: "_Egbert!_" Mr. Laughlin kept his temper admirably under the sting of this epithet; all the same, anyone could see he didn't fancy it a bit. However, first and always the gentleman, he offered Miss Daley a magnanimous gesture of outstretched hands. Instantly the poor girl's face brightened with a joyous smile, a happy cry trembled upon her lips as she ran to his arms. He enfolded her, with a fond hand ground her features into the shoulder of his smoking-jacket, and turned his own toward the camera, working them into a cast of bitter anguish. Gently rescuing herself, Miss Daley discovered _Egbert's_ hat and stick, turned to him and looked him up and down with dawning horror, audibly protesting: "_But Egbert! you are going out!_" He attempted a disclaimer, but it wouldn't wash, the evidence of the top hat and the smoking-jacket was too damning; and in the end he had to give in and admit that, well, yes, he was going out, and what of it. Evidently Miss Daley knew any number of reasons why he ought to stay in, but she made the grave mistake of trying to hold him with affection's bonds, throwing herself upon his neck and winding her arms tightly round it. And that was too much: _Egbert_ made it clear that, while he'd stand a lot from a woman to whom he was Everything, there was such a thing as piling it on too thick. And against her frenzied resistance he grasped her frail young wrists, brutally broke her embrace, and flung her from him. She fell against the table, threw back her head to show the pretty line of her throat, clutched convulsively at her collar-bone, and subsided upon the floor in a fit of heart-broken sobbing; while _Egbert_ callously took his hat, clapped it on his head, and marched out by a door in the rear wall, his dignity but slightly impaired by the fact that the hat was several sizes too large and would have extinguished him completely if it hadn't been for his noble ears. Without pause Mr. Laughlin doubled round to the front of the set, threw the waiting actor a brusque "See, Tommy? Get what I mean?" and encouraged Miss Daley with "That's wonderful, Alma dear. Now go on, right through the scene." Miss Daley, lying in complete collapse, with her head to the camera, writhed up on an elbow, planted her hands upon the floor and by main strength pushed her heaving shoulders away from it, keeping a tortured face turned to the camera throughout. Then she got her second wind, caught hold of the edge of the table, pulled herself up, looked around wildly, realized that she was a deserted woman, saw her hat by Tappé hanging on the back of a morris-chair by Ludwig Baumann, seized it, rushed to the door by which _Egbert_ had escaped, and threw herself out in pursuit. Mr. Laughlin clapped gleeful hands. "Fine, Alma, wonderful! You're simply marvelous today, dear. Now Tommy, run through it just once with Alma, and then we'll shoot." Mr. Lane bustled about and found chairs for Lucinda and her friends, upon which they composed themselves to watch Tommy interpret Mr. King Laughlin's tuition in the art of acting for the screen. To the best of Lucinda's judgment, however, the greater part of Mr. Laughlin's efforts had meant to Tommy precisely nothing at all. Beyond the rudimentary mechanics of the physical action sketched in by the director, Tommy made no perceptible attempt to follow pattern, and disregarding entirely its conventional but effective business, embellished the scene instead with business which was, such as it was, all his own, or more accurately that of a dead era of the speaking stage. Like a wraith of histrionism recalled from the theatre of _East Lynne_ and _The Silver King_, Tommy carved out his effects with flowing, florid gestures, and revived the melodramatic stride and heroic attitudinizing; and though he wilfully made faces at the camera throughout, he demonstrated the deep veneration in which he really held it by never once showing it his back, until, having duly spurned the clinging caresses of Miss Daley, he was obliged to march to the door, and even then he made occasion to pause with a hand on the knob and, throwing out his chest and fretfully tossing rebellious black locks from tragic brows, granted the camera the boon of one last, long look at him ere making his exit. And when Mr. Laughlin tranquilly approved this performance and announced that they would forthwith "shoot it," Lucinda began to wonder if there were possibly something wrong with her own powers of observation. "But," she protested to Mr. Lane, who had coolly elected himself her special squire and placed his chair close to hers--"that man they call Tommy--he didn't play the scene as Mr. Laughlin did." "Oh, Tommy Shannon!" said Mr. Lane equably--"Tommy's all right, he knows what he's doing--best leading man in the movin' picture business, bar none. King Laughlin knows he can trust Tommy to put it over his own way. All you got to do is to let Tommy Shannon alone and he'll ring the gong every shot." "But if that's the case, why did Mr. Laughlin take so much trouble to show him----?" "Well, you see, it's this way," Mr. Lane explained: "King's all right, and Tommy's all right, too, both stars in their line; but if Tommy don't see a scene the way King shows him, and King starts to bawl him out, why, Tommy'll just walk off the lot. And then where are you? You can't finish your picture without your leading man, can you? And there's maybe a hundred-and-fifty or two-hundred thousand dollars invested in this production already. One of the first things a director's got to learn in this game is how to handle actors. That's where King Laughlin's so wonderful, he never had an actor quit on him yet." "I see," said Lucinda thoughtfully. "The way to handle an actor is to let him have his own way." "You got the idea," Mr. Lane approved without a smile. "But suppose," she persisted--"suppose the leading man insists on doing something that doesn't suit the part he's supposed to play, I mean something so utterly out of character that it spoils the story?" "Sure, that happens sometimes, too." "What do you do then?" "That's easy. What's your continuity writer for?" "I don't know, Mr. Lane. You see, I don't even know what a continuity writer is." "Why, he's the bird dopes out the continuity the director works from--you know, the scenes in a picture, the way they come out on the screen: Scene One, Scene Two, and all like that." "You mean the playwright?" "Well, yes; only in pictures he's called a continuity writer." "But that doesn't tell me what you do when an actor insists on doing something that spoils the story." "That's just what I'm trying to tell you, Mrs. Druce. You get your continuity writer, of course, and have him make the change." "You mean you change the story to please the actor?" "Sure: it's the only thing to do when you got maybe a hundred-and-fifty or two-hundred thousand dollars hung up in a picture." "But doesn't that frequently spoil the story?" "Oh, what's a story?" Mr. Lane argued reasonably. "People don't go to see a story when they take in an Alma Daley picture. They go because they know they get their money's worth when they see a Ben Culp production that's taken from some big Broadway success and costs a hundred-and-fifty or maybe two-hundred thousand dollars. But princip'ly, of course, they go to see Alma Daley, because she's the most pop'lar actress on the screen, and makes more money than Mary Pickford, and wears the swellest clothes that cost sometimes as much as twenty thousand dollars for each picture; and besides she's the grandest little woman that ever looked into a lens, and there's never been no scandal about her private life, and an Alma Daley picture's sure to be clean. Why, Mr. Culp wouldn't let Miss Daley act in any picture where she had to be wronged or anything like that. When he buys a play for her and the heroine's got a past in it or anything, he just has the story changed so's there's never any stain upon her honour or anything anybody could get hold of. That's one thing Mr. Culp's very partic'lar about; he says no wife of his shall ever go before the public in a shady part." "Has he many?" Mr. Lane looked hurt, but was mollified by the mischief in Lucinda's smile. "Well, you know what I mean. But we better stop talking, if it's all the same to you, Mrs. Druce, or Miss Daley'll get upset. They're going to shoot now." The warning was coincident with the sudden deluging of the set with waves of artificial light of a weird violet tint, falling from great metal troughs overhead and beating in horizontally from the metal stands or screens, which were now seen to be banks of incandescent tubes burning with a blinding glare. Nor was this all: shafts and floods of light of normal hue were likewise trained upon the scene from a dozen different points, until the blended rays lent almost lifelike colouring to the faces of the actors, whose make-up had theretofore seemed ghastly and unnatural to uninitiate eyes. Stationed just beyond the edge of the area of most intense illumination, the audience sat in a sort of violet penumbra whose effect was hideously unflattering. In it every face assumed a deathly glow, resembling the phosphorescence of corruption, the red of cheeks and lips became purple, and every hint of facial defect stood out, a purple smudge. So that Lucinda, reviewing the libelled countenances of her companions, breathed silent thanks to whatever gods there were for their gift of a complexion transparent and immaculate. "Camera!" The command came from King Laughlin. Lucinda could just hear a muffled clicking, and seeking its source discovered a youngish man, with a keen face and intelligent eyes, standing behind the tripod and turning in measured tempo a crank attached to the black box. Coached by Mr. Laughlin, who danced nervously upon the side lines, the scene was enacted. "Now, Tommy, come on--slowly--hold the door--look around, make sure the room is empty--hold it--now shut the door--up to the table--don't forget where to put your hat--'sright, splendid! Now you look at the other door--listen--show me that you don't hear anything--good! Open the drawer--easy now, remember you're trying not to make a noise--look for the papers--show me you can't find them. _My God! where can they be!_ That's it. Now you hear a noise off--(_Ready, Alma!_)--shut the drawer--start to pick up your hat--too late--! Come on, Alma--_come on_! You don't see him, you look out of the window and sigh--let's see you sigh, Alma--beautiful! beautiful! Now, Tommy, you move--she sees you--see him, Alma. Slowly--hold it--wonderful! Now call to him, Alma--_Egbert! Egbert!!_" The little man's voice cracked with the heart-rending pathos he infused into that cry; but he did not pause, he continued to dance and bark directions at star and leading-man till the door closed behind Miss Daley's frantic exit; when all at once he went out of action and, drawing a silk bandanna from his cuff to mop the sweat of genius on his brows, turned mild, enquiring eyes to the cameraman. "Got it," that one uttered laconically. "Think we want to take it over, Eddie?" The cameraman shook his head. "Good! Now we'll shoot the close-up. No, Tommy, not you--the only close-up I want for this scene is Alma where she gets up. We must get those tears in, she cries so pretty." There was some delay. The camera had to be brought forward and trained at short range on the spot where Miss Daley had fallen; several stands of banked lights likewise needed to be advanced and adjusted. And then Miss Daley had to be given time to go to her dressing-room and repair the ravages her complexion had suffered in _Egbert's_ embrace. But all these matters were at length adjusted to the satisfaction of director; the actress lay in a broken heap with her face buried on her arms, the camera once more began to click, Mr. King Laughlin squatting by its side, prepared to pull the young woman through the scene by sheer force of his inspired art. But now the passion which before had kept him hopping and screaming had passed into a subdued and plaintive phase; Mr. Laughlin was suffering for and with the heroine whose woes were to be projected before the eyes and into the hearts of half the world. He did not actually cry, but his features were knotted with the anguish that wrung his heart, and his voice was thick with sobs. "Now, dear, you're coming to--you just lift your head and look up, dazed. You don't realize what's happened yet, you hardly know where you are. _Where am I, my God! where am I?_ That's it--beautiful. Now it begins to come to you--you remember what's happened, you get it. He has cast you off--_O my God! he has deserted you._ Fine--couldn't be better--you're great, dear, simply great. Now go on--begin to cry, let the big tears well up from your broken heart and trickle down your cheeks. Fine! Cry harder, dear--you must cry harder, this scene will go all flooey if you can't cry any harder than that. Think what he was to you--and now he has left you--_who knows?--perhaps for-ev-er!_ Your heart is breaking, dear, it's breaking, and nobody cares. Can't you cry harder? Listen to the music and.... Good God! how d'you expect _any_body to cry to music like that?" The last was a shriek of utter exasperation; and bounding to his feet the little man darted furiously at the musicians, stopping in front of the trio and beginning to beat time with an imaginary baton. "Follow me, please--get this, the way _I_ feel it. So--slowly--draw it out--hold it--get a little heart-break into it!" And strangely enough he did manage to infuse a little of his fine fervour into the three. They abandoned their lethargic postures, sat up, and began to play with some approach to feeling; while posing before them, swaying from the toes of one foot to the toes of the other, his hands weaving rhythms of emotion in the air, the absurd creature threw back his head, shut his eyes, and wreathed his thin lips with a beatific smile. Throughout, on the floor, before the camera, under that cruel glare of lights, Alma Daley strained her face toward the lens and cried as if her heart must surely break, real tears streaming down her face--but cried with fine judgment, never forgetting that woman must be lovely even in woe. And while Lucinda watched, looking from one to the other, herself threatened with that laughter which is akin to tears, a strange voice saluted her. "Saw me coming," it observed, "and had to show off. He's a great little actor, that boy, and no mistake--never misses a chance. Look't him now: you'd never guess he wasn't thinking about anything but whether I'm falling for this new stunt of his, would you?" Lucinda looked around. Mr. Lane had mysteriously effaced himself. In his place sat a stout man of middle-age with a sanguine countenance of Semitic type, shrewd and hard but good-humoured. "How d'you do?" he said genially. "Mrs. Druce, ain't it? Culp's my name, Ben Culp." IX Of a sudden Miss Daley missed her mentor's voice, his counsel and encouragement, and in the middle of a sob ceased to cry precisely as she might have shut off a tap. In a moment of uncertainty, still confronting the clicking camera, still bathed in that withering blaze, she cast about blankly for her runagate director. Then discovering that he had, just like a man! deserted her in her time of trouble to follow a band, outraged womanhood asserted itself, in a twinkling she cast her passion like a worn-out garment and became no more the broken plaything of man's fickle fancy but once again the spoiled sweetheart of the screen. As Lucinda saw it, there was something almost uncanny in the swiftness and the radical thoroughness of that transfiguration, the fiery creature who sprang to her feet with flashing eyes and scornful mouth was hardly to be identified with the wretched little thing whom she had seen, only a few seconds since, grovelling and weeping on the floor. The cameraman stopped cranking and, resting an elbow on his camera, turned with a satiric grin to observe developments. And following a sharp, brief stir of apprehension in the ranks of the professional element, there fell a dead pause of dismay, a complete suspension of all activities other than those of the musicians and their volunteer leader, and of the calloused carpenters, who, as became good union laborers, continued to go noisily to and fro upon their lawful occasions, scornful of the impending storm. As one who finds the resources of her mother tongue inadequate, Miss Daley in silence fixed with a portentous stare the back of King Laughlin, who, all ignorant of the doom hovering over his devoted head, kept on swaying airily to and fro, smiling his ecstatic smile and measuring the music with fluent hands. One of the Daley feet began to tap out the devil's tattoo, she set her arms akimbo, her eyes were quick with baleful lightnings, her pretty lips an ominous line; an ensemble that only too clearly foretold: _At any minute, now!_ With a smothered grunt Mr. Culp heaved out of his chair and lumbered over to his wife, interposing his not negligible bulk between her and the unconscious object of her indignation--and in the very nick of time, or Lucinda was mistaken. What he said couldn't be heard at that distance, the sour whining of the violin, the lamentations of the 'cello, and the tinkle-tinkle of the tinny piano conspired to preserve inviolate those communications between man and wife which the law holds to be privileged. But Lucinda noticed a backward jerk of the Culp head toward the group of which she made one, and caught a glance askance of the Daley eyes, oddly intent and cool in contrast with the guise of unbridled fury which her features wore. And whatever it was that Mr. Culp found to say, indisputably it proved effectual; for nothing worse came of Miss Daley's wrath, at least publicly, than a shrewish retort inaudible to bystanders, a toss of her head, and a sudden, stormy flight from the scene. Mr. Culp followed with thoughtful gaze her retreat toward her dressing-room, then looked a question to the cameraman. "'Sallright," said that one, imperturbable. "Got enough of it." Mr. Culp nodded in relief, and signed to the electricians. As he made his way back to Lucinda's side the lights sputtered out. And as soon as this happened Mr. King Laughlin, cruelly wrenched out of his dream-land of melody, came down to an earth dangerous with the harsh dissonances of reality. "What the--where the--what--!" he stammered, looking in vain for the little woman whom he had so heartlessly abandoned in her woe on the living-room set. Then, catching sight of her half-way across the studio, he bleated "_Alma!_" once in remonstrance, and again in consternation, and set out in panic pursuit. Before he could overtake her, Miss Daley disappeared round one side of the Palm Room, at which point, beating the air with suppliant hands, Mr. Laughlin disappeared in turn. "That's the sort of thing you're up against all a time in the fillum business, d'y'see," sighed Mr. Culp with a rueful grin. "A lot of kids, that's what we got to make pitchers with. And audiences all a time kickin' because we don't make 'em better.... A lot of kids!" He did not, however, appear greatly disheartened, but recounted his tribulations rather as a matter of course, appealing informally to the sympathies of his guests. "King Laughlin all over, nice a little feller's anybody'd want to work with, but temp'amental, d'y'see, got to show off like a kid every time he gets a chance. And what's the answer? Mrs. Culp gets sore, says she won't do another stroke of work s'long's King's directin'. And here we was tryin' to finish shootin' today, behind on our release date and all, and thirty extra people, d'y'see, gettin' five and seven and maybe ten dollars, been waitin' all day to work on the big set and got to be paid whether they work or not...." Mr. Culp broke off suddenly, singled out from the attendant cloud of retainers a young man wearing an eyeshade and a badgered expression, and instructed him to send the extra people packing, but to tell them to report for work at eight o'clock the next day. "'Sno use keepin' 'em any longer, 'safternoon," he explained confidentially. "When that little woman says a thing she means it, d'y'see, so chances are it'll be mornin' before she changes her mind. And if you ladies'll excuse me, I guess I ought to be sittin' in with her and King now. The only things they think I'm any good for, in this studio, is pay salaries and referee battles." He was affably disposed to waive ceremony under the circumstances, but gave in with good grace when Lontaine insisted on formally presenting him to each of his guests; and thus reminded of the first purpose of their visit, which he seemed to have forgotten altogether, Mr. Culp delayed long enough to recall the worried young man with the eyeshade, whom he made known as Mr. Willing, the assistant director, and charged with supervision of the proposed tests. And Mr. Willing was to understand that these were to be regular tests and no monkey business; he was to see that someone with plenty of know-how helped the ladies make up; after which he was to shoot the party as a whole in some little scene or other, in addition to making individual close-ups. If Mr. Willing accepted this commission with more resignation than enthusiasm, he proved to be a modest person with pleasing manners and no perceptible symptoms of temperament. And he was as good as his name. It was his suggestion that a corner of the Palm Room be utilized, as most suitable for the group scene. And while the cameraman was amiably setting up his instrument to command this new location and superintending the moving of the lights, it was Mr. Willing who conducted Lucinda, Nelly, Jean and Fanny to a barn-like dressing-room and hunted up a matronly actress, a recruit from the legitimate theatre, to advise and assist them with their respective make-ups. Lucinda killed time while waiting for her turn by trying her own hand with grease-paint, powder, and mascaro, with the upshot that, when she presented her face for inspection and revision, the actress refused to change the effect by the addition or subtraction of a single touch, and laughingly declined to believe it had been achieved without experience. "It's no use, Mrs. Druce, don't tell me you haven't been in the business!" "On the stage, you mean? But only in the most amateurish way, schoolgirl theatricals." "No," the woman insisted--"they don't make up like that for a test unless they're camera-wise." To this she stuck stubbornly; and Lucinda found herself curiously pleased, though she had done no more to deserve commendation than supplement native good taste and an eye for colour with close observation of the Daley make-up and how it had fared under the lights. Another compliment signalized their return to the studio; nothing less than the presence of Miss Daley--"in person"--composed, agreeable, hospitable, showing every anxiety to make their tests successful and never a sign of the storm that had presumably broken behind the scenes. But Lucinda reckoned it significant that Mr. King Laughlin was nowhere visible. "I thought it would be nice if we could all have tea in my dressing-room," Miss Daley explained; "and then Daddy suggested we could have it served here, on the set--make a regular little scene of it, you know, for the camera." "I'm sure that would be delightful," replied Lucinda, suspended judgment melting into liking even in those first few minutes. "Oh, Daddy thinks of all the nice things!" "And I'll see each you ladies gets a print," Culp volunteered benignly, "so's you can get it run through a projectin' machine any time you want, d'y'see, and show your friends how you once acted with Alma Daley." "Daddy! don't be ridiculous." Vivacious, by no means unintelligent, and either an excellent actress in private life or else an unpretending body, happy in her success and unashamed of humble beginnings, Miss Daley was tactful enough to make her guests forget themselves and the trial to come, as they took their places--with no prearrangement but much as if they were actually meeting at the Ritz--and were served with tea by actor-waiters in correct livery. All the same, Lucinda noticed that their hostess ingeniously maneuvered to a central position in the foreground, where she sat full-face to the camera; this being by far her best phase. And just before the lights blazed up, the girl launched into a spirited account of her passage-at-arms with King Laughlin, which, recited without malice but with keen flair for the incongruous, carried the amateur players easily over the first minutes, in which otherwise constraint must inevitably have attended camera-consciousness. "I was so fussed," she concluded, "I swore I'd never act another scene for him. But when I remembered how foolish he looked, posing in front of that awful orchestra like a hypnotized rabbit, I just had to laugh; and I couldn't laugh and be mad at the same time, of course. And then I had to tell King what I was laughing at, and that made him so ashamed he's sulking in his office now and won't come out while any of you are here." "Then all's serene-o once more, Miss Daley?" "Oh, sure. You see, Mr. Lontaine, we've simply got to finish this picture tonight, somehow, even if we have to work on till morning; so I accepted his apology and made it up." "But those extra people Mr. Culp let go----?" "That's all right," Culp responded from his place beside the camera. "When I see how things was goin', I sent down to the cashier and told him not to pay 'em off, so they didn't any of 'em get away." At this point, clever actress that she was, Miss Daley extemporized a star part for herself by rising without warning and announcing that she would have to run and change for the scenes to be photographed as soon as the tests had been made. "I'll hurry and try to get ready before you go," she said, shaking hands all round with charming grace; "but if I don't see you again, it's been just wonderful to meet you all, and I do hope this isn't good-bye forever!" The general flutter in acknowledgment of her farewells had barely subsided when the bank lights hissed out and the camera stilled its stuttering. "Nice little scene," Mr. Culp applauded generously, intercepting Lucinda as, with the others, she left the set, clearing it for the individual tests. "Goin' to screen pretty. You'll be surprised." "Can you really tell, Mr. Culp?" "How it's goin' to look in the projectin'-room, y'mean? Sure. Not that I'd gamble on my own judgment, I don't pretend to know how to make pitchers; all I know's how to make money makin' 'em, d'y'see. When I say that little scene's goin' to go great on the screen, I'm bankin' on Jack here." He dropped an affectionate, fat hand on the shoulder of the cameraman. "Excuse me, Mrs. Druce, want to introduce you to Mr. Jack Timilty, best little cameraman ever turned a crank." The cameraman grinned sheepishly and preferred a diffident hand. "No temp'ament, no funny business about Jack, Mrs. Druce, always on the job and deliverin' the goods. And sticks, d'y'see. Take it the way it is nowadays, you don't hardly get time to get to know a director before he stings somebody else for a coupla hundred dollars more'n you're paying him, d'y'see, and quits you cold as soon's he finishes his pitcher. But Jack sticks. That's why y'always can count on good photography and lightin' effects in an Alma Daley production. And when Jack says that little scene took pretty, I _know_ it did." "'Sright, Mrs. Druce," Mr. Timilty averred. "I wouldn't like to say about the others, but you and that other little blonde lady----" "Mrs. Lontaine." "Guess so, ma'm, didn't catch her name. Her and you registered like a million dollars." "It's awfully nice of you to tell me so, Mr. Timilty----" "Jack wouldn't pass you a compliment unless he meant it, Mrs. Druce. He's no kidder." "Anyway I guess it ain't the first time anybody's told you that, ma'm. It's easy to see you've been camera-broke." "But I haven't," Lucinda protested, laughing. "Really, I assure you----" At this juncture Mr. Willing called for Mr. Timilty's co-operation in taking the test of Jean Sedley. So Lucinda stood aside and watched and wondered if it were really true that she had shown any evidences of ability out of the ordinary. Not that it mattered. Nevertheless the little fillip administered to her self-esteem made her feel more contented; into the bargain, it deepened her interest in the business in hand. Mr. Willing seemed to be taking a deal of pains to make fair and thorough tests. For each of the four women he improvised brief but effective solo scenes to bring out their best points, if nothing that made severe demands upon the ability of the subject or the invention of the director. Lucinda, for example, was discovered to the camera arranging flowers in a vase. A servant entered, delivered a letter, retired. Lucinda recognized the handwriting, and (the word was new to her in this application) "registered" delight, then--as, smiling, she opened and read the letter--bewilderment, misgivings, and a shock of cruel revelation which strangled all joy of living in her, struck her down, and left her crushed and cringing in a chair. Despite a natural feeling that she was making herself ridiculous, Lucinda executed to the best of her ability the gestures prescribed and tried to impart to them some colour of sincerity. As a matter of fact, she was singularly (and stupidly, she assured herself) anxious to deserve the further commendation of Mr. Culp's cameraman. But it was at best a trying task and, when it came to posing for the close-up with a wall of blinding incandescence only a few feet from her eyes, a true ordeal. She was glad when it was over, and quite satisfied that she wouldn't care to repeat the experience, in spite of Mr. Timilty's encouraging "Pretty work, Mrs. Druce!"--whose source she could only surmise, since in her bedazzled vision everything remained a blur for some time after she had been delivered from the torture of the lights. When at length that cloud of blindness cleared, Mr. Culp was nowhere to be seen. Nor did he show up again until the last test had been made and the party, once more shepherded by Mr. Lane, was on the point of leaving. Then Culp put in a hasty reappearance, coming from the direction of the dressing-rooms, nominated an hour for projecting the tests at the studio the next afternoon, bade a hearty good-bye to each of his guests, and insisted on escorting Lucinda to the door. On the way, however, he managed to detain her and let the others draw ahead and out of hearing. "Lis'n, Mrs. Druce," he abruptly volunteered: "Jack says your test's going to turn out great. That's just what he said--'like a million dollars.' And I been thinkin' ... I was speakin' it over with Mrs. Culp in her dressing-room, d'y'see, and she's strong for it, says she'd be tickled to pieces. She's a wonderful little woman, Mrs. Culp is, she ain't never yet made any mistake about nobody, d'y'see, and she's took the biggest kind a fancy to you, and says tell you she's sure you'll never regret it----" "Please, please, Mr. Culp! You are too good, and it makes me most happy to know Mrs. Culp thinks well of me. But what," Lucinda laughed--"what _are_ you talking about?" "Why," said Culp in some surprise--"I was thinkin' maybe you'd like to try goin' into pitchers. You got everythin', d'y'see, looks and style and all, everythin' but experience; and that's somethin' you can get right here in this studio, workin' with Mrs. Culp. I got a good part for you in her next pitcher you could try out in, and----" "It's awfully kind of you," Lucinda interrupted, "and I'm truly appreciative, Mr. Culp; but really I couldn't think of it." "That right?" Culp seemed to be genuinely dashed. "'Sfunny," he observed dejectedly. "I s'pose you know best what you want to do, but it'd be great little experience for you, take it from me, Mrs. Druce." "I'm sure it would." "And I got a hunch you'd make good all the way. You've got things nobody else on the screen's got but my little woman, d'y'see, and it wouldn't be no time at all, maybe, before you'd be a star with your own company. I'll take care of that, you wouldn't have to worry about the money end of it at all, d'y'see----" "But what if I don't _want_ to be a motion-picture actress, Mr. Culp?" "Well, of course, if you don't, that's different." He pondered gloomily this incomprehensible freak. "Lis'n," he suggested, brightening: "Tell you what, Mrs. Druce: you go home and think it over. You got all night and most of tomorrow--you won't be comin' here to look at the tests till five o'clock, d'y'see--and if you should want to change your mind, I stand back of all I said. All you got to do is say yes, and walk right into a nice part, fit you like a glove, in the next Alma Daley pitcher----" "Seriously, Mr. Culp; if I should think it over for a month, my decision would be the same. But thank you ever so much--and please thank Mrs. Culp for me, too." "Well," Culp said reluctantly, holding the street door, "if that's the way you feel about it ... well, of course.... G'dnight, Mrs. Druce, and pleas't'meet you." The street was dark with a gentle darkness kind to eyes that still ached and smarted. And the frosty air was grateful to one coming from the close atmosphere of the studio, heavy with its composite smell of steam-heated paint and dust and flesh. And crossing to her car, Lucinda experienced a vagary of vivid reminiscence. Just for an instant the clock was turned back for her a dozen years and more, she was again a little girl, a child bringing dazed eyes of dream from the warm and scented romance of a matineé, her thrilled perceptions groping mutinously toward reconciliation with the mysterious verities of streets mantled in blue twilight. That passed too quickly, too soon she was Lucinda Druce once more, grown up and married, disillusioned.... And with a shiver of pain Lucinda realized anew what the afternoon with its unsought boons of novelty and diversion had made her for hours on end forget, the secret dolour of her heart. X Notwithstanding that she drove directly home, or paused only to drop Daubeney at his club and the Lontaines at their hotel, it was after seven when Lucinda regained her rooms and was free at last to be once more her simple self, disembarrassed of the pride and circumstance that stayed the public personality of Mrs. Bellamy Druce. Out of that social character she stepped as naturally as out of her gown, and with much the same sense of relief, in the easing of that tension to which she had been keyed all afternoon. Even at the studio, when interest in that quaint, ephemeral environment of other lives had rendered her forgetful of both self and the passage of time, subconsciously the strain of keeping up appearances had been still constant and made unremitting demands upon her stores of fortitude and nervous energy. But she counted that cost not exorbitant, seeing the immunity it had purchased. Dobbin alone had not been taken in.... She began to be a bit afraid of Dobbin. A danger signal she had the wit to apprehend in its right value. The woman who pretends to be afraid is setting a snare, but she who is truly afraid is herself already in the toils. Dobbin saw too much, too deeply and clearly, and let her know it in a way that not only disarmed resentment but made her strangely willing to let him see more. She to whom reserve was as an article of faith! But if the woman in love with her husband knew she had no right to foster an intimacy, however innocent, with any other man, the woman harassed and half-distracted was too hungry for sympathetic understanding not to be tempted when it offered, grateful for it and disinclined to pass it by. This common life is unending quest for spiritual companionship--and love is the delusion that one has found it. At twenty-six Lucinda was learning what life often takes twice that tale to teach, that though flesh must cleave unto flesh, the soul is lost unless it walk alone, creature and creator in one of its own bleak isolation. In a moment of clear vision she promised herself to go warily with Dobbin.... And in the next, the telephone rang in the boudoir. Lucinda was in her bath, so her maid answered for her, and presently came to report: Mr. Druce had called up to say he wouldn't be dining at home that night, he was detained by a "conference." Without looking, Lucinda knew that the woman's eyes were demure, her lips twitching. Her just anger of that afternoon recurred with strength redoubled. Not that she had been looking forward with any eagerness to the evening, the "quiet" dinner during which Bel would defiantly continue his tippling, the subsequent hours at the opera poisoned by forebodings, the homeward drive in antagonized silence, finally the trite old scene behind closed doors, of the piqued wife and the peccant husband, with its threadbare business of lies, aggrieved innocence, attempts at self-extenuation, ultimate collapse and confession, tears of penitence and empty promises ... and her own spirit failing and in the end yielding to Bel's importunity, out of sheer weariness and want of hope. It had been sad enough to have all that to anticipate. To be left in this fashion, at loose ends, not knowing what to expect, except the worst, was too much. On leaving her bath Lucinda delayed only long enough to shrug into a dressing-gown before going to the telephone. The voice that responded to her call said it thought Mr. Daubeney had just left the club, but if madame would hold the wire it would make sure. She knew a moment of pure exasperation with the evident conspiracy of every circumstance in her despite. Then the apparatus at her ear pronounced in crisp impatience: "Yes? This is Mr. Daubeney. Who wants him, please?" "Oh, Dobbin! I'm so glad." "You, Cinda!" The instantaneous change of tone would have been laughable if it hadn't been worse, the cause of a little flutter of forbidden delight. "Why, bless your soul! I'm glad I came back. They barely caught me at the door." "Were you in a hurry to get on somewhere, Dobbin? I mean, am I detaining you?" "Not a bit. Foolishly staggering out to try to find some place where the cooking was less perfunctory than here at the club." "Sure you've got nothing important on?" "If you must know, I was wondering what to do with a lonely evening." "Then that makes two of us. Why can't we join forces and be miserable together?" "With you? I'll do my best, but I don't promise.... What's up?" "Oh, everything, more or less. I'm in a villainous temper, Dobbin, and you'll be a dear if you'll come and dine with me--Bel's telephoned he won't be home--talk me into a decent humour and take me to the opera. And then--I don't care what we do!" "Well, if you're half as reckless as you try to make out, you certainly need somebody to keep you from kicking over the traces." "Then you will come?" "Stop pretending to be stupid. When?" "As soon as you like." Later, seated at her dressing-table, adding those deft touches whose secret one woman in ten thousand knows, touches which lift an evening toilette out of the ruck of commonplace prettiness and render it wholly sorcerous, Lucinda caught in her mirror an odd look of dubious speculation on the face of the maid who waited by her shoulder. Half an hour earlier such a look would have irritated, now its impertinence had no more effect than to make Lucinda smile illegibly at her image in the glass. What did it matter what questions might be taking form in that shallow mind? If Bel could afford to ignore the gossip of servants, that had its source in knowledge of his escapades no doubt infinitely more detailed and precise than she might ever hope or fear to gain--why, so could Bel's wife afford to go her own way and let this scandal-mongering world go hang. Whether or not she could afford it, she meant henceforward to make her own life--as Bel did, as everybody did--and an end to this drifting with the winds of forlorn and fading hopes. She was too young, too proud, too richly warmed by ardent wine of life, to accept without a murmur affronts and slights such as were now her daily portion, without a struggle reconcile herself to the estate of the outworn wife, tolerated mainly as an ornamental prop to the dignity of the house of Druce. Bel should learn.... Poised lightly before the cheval-glass for the final inspection from head to foot, she perceived that she had never made herself lovelier for Bel; and Dobbin's spontaneous tribute as she entered the drawing-room agreeably confirmed this judgment. "Heavens, Cinda! how do you do it?" "Like the way I look tonight?" "Like! It's unfair, it's premeditated cruelty, monstrous! You ought to be ashamed of yourself to look like that to a man who's having a tough-enough fight with himself as it is." "Fraud," Lucinda commented coolly. "You know you fancy yourself no end in the rôle of the luckless lover, you'd be scared silly if I gave you any reason to fear you'd ever have another part to play." "Try me and see." "No fear. I like you too well as you are. The part fits you to perfection, you do play it beautifully. Please don't ever stop: I love it." "Imp! You need a good shaking. Don't you know you're flirting with me?" "Do you mind?" "Oh, no. Not if it amuses you. Not if you'll play fair." "What do you call unfair?" "For one thing, the way you've turned yourself out tonight." "But only a moment ago you were leading me to believe I'd turned out at least passing fair." Lucinda affected a sigh. "And I was so happy to think I'd found favour!" "I presume the intellectual level would be lowered if I were to say with What's-his-name, '_If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be_'?" But Lucinda, in a pensive turn, shook her head and, eyeing him gravely, murmured: "I wonder...." "What do you wonder, Cinda?" "What you told me last night.... Was it true?" "That I had never stopped being in love with you? God help me! that was true enough, too true." "Then I wonder if it's fair to you, and to me, the way we're going. I mean...." She faltered, with a sign of petulance. "Be patient with me, Dobbin. It isn't easy to figure some things out, you know. I mean, if you _are_ in love with me----" "Forget the 'if'." "And Bel is not.... Oh, no, he isn't! He's in love with the figure he cuts as my lord and master and the dashing beau of every other pretty woman--not with me. Well! since you are and he isn't, and I'm discontented, and so fond of you, Dobbin: _is_ it fair to either of us--because I'm bound to think of you, you know, and can't very well think of you dispassionately...." She concluded with a little shrug and a deprecating smile. "I don't know, Dobbin, I really don't know!" "It isn't fair," he said--"of course--unless--" She nodded seriously: "That's just it." "I can only say, Cinda, whatever you do or say or think is right. It's all for you to decide." "And I'm afraid I can't--not yet, at least. And when I do, I ought to warn you, the chances are I shan't decide the way you want me to." "I know. But don't worry about me. I can take punishment, I've proved that, I think. So do what seems best to you. I'll faithfully follow your lead. I only want to play the game." "And I.... But we both want to be sure it's worth the scandal, don't we, Dobbin?" "You joke about what's life and death to me!" "I did it on purpose, old dear." Lucinda tapped his arm intimately with her fan. "Yes, I did. I don't want you to think, afterwards--if it turns out so you'd be tempted to think it--that I didn't, as you say, play fair. So it's only fair to let you find out as soon as possible that I'm an incurably frivolous person, Dobbin, vain, trifling, flippant, and--I'm afraid--a flirt." "Not you!" "Truly. Haven't I been letting you believe I made myself pretty tonight for your sake? It isn't true, at least not all true. It was for my own sake, really, because we're going to the opera, and everybody I know will see me there, and I want them to know what Bel neglects for his--other women!" From the doorway an unctuous voice announced: "Dinner is served, madam." XI In this newest phase of that day's protean gamut, in this temper of reckless yet cool determination to avenge her pride and coerce life into rendering up all that it had of late withheld, she put every curbing consideration behind, and resolutely set herself for that night at least to live only for the moment and wring from each its ultimate drop of pleasure, to be amused and to be amusing, to make fête and to be fêted. Daubeney, wanting whom all her efforts must have been wasted, for whether she love him or not a woman needs a man in love with her at hand to be at her best--Dobbin was fairly dazzled, not so much by charms of person never more witching as by gay spirits the gayer for this sudden indulgence after long inhibition, by delicate audacity, wit swift, mutable and pungent, and passages of sheer bravura in Lucinda's exposition of the arts of coquetry. The way she flirted with him was something shameful. For the matter of that, never a masculine moth blundered into the Druce box during the entr'actes but flopped dazedly away, wondering what the deuce was the matter with old Bellamy, had he gone absolutely balmy. But Dobbin in his capacity of cavalier servente suffered more than anybody, for she took an impish delight in luring him beyond his depth and then leaving him to flounder out as best he might. "See here!" he reminded her indignantly as the curtain rose on the last act of _Louise_--"you promised to play fair." Lucinda arched mocking brows above round eyes. "Don't call this sort of thing keeping your word, do you?" "Aren't you having a good time, Dobbin dear?" In the half-light of the box Lucinda leaned slightly toward him, and her delicious voice dripped sympathy. "I'm so sorry, I've been trying so hard not to bore you." "I didn't say I was bored. I ain't--I'm being plagued by a heartless young she-devil that ought to be spanked and sent to bed. Damn it, Cinda! you not only ought to, you do know better. You know _I_ take it seriously. But you--you're merely playing." "But with fire--eh, Dobbin?" "You know that, too." "And you're warning me lest I get singed?" Lucinda contrived to look a little awed. "How thoughtful!" "Don't make me out a greater dunce than I am." "Meaning you don't think I'm in any danger of getting scorched, carrying on with you?" "Worse luck!" "Dobbin: have you been deceiving me, aren't you the least bit inflammable, after all?" "You know jolly well I took fire years ago and have never since managed to get the conflagration under control. Isn't ladylike to put the bellows to flames you don't mean to quench." "How appallingly technical! But you do sputter so entertainingly, Dobbin--burning under forced draught, I presume you'd say, with your passion for riding a metaphor till it flounders--I'm not sure I'd care to see you quenched; I hate to think of you being put out with me." "You play with words precisely as you play with me." "You think so? Well, perhaps, but--Dobbin--don't be too sure. Think how sad it would be if you were to find out, too late, you'd been mistaken, you'd meant more to me than words could tell, more than you knew." Over this equivoque Dobbin shook a baffled head; and Lucinda laughed, glanced carelessly toward the stage to make sure that the act still was young, and offered to rise. "Let's not stay any longer, Dobbin, or we'll be caught in the carriage jam. Let's trot along and have a good time." "What's the next jump?" "To the Palais Royal." Dobbin uttered an involuntary sound of dissent. "Why not? Julie Allingham wants us to join her party--says everybody goes there nowadays, and it's desperately rowdy and loads of fun--said to ask for her box and make ourselves at home if we got there before she did." Mrs. Allingham was not one of Daubeney's favorites. A persevering body, with a genius for trading in last season's husband for the latest model, gifted likewise with incurable impudence and poverty of tact, both of which she was clever enough to veneer with vivacity and exploit as whimsical idiosyncrasies, she failed to measure up to his notion of the type of woman with whom Lucinda ought to be seen. He had been civil, no more, when she had danced into the box during the first entr'acte to make a public fuss over her darling Cindy, and then--engaged in small-talk by Julie's satellites, two sleek but otherwise featureless bloods--had failed to hear her invitation; and Julie had carefully forgotten to remind him of it on taking her leave. So Daubeney wasn't pleased as he helped Lucinda with her wraps; and she read disgruntlement in his silence and constraint. "You don't want to go, Dobbin? With me? Why?" "With you, anywhere. But...." He mustered an unconvincing grin. "Oh, it's all right, of course. But Julie Allingham--you know--really!" Lucinda's mouth tightened, for an instant her eyes held a sullen light. "How tiresome! You sound just like Bel. How often have I heard him use almost the same words: 'Julie Allingham--you know--really!'" "Sorry," Dobbin said stiffly. "What's the matter with Julie Allingham?" Lucinda demanded in a pet. "She's amusing, I like her." "Then there's nothing more to be said." "Oh, you're all alike, you, Bel, and all the rest of you!" "Think so?" "What if Julie has made history of a few husbands? At least, she's been honest about her changes of heart; when she tired of one, she got rid of him legally before taking on another. I call that more decent treatment than most men give their wives." "Never having had a wife, can't argue." "Oh, you sound more like Bel every minute! Do come along." All at once her succès had evaporated into thin air, the flavour of it, that had been so sweet, had gone flat, like champagne too long uncorked. And all (she thought) because Dobbin with his stupid prejudices had reminded her of Bel! It began to seem as if there might have been more truth than she had guessed in her assertion that men were all alike in their attitude toward women, toward their wives and toward--the others. But if that were so (surely she wasn't the first to glimpse an immortal truth) why did women ever marry? And why, in the name of reason! having once worried through the ordeal of having a husband, did any woman ever repeat an experiment which experience should have taught her was predestined to prove a failure? She emerged from a brown study to find herself in the car, with Dobbin at her side watching her thoughtfully. "Cross with me, Cinda?" With an effort Lucinda shrugged out of her ill-humour. "No, of course not. With myself, rather, for being a silly. Dobbin: you're a dear." "I know," he agreed with comic complacence; "but it doesn't get me anywhere." "You're not very flattering. I don't tell every man he's a dear." "I'm wondering what the term means to you." "It means a great deal." "But what are the privileges and appurtenances of a dear's estate in your esteem? Does it carry the right to take liberties?" "It might be worth your while to try and find out." "Well.... It's been a question in my mind ever since last night, and something you said just now.... Is the inference justified, you and Druce aren't getting along too well?" "Oh, do stop reminding me of Bel! I do so want to forget him for tonight." "Then it's worse than I thought." "It's worse than anybody thinks that doesn't know, Dobbin." "So he hasn't changed...." "How do you mean?" "Why, I used to know Bellamy pretty well, pal around with him and that sort of thing...." "No," said Lucinda slowly, eyes straight ahead--"if you mean what I mean, Bel hasn't changed." "Then...." Daubeney found a hand which Lucinda resigned to his without a struggle. "As a man who truly loves you, dear, and always has, I think the right is mine to ask yet another question: What are you going to do?" She shook her head dolefully: "I don't know yet." "You said last night you were still in love...." "Last night it was true." "But today----?" "I don't know." "I won't ask you what has happened, Cinda----" "Please don't. I don't want to talk about it." "Only I must know one thing: Is there anyone else--with you, I mean?" Lucinda met those devoted eyes honestly. "No, Dobbin, I'm sorry--not even you...." "Then that's all right. No need for either of us to worry. You'll come through with flying colours. Only, don't do anything in haste, and right or wrong, count on me." Lucinda gave his fingers a friendly pressure and disengaged her hand. "Dear Dobbin," she said gently. The car was pulling in toward a corner. XII Though they had left the Metropolitan long before the final curtain, on Broadway the midnight tidal bore of motor traffic was even then gathering way and volume, the first waves of after-theatre patrons were washing the doorsteps of those sturdy restaurants which had withstood the blast of Prohibition, the foyer of the Palais Royal already held a throng of some proportions. In this omnium-gatherum of confirmed New Yorkers and self-determined suburbicides, arrayed in every graduation of formal, semi-formal and informal dress, and drawn together by the happy coup of that year's press-agent in heralding the establishment as a favorite resort of what the Four Million still styles its Four Hundred, the women stood grouped in their wraps and wistfully watching their men-folk importune a headwaiter who was heroically holding the staircase against all-comers, passing only the fore-handed in the matter of reservations, and putting all others to ignominious rout with the standardized statement that there was not a table upstairs left untaken. At first glance, the huge main room on the second story, with its serried semicircles of tables and its flamboyant colour scheme, seemed less frequented by clients than by waiters; but the influx of the former was constant, and when, shortly after Lucinda and Daubeney had been seated, a gang of incurable melomaniacs crashed, blared and whanged into a jazz fox-trot, the oval dance floor was quickly hidden by swaying couples. For some minutes Lucinda sat looking out over without seeing these herded dancers, only aware of the shifting swirl of colour and the hypnotic influence of savage music, her thoughts far from this decadent adaptation of jungle orgies which she had come to witness. And presently a smile began to flicker in the depths of her eyes. "Oh!" she said, rousing when Daubeney uttered a note of interrogation--"I was thinking about this afternoon, remembering that funny little man moping and mowing in his magnificent delusion that he was conducting an orchestra." "It was amusing, illuminating, too. One begins to understand why the movies are what they are. If I'm not mistaken, the author of that asinine exhibition is rated as one of the ablest directors in the business." Lucinda quoted Mr. Lane's eulogy of King Laughlin. "Well, there you are," Dobbin commented. "I presume genius must be humoured in its poses; even so, I saw nothing in Laughlin's directing to offset the silliness of his performance with the orchestra. I should say the business is poorly organized that permits men of his calibre, with so little sense of balance, to hold positions of absolute authority." "You don't think Mr. Lane may have exaggerated Mr. Laughlin's importance----" "Perhaps; though he was honoured with suspicious reverence by everybody present." "Except Mr. Culp." "Well, yes; Culp didn't seem so much overpowered. All the same, I noticed he didn't attempt to call Laughlin to order." "But possibly the man _is_ a genius. He seemed to know what he was about when he was showing them how to play that scene." "I'll admit his grasp of primary mechanics; but the scene as he built it would have been ridiculous in the theatre." "But it wasn't for a theatre, it was for the movies." "Precisely my point. Why should motion-picture plays be less plausibly done than plays on the stage? The American theatre outgrew 'Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model' long before motion-pictures were seriously thought of; I mean, American audiences outgrew such trash. Yet today our movies are shaped on identically the lines of the popular melodrama that was laughed off the boards a generation ago. There's something wrong." For some reason which Lucinda didn't stop to analyze, Daubeney's arguments stirred up a spirit of contentiousness. "At all events, Mr. and Mrs. Culp seemed satisfied." "Two people who have made a huge lot of money in an astonishingly short time: it isn't likely they'd be disposed to interfere with the system that enriched them, even allowing that they are sensible of its defects." Lucinda caught herself frowning, then had the grace to laugh. "Can't make me believe they're lacking in artistic appreciation, Dobbin." "Why not?" "You don't know about the handsome offer Mr. Culp made me, with his wife's approval, just as we were going away." It was Dobbin's turn to frown. "What kind of an offer?" he demanded shortly. "To become a movie actress under the Culp banner, a sister-in-art to Alma Daley." Daubeney ejaculated "What for?" with an expression of such utter dumbfounderment that Lucinda gasped with stifled mirth, then gave way to outright laughter. "You're awfully funny, Dobbin! And they thought they were paying me a compliment." But Daubeney would not see the fun of it. "Do you mean to tell me that fellow Culp actually had the impertinence----" "Oh, come!" Lucinda's amusement subsided. "It wasn't so bad as all that. Mr. Culp was most kind, at least he meant to be. He said he, his wife and his cameraman--whose opinion he values more highly than any director's--all agreed I had shown a great deal of promise; and that, if I cared to try it on, he'd be glad to give me a good part in Miss Daley's next picture, and if I made good in that he'd form a company to star me." "What rot!" "Dobbin!" "They're trying to work you----" "But, my dear! isn't it barely possible Mr. Culp was sincere?" "The thing's absurd on the face of it." "Isn't that a matter of opinion?" "It's a characteristic scheme to exploit you to Alma Daley's profit, to get her a lot of publicity on the cheap by letting the newspapers announce that Mrs. Bellamy Druce is going to act in her support." "You won't admit, then," Lucinda persisted, nettled, "I may possibly have some latent ability as a motion-picture actress?" "It doesn't matter. The proposition is a piece of--of preposterous impudence. What did you say to Culp?" With countenance half averted, Lucinda said coldly: "My dear Dobbin: do you realize you're being rude?" He was all contrition. "Oh, I'm sorry, Cinda, if I let my indignation on your behalf----" "Gratuitous, you'll admit." Daubeney reddened and swallowed hard. "I repeat: I didn't mean to offend. I apologize." "Very well, Dobbin. Let's say no more about it." But Lucinda's tone lacked friendliness, and the eyes were visibly sulky that, refusing to recognize his pleading, blindly surveyed the milling riot of dancers. The silence that fell between them, like a curtain of muffling folds, was presently emphasized by an abrupt suspension of the music. When Daubeney could endure it no longer, he broke it with a question, the most impolitic conceivable: "You didn't tell me what answer you gave Culp, Cinda?" "Didn't I? But I'm sure it doesn't matter." To himself, but half-aloud, Dobbin groaned: "Oh, the devil!" But his manifest penitence earned him no more than a show of restoration to favour. The heart in Lucinda's bosom felt hot and hard and heavy with chagrin, she had banked so confidently on Dobbin's sympathy.... He might be truly in love with her, she hadn't much doubt that he was, but the understanding she had counted on was denied her, the sense of security in his affection was no more. She felt cruelly bereft, more desolate than at any time since the breach with Bel had begun to seem unbridgeable. It made no difference that she knew this feeling was unfair to both, that its childishness was clear to her whom it victimized the most. The day-long drain upon her emotions was inexorably exacting its due. With no more provocation than a sting of puerile pique, she had lost her temper, and all her efforts to retrieve it seemed unavailing. She felt broken, beaten, and very tired, she wanted to creep away to bed and cry herself asleep. Yet she must somehow find strength to hold up, or forfeit self-respect, she dared not confess the stuff of her spirit as mean as her heart's. She shook herself impatiently.... At the same time the band rewarded tireless hand-clapping by again breaking loose in blasts of delirious cacophony, and Lucinda pushed back her chair. "Don't let's talk any more for a while, Dobbin--I'd rather dance." Descending the several steps from the box level to the common, they threaded their way through a jam of tables to the fringe of the dance-mad mob, in whose closely-packed, rocking and surging rout considerable imagination and ingenuity were required to find room. Nevertheless Daubeney adroitly created a space where none had been, and swinging smoothly away, they became one with and lost in the crush, their progress of necessity slow but amazingly easy, for Daubeney led with grace and skill. Lucinda tried to forget her vexation in watching the faces of their fellow dancers and their styles, a diversion which seldom failed to flood her being, even when she was saddest, with sweetness and light. All about them couples were practising every conceivable variety of step that could be executed to the rhythm beaten out by tireless drums whose timbre had all the grim and weirdly stimulating monotony of African tom-toms. Many contented themselves with a solemn, wellnigh ritualistic jigging by means of which they traversed the floor crab-wise, inch by inch. Others charged short distances at headlong speed, checked short, whirled madly, darted and swooped again with incredible agility, in a sort of corybantic frenzy. Still others favoured a tedious twirling, like amorous dervishes. Yet there were strangely few collisions.... Young things drifted by with faces buried in the shoulders of their partners, whether for shame or in somnambulism it was impossible to say. Those who are always with us, locked as in a death-grapple, ploughed doggedly along with tense mouths and rapt eyes. Couples whose mutual passion was stronger than feminine regard for the most carefully composed complexion, moved as one, her cheek glued to his. Portly and bedizened dowagers wore set smiles on lips that moved to inaudible counting, and their paid partners, professional young male dancers, that patient yet abstracted expression that tells of bandaged, swollen feet. Little girls who apparently should have been at home, getting a good night's rest in preparation for a long school-day tomorrow, lifted up unformed, flower faces breathlessly to the hard, mature faces of the vulpine men who held them. Lucinda saw those to whom this was adventure, those to whom it was romance, those to whom it was physical agony, and those to whom it was a source of soul-destroying ennui. She smelt the breath of sticky bodies and the cloying perfumes in which the optimistic reposed mistaken faith. And all her movements were, like theirs, measured by the swing of that giggling, grunting, whistling, clanging, moaning band.... Suddenly she knew she had had enough. "It's too crowded," she told Dobbin; and he nodded agreement. "Shall we stop when we get around to our box?" Without warning more than a smothered cry of alarm in a woman's voice, Lucinda was struck by a wildly careering body with such force that she lost footing altogether and must have fallen but for Dobbin, who instantly tightened his hold and braced himself against the dead drag of her weight, this though the shock of collision almost carried him off his own feet. Simultaneously the floor shook with the impact of two heavy falls. And clinging to Dobbin, a little dazed, Lucinda saw a strikingly pretty young woman, stunningly undressed, sprawling at her feet, and at a yard's distance a man in similar plight. Derisive cackles and guffaws of clowns broke out on all sides, a space was cleared round the unfortunates. "Are you all right, Cinda?" Dobbin asked. She nodded and tried to smile. "Sure you're not hurt?" She shook her head vigorously, and by way of proof stood out of his arms, but swayed dizzily and, with a little apologetic laugh, caught at one of them again. "All right," Dobbin said hastily. "Let's get out of this." "No--wait!" Lucinda insisted. "Perhaps she's hurt." She brushed his arm aside, only to discover that the overthrown woman had regained her feet, and now stood watching her partner in shrewish fury as, grinning foolishly, he scrambled up. "You clumsy dumb-bell!" she stormed in a rasping voice that must have carried clearly half across the room. "I hope to Gawd I got enough sense not to dance with you again when you're pickled!" And catching her first glimpse of the man's crimson face, Lucinda yielded all at once to Daubeney's insistence. But she never quite knew how they got back to their table. XIII But even with the three sides of the box affording their false show of privacy, it never entered Lucinda's head to sit down and pretend nothing had happened, the instinct to fly at once from this theatre of disgrace was still predominant. Only for a moment she rested standing, while her eyes, darkly dilate, sought Daubeney's, which held a look of such heart-broken regret that they won a compassionate smile even in her hour of affliction, and somehow helped Lucinda pull together the rent and draggled garment of her dignity. "At least," she said quietly, "Julie Allingham isn't here--thank Heaven for that! You saw him, of course?" Dobbin made a vague gesture of sympathy: "Frightfully sorry...." Lucinda shrugged. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault, it was I who insisted on coming here." Her gaze veered to the floor; but the dancers had already swarmed over and abolished the break in their ranks, and though she looked beyond the sea of bobbing heads, to right and left, reviewing all she could see of the room, Bellamy was nowhere in sight. "I presume we couldn't have been mistaken...." Dobbin ventured half-heartedly. "No: it was Bel." "Hoped we might have been misled by a resemblance. Somehow the poor devil didn't look quite like Bellamy." "He's apt to look not quite like himself when he is--as the pretty lady with him so delicately put it--'pickled.'" "Think he knew you?" "Oh, yes; I saw him look directly at me just before we turned away." Lucinda took up her wrap. "If you'll help me with this, Dobbin, I think I'd like to go." "Afraid I'll have to ask you to wait a minute or two. I've got these to pay for...." Daubeney indicated the untasted glasses of lemonade they had ordered. "I've sent for our waiter." "Then if you don't mind, I'll go ahead. Let me have the carriage check, and I'll wait in the car." Daubeney surrendered the pasteboard slip, and Lucinda went out. The passageway behind the boxes enabled her to gain the entrance without running the gauntlet of the floor, and she descended the stairs with her head slightly lowered, in panic hope that she might thereby escape recognition if bad luck would have it that she must meet Julie Allingham. But she was spared that misfortune. At the street door she gave the attendant the carriage-check together with a coin. "And hurry, please!" The man saluted respectfully and vanished. She waited restlessly just inside the glass doors till the reflection that every second was making an encounter with the Allingham woman more certain drove her out to the street; a move which she found immediate reason to repent. Only a few feet away Bellamy stood with an affectionate arm round the shoulder of the door-porter, greatly to the seeming embarrassment of that monumental personage and the amusement of the street. A knot of grinning bystanders had already begun to gather. Bel's derby was perilously perched, his overcoat, donned in haste, was poorly settled on his shoulders, though he had contrived to worry two buttons through the wrong buttonholes, and he was explaining, unconsciously to everybody within a wide radius, the personal service he required in return for the ten-dollar bill which he was waving beneath the porter's nose. "Now, lishn, Jim.... Do' mind my callin' you Jim, do you, ol' scout?... Get thish straight: M'wife's here t'night 'nd I don' want her know I wash here, shee? If she don' know I wash here, she's got nothin' on me, nothin' 'tall, shee? So you don' know me, you never heard of me, shee?" "Yes, Mr. Druce." "'Caush it's this way: if she's got nothin' on me, I'm all right, 'nd I got somethin' on her. Believe me, Jim, I got good 'nd plenty on her t'night. She's here with man I know and don' like, man I got no ush for at all--shee?--no ush whatever. Ain't that limit, jush like woman? Insist you gotta walk chalk-mark, but minute your back'sh turned, what they do? Go off on private lil parties all their own, that'sh sort of thing they do!..." Panting and sick with mortification, Lucinda turned from the sound of that babbling voice of a fool--and heard her own name pronounced. "The car is here, Mrs. Druce." In a wild stare she identified the face of her chauffeur, saw that he understood the situation and was anxious to be helpful. "Wait," she quavered. And then by a miracle of will-power she managed to master her nerves and, putting aside her horror and humiliation, took thought quickly and clearly. "All I wan' you to do ish remember, if Mishish Druce asks if you've seen me, you never heard of me, don' know me 'tall--shee, Jim, shee what I mean?" As Lucinda drew near the porter must have guessed who she was, for he spoke to Bellamy in a low voice, and the latter swung round with startled eyes and a dropping jaw. She closed her fingers on his wrist and put all her strength into their grasp. "Come, Bel," she said clearly and not unkindly. "Please don't keep me waiting. The car is here, we're going home." For a moment the balance wavered, then Bel's eyes fell, and she knew she had won. "Oh, a'right," he mumbled with strange docility. "Didn' know you were waitin', Linda. Get ri' in the car--be with you in jush a minute." "No," she said firmly--"you're coming with me now." She drew him away. He yielded without remonstrance, permitted her to lead him to the door of the car, stumbled in on his knees, and crawled up to the seat. Lucinda followed, the door closed behind her with a clap sweeter than music in her hearing, and with purring gears the car shot out of range of those leering faces. Lucinda had forgotten Dobbin as utterly as if she had never known him. Bellamy lay in a loose slouch, breathing heavily. The passing lights revealed the stupidity of his congested features. His eyes were half-closed, he seemed to be asleep. Cringing as far away from him as she could, Lucinda dug nails into her palms to keep from giving over body and mind to the dominion of hysteria. She saw nothing of the streets through which they passed, knew no thought other than to preserve her self-control. When at length the car stopped, she jumped out and, leaving Bellamy to the care of the chauffeur and footman, ran up to her room. The maid waiting there she dismissed for the night in half a dozen words whose decision sent the woman from her in astonishment. Alone, her first move was to secure the door communicating with Bel's rooms. Then she threw herself upon the bed and lay listening to the noise on the stairway of voices and stumbling feet. The door between the hall and Bel's rooms banged. She heard him maundering incoherently to his valet for a time, a long time; the valet seemed to be trying to make him listen to reason and failing in the end. The neck of a decanter chattered against the rim of a glass, there was a lull in the murmur of voices, then a thick cry and the thud of a fall. After that the quiet was little disturbed by the valet's labours with the body of the drunkard. Eventually the man went out and closed the door. In the subsequent silence the clock downstairs chimed twelve. Lucinda rose then, and changed to her simplest street suit. For half an hour or so she was busy at desk and dressing-table, packing a checque book and her jewels with other belongings in a small handbag. She did not falter once or waste a single move through indecision. Indeed, it did not once occur to her that there was anything to be done but what she meant to do. Shortly after one o'clock she left Bel snoring, crept down the stairs and with infinite stealth let herself out to the street. Nobody saw her go, neither did she hesitate as she turned her back upon the home that had till then held for her every precious thing in life. XIV Spurred by irrational fear lest Bellamy wake up, discover her flight, and give chase, Lucinda made in haste for Fifth avenue; but had not taken half a dozen steps when a cab slid up to the curb by her side, its driver with two fingers to his cap soliciting a fare. He seemed Heaven-sent. Lucinda breathed the first address that came to mind--"Grand Central, please"--hopped in, and shrank fearfully away from the windows. On second thought, the destination she had named seemed a sensible choice. Any one of the several hotels which tapped the railroad terminal by subway would take her in for the night. In the morning she would be better able to debate her next step. At present she felt hopelessly incapable of consecutive thought. At the station a negro porter with a red cap opened the cab door and took possession of her single piece of luggage, and when she had paid off the taxi and looked to him in indecision, prompted her with: "What train was yo' wishin' to tek, ma'm?" An instant later Lucinda was wondering why she had replied: "The first train for Chicago, please." She knew no reason why she should have named Chicago rather than any other city where she was unknown and where, consequently, she might count on being free to think things out in her own time and fashion. "Ain't no Chicago train befo' eight-fo'ty-five tomorrow mawnin', ma'm." "Very well. I'll go to a hotel for tonight." "Yes'm. W'ich hotel, Commodo', Biltmo', Belmont?" Lucinda settled on the Commodore, because it was the largest of the three and she would be lost in the multitude of its patrons. She registered as _Mrs. L. Druce_, _Chicago_, and, before proceeding to her room, arranged to have the head porter purchase her ticket and reservation the first thing in the morning. Some hours later she was awakened by a cramp in one of her arms and found that she had fallen asleep while sitting on the edge of her bed. In a daze she finished undressing, and sleep again overwhelmed her like a dense, warm, obliterating cloud. It seemed but a minute or two before she was being scolded awake by the shrewish tongue of the telephone by the head of the bed, to hear a dispassionate voice recite the information that it was seven o'clock, the hour at which she had asked to be called. She felt as if she had not slept at all. Again, in the train, the aching misery of heart and mind could not prevent her nodding and drowsing all morning long; and after a meal of railroad food by way of luncheon, she gave up trying to stave off the needs of a highly organized nature fatigued by inordinate strains, called the porter, had him make up the lower berth in her drawing-room, and went to bed. In the neighborhood of midnight she woke up to discover, first by peering out under the edge of the window-shade at concrete platforms bleakly blue and bare in the glare of unseen lamps, then by consulting a timetable, that the train was in Cleveland. As it pulled out again, she resigned herself to the inescapable. Rested, her mind clear and active, and with nothing to do but think for eight hours more, she must go down into the hell appointed. Nor was she spared any portion of its torments. Successively and in concert, vanity wounded to the quick, sickening self-pity, and implacable, grinding regret laid hold on her heart and soul and worried them till she had to bury her face in the pillow and sink her teeth into it to keep from screaming. It was cruel enough to have loved and lost, but to have lost and still to love seemed punishment intolerable. The shameful knowledge that body and spirit still hungered for the man who had served both so shabbily ate into her amour-propre like a corrosive acid. To her agonized imagination she figured in the semblance of a leaf harassed by that high wind of fatality which latterly had swept into and through her life with Bel, driving them asunder; a leaf torn from the homely branch that had given it life and nurtured it, a leaf hunted helplessly into strange ways and corners, even now being hounded on and on.... And to what end?... She burned with resentment of her persecution by those unknown powers whose ill-will she had not wittingly done anything to invite, she writhed in the exasperation bred of her impotence to placate them or withstand their oppression. A lull fell at last in the transports of her passion, she lay quite still, and her mind too grew calm in awareness of the quiet, resolute mustering of all her forces to wrest from malicious chance and circumstance the right to live a life of her own choosing; as if her soul, drawing strength from new-found knowledge of its indestructible integrity, lifted up its head and with calm eyes challenged Fate. Her paroxysms were now spent and ended, the past had been put definitely behind her, it was with the future alone that she had need to be concerned. She addressed herself to the task of taking stock of Lucinda Druce, the woman all alone, her condition and resources, and of trying to map out for her a new and independent existence that would prove somehow livable. If she had not succeeded in this undertaking when the train breathed its last weary puffs under the echoing glass canopy of the La Salle Street station, success was not forfeited, it was but deferred. There was so much to be taken into consideration, she could not yet see further than tomorrow, if so far. Certain immediate steps were indicated to her intelligence as requisite and reasonable; whither they would lead she could by no means guess. Bred on the Atlantic seaboard, she knew more of Europe than of the United States west of the Alleghenies. Chicago to her was a city that once had burned to the ground because a cow kicked over a lighted lamp; a city famous for great winds, something known as "the Loop," something hardly less problematic called "stock-yards." The name of a hotel, too, the Blackstone, had found lodgment in her memory. The short drive in a yellow taxicab from the station to the hotel through a labyrinth of back streets a-brawl with traffic, failed to register any impressions other than of cobblestones, blasphemous truck drivers, street-cars pounding and clanging, begrimed buildings, endless columns of self-absorbed footfarers. The hotel itself seemed in grateful contrast, it might have been one of her own New York. Only the view from her rooms, many stories above the street, of a public park bleached, frost-bitten, desolate, and slashed by a black railroad cutting, and beyond this a vast expanse of tumbled waters, slate-grey flecked with white, blending with a grim grey sky, drove home the fact that her first uncertain gropings toward a new life were to be framed in a foreign, and to her perceptions an unfriendly, environment. But she turned from the window with the light of battle in her eyes. Nature was wasting its effects, she was not to be disheartened by an ill-dispositioned day. After breakfast she went out to do a little necessary shopping, and spent the morning and most of her cash in hand as well in department stores which she was unreasonably surprised to find differed not materially from establishments of the same character in the East, save in the crowds that thronged them, drab rivers of people persistently strange in her sight. But the experience served to remind her that she had more material problems to solve than those provided by her inner life. She found herself running short of ready money and with a checque-book valueless unless she were willing to prove her identity as the wife of Bellamy Druce. She thought of telegraphing old Harford Willis, who had been her father's close friend, legal adviser, and executor of his estate, as he was today steward of Lucinda's. But he could not be expected to understand a peremptory demand for money in Lucinda's name, from a city which he had no reason to believe she had ever even thought of visiting, without explanations too lengthy and intimate for transmission by telegraph. The alternative was to write him, and that meant a long, full letter, for (Lucinda suddenly discovered) Willis was the one man in the world whom she could safely and freely confide in, consult and trust. She did not even remember Dobbin's pretensions to such standing with her. In the first twenty-four hours of her flight from Bellamy she had not thought of Daubeney once. Now, when she thought of him at all, it was as of some revenant of kindly countenance from a half-forgotten dream. She spent most of the afternoon composing her letter and despatched it after dinner, a rather formidable manuscript under a special delivery stamp. After that there was nothing to do but fold her hands and commend her soul to patience. Three eventless days dropped out of her history. The dreary weather held, there was rain and snow, gales like famished banshees pounded and yammered at the hotel windows. She seldom ventured into the streets, even for exercise. She read a great many novels purchased at the hotel news-stand, or pretended to, for her mind refused as a general thing to travel with the lines of print. Her most exciting diversion lay in reviewing and enlarging the list of things she meant to buy as soon as she was able. And one afternoon she went to see Alma Daley in her latest production (not "The Girl in the Dark," of course, it was too soon for that) at a motion-picture theatre near the hotel. She came away confirmed in her belief that Miss Daley was an unusually attractive and capable young mistress of pantomime. But the picture-play itself had seemed frightfully dull stuff. Indeed, Lucinda had experienced considerable difficulty in following its thread of plot, and sat it out only because of her personal interest in the actress. Returning to her rooms possessed by memories of that afternoon she had spent at the studios of Culp Cinemas Inc., the last afternoon of her life as Bellamy's wife, she wondered, not with any great interest, how her tests had turned out, what the others, Dobbin and Jean and Nelly, and Fanny Lontaine and her husband, had thought of them; whether any one had known or guessed the reason for her absence, when they had gathered in Culp's projection-room for the showing; whether any one had cared. Dobbin had cared, of course. At least, Dobbin had believed he cared. So had Lucinda, then.... How long ago it seemed! XV INEXPRESSIBLY SHOCKED ARRIVING TO-MORROW WILL CALL ON YOU TEN A M MEANWHILE BANK OF MICHIGAN WILL SUPPLY YOU WITH FUNDS IN ANY AMOUNT YOU MAY REQUIRE IF YOU WILL BE PLEASED TO IDENTIFY YOURSELF TO MR. SOUTHARD THERE. The author of this telegram, which was delivered on the morning of Lucinda's fifth day in Chicago, was punctual to the minute of his appointment; otherwise he would hardly have been the rectilinear gentleman of the frock-coat school that he was. Notwithstanding that Harford Willis was pledged to a code of morals and manners vinted in the early Eighteen-Eighties, and so implacably antagonistic to the general trend of present-day thought on the divorce question, his great affection for Lucinda predisposed him to allow that the course she had taken with Bellamy had been the only one his conduct had left open to her. On the other hand he was unhappily unable to hide the disconcertion inspired by the simple gladness of her greeting, the spontaneity of which was in such marked contrast to his own well-composed demeanour of honorary pall-bearer at a fashionable funeral. "If you only knew how good it is to see a friendly face for the first time in a whole week!" "But, my dear Lucinda," Willis intoned deliberately in his well-modulated voice of a public speaker, "I must say you seem to be bearing up remarkably well, all things considered, re-mark-ably well." "I've stopped howling and drumming the floor with my heels," Lucinda admitted--"if that's what you mean. When I found it didn't do any good, I gave it up, and I've felt more cheerful ever since." "Cheerful!" Willis repeated in a sepulchral voice. "More like an average human being who's been horribly hurt but who can't see why life should be counted a total loss for all that; less like the wronged wife in a movie, mugging at a camera." "But, my poor child! how you must have suffered." "Let's not talk about that, please," Lucinda begged. "It only makes me vindictive to remember; and I don't want to feel that way about Bel, I don't want to be unjust. It's bad enough to have to be just." "Must you?" Willis asked, shaking a commiserative head. "Yes." Lucinda met his skeptical old eyes with eyes of clear candour. "Absolutely," she added with a finality not to be discredited. Willis sighed heavily, released her hand, sat down, and meticulously adjusted the knees of striped grey trousers. "I will confess I had hoped to find you of another mind." "I'm sorry. Please don't think me hard or unforgiving, but ... I've had plenty of time to mull things over, you know; and _I_ know I couldn't consider going back to Bel, no matter what he might be ready to promise. Bel can't keep a promise, not that kind, at least." "I feel sure you wrong him there; it's true I don't know your husband as well as I know you, my dear, but I assure you that amongst men he has the reputation of a man of honour." "Man of honour meaning, I presume, one who won't cheat another man but will cheat a woman." "Oh, come! that's a bit sweeping." "The men who know Bel know how he's been treating me--all New York knows! If he treated them as treacherously, would they call him a man of honour?" Willis gave a vague gesture of deprecation, and Lucinda laughed a little, but not in mirth. "Women are at least more honest among themselves; if a woman knows another who isn't playing fair with her husband, she either keeps quiet about it or calls her a cat, and lets it go at that--she doesn't call her a woman of honour." "You don't think it would be worth while," Willis suggested as one in duty bound, "to forgive Bellamy, give him another chance?" "I don't know I've got anything to forgive him, Mr. Willis. Bel did the best he could. And that's the whole trouble. Why should I forgive him for being true to himself? It's myself I can't forgive, because I was silly enough to let him go on as long as I did, making me a laughing-stock.... Besides, I'm not so sure it's good for us to be forgiven our sins; we're all such vain creatures, we're too apt to take forgiveness as a license to misbehave still more.... Don't you see?" "I see you are beginning to formulate a philosophy of life." "Isn't it about time?" "You will need it, my dear, if you mean to fight this out alone. Philosophy is good medicine only for lonely hearts. The others it merely hardens." Lucinda eyed Willis sharply. "Bel has been to see you." "He looked me up," Willis admitted in mild surprise, "two days after your disappearance, thinking you might have communicated with me. Of course, I could tell him nothing. But how did you know----?" "That suggestion, the underlying thought that I might not be intending to fight out my fight alone--that originated with Bel, didn't it?" "Well!" Willis stammered, trying to smile disarmingly--"I confess----" "It wasn't enough, of course, that I should have found Bel out for the dozenth time, there had to be a lover in _my_ background to account for my leaving _him_! Did he mention any name?" Willis made a negative sign. "Bellamy didn't imply--he merely said he was afraid----" "It doesn't matter. What else did he have to say?" "He seemed most remorseful----" "I know how remorseful Bel can seem." "And determined----" "In what way?" "To find you----" "He'd only be wasting his time." "He spoke of employing detectives to trace you, when I assured him I knew nothing of your whereabouts and that when--and if--I did hear from you, I would necessarily be guided by your wishes." "Thank you," said Lucinda. "It wouldn't do Bel any good to see me; it would only irritate him to find I could hold out against a plea he made in person." "I understand," Willis agreed; and then with a quizzical look: "You seem to know your own mind, young woman; so I shan't attempt to advise you. But would you mind telling me what you have decided to do?" "I shall divorce Bel, of course." "You don't think it might be advisable to wait a while? It makes me very sad to think of you in relation to divorce proceedings. But then, of course, I belong to a generation that viewed divorce in a different light." Lucinda was silent. "Ah, well!" Willis sighed, and renounced hope then and there--"if you must, you must, I presume; and I will do my best to serve your wishes, my dear. Only tell me how...." "Why, naturally, I want to get it over with as quickly and quietly as possible, with the minimum amount of public scandal." "Then you won't sue in New York State." "Why not?" "Its laws recognize only one ground for absolute divorce." "No," Lucinda concluded thoughtfully; "I'd rather not drag others into the case, I'd rather get my freedom, if I can, without making anybody unhappy, more than us two." "The laws of the State of Nevada are most liberal. But it would be necessary for you to establish a legal residence by living in Reno for, I believe, six months." "I suppose that's unavoidable." "I will look up the most reputable firm of lawyers there, and recommend you to them. If you find yourself in need of other advice, write or telegraph me and I will come out to confer with you." "I hope I won't have to impose on your kindness to that extent." Willis blinked, removed the gold-rimmed pince-nez of his fading day, and polished the lenses with a silk handkerchief. "I should not consider it an imposition, but a privilege, Lucinda. I can think of nothing I wouldn't do for your father's daughter, or for yours, if you had one." "Thank God I haven't!" "I'm afraid I can't say Amen to that. But then, as I have already remarked, I am in many respects a survival, an interesting one, I trust, but a survival none the less, of a conservative-minded generation." He replaced the glasses. "Is there anything else, my dear? If so, we can take it up over our luncheon. That is to say, I am hoping you will find it convenient and agreeable to lunch with me today." Bowing punctilious acknowledgment of Lucinda's acceptance, he sat back and joined the fingers of both hands at his chin. "And now," he pursued--"if you don't mind satisfying an inquisitive old man--I would very much like to know what you propose to do with your freedom, when you get it." Lucinda jumped up and turned away with a quaver of desolation. "Ah, I wish you hadn't asked me! That's what I'm trying all the time to forget----" "I thought so." "The emptiness to come!... What _can_ a woman do to round out her life when she's lost her husband and is fit for nothing but to be a wife?" "She can find another husband. Many do." "Marry again!" A violent movement of Lucinda's hands abolished the thought. "Never that! I'm through with love for good and all." "No doubt," agreed the student of law and life. "But are you sure that love is through with you?" XVI Willis left for New York on a late afternoon train; and when Lucinda had said good-bye to him at the station, she felt as if she had parted with her one real friend in all the world. Nevertheless it had done her good to see and talk with him, and it was in a courageous if not altogether a cheerful temper that she bade the driver of her taxi stop at the Consolidated Ticket Office on the way back to the Blackstone. But a set-back threatened immediately when she applied for transportation and a drawing-room through to Reno. The Winter stampede of California tourists was in full westward swing, she learned, and not only was every drawing-room and compartment sold for the next fortnight on the trains of the Union Pacific system, the direct route to Reno, but she would have to wait several days even if she were willing to content herself with an upper berth. The appalled expression with which she contemplated this alternative, and tried to make up her mind which would be worse, to nurse her loneliness in Chicago for another two weeks, or condemn herself for three days to the promiscuous indecency of open sleeping-car conditions, enlisted the sympathies of the susceptible if none too brilliant clerk who had dashed her hopes; and promising to see what he could do, he busied himself mysteriously with a battery of telephones, and presently returned in a glow of vicarious delight, to announce that he had arranged to book Lucinda through to San Francisco via the Santa Fé system, with a section all to herself on the California Limited leaving the next night. To Lucinda's objection that she didn't want to go to San Francisco, she wanted to go to Reno, he explained, and produced bewildering maps and time-tables to prove his contention, that she would not only travel in more comfort but would actually save time by going out immediately via the Santa Fé and returning eastward from San Francisco to Reno, a comparatively insignificant trip of some eleven hours. To clinch the matter he offered to telegraph for a drawing-room reservation to Reno on the first train to leave San Francisco after her arrival. And Lucinda feebly humoured his anxiety to be of service to a pretty lady. Perhaps it was just as well, after all, that she wouldn't be able to shut herself up on the train and mope alone, perhaps it would take her out of herself a bit to be thrown into indiscriminate association with fellow-travellers. Among the first purchases she had made after calling at the Bank of Michigan were a wardrobe trunk and a fitted dressing-case. And when the trunk had been checked and trundled away by a porter, the next morning, Lucinda had a long afternoon to fill in, and accomplished this by attending a matinée. Returning to the hotel about five, she was approaching the elevators when, midway in the foyer, she stopped stock still, even her heart and lungs momentarily refusing their office, transfixed by the sight of Bellamy standing at the registry desk, in earnest consultation with one of the clerks. Apparently Bellamy had just learned what he wanted to know; Lucinda recognized the backward jerk of the head that was an unfailing sign of gratification in him, and saw him turn away from the desk. Galvanized, she hurled herself toward one of the elevator shafts, the gate to which was even then being closed. Luck and agility enabled her to slip through before the gate clanged and the car shot upward--the passengers eyeing Lucinda in amusement or amazement or both, the operator treating her to a dark overshoulder scowl. But she didn't care, her recklessness had purchased her a respite, provisional and short-lived though it might prove; and when the elevator had discharged its other passengers on floors below hers, she found a richly compensating tip for the attendant. "Sorry if I frightened you," she apologized. "There was somebody in the lobby I didn't want to see me, and I had to act quickly." "'Sall right, ma'am," the boy grumbled, pocketing the money. "Only yeh don' wanta count on gettin' away with that sort of thing often, yeh might of got yehself killed." "I'll be more careful," Lucinda promised humbly, as the car stopped to let her off. "And will you do something for me, please: tell the management I'd like my bill sent up to my room at once, and that, if anybody asks for me, I'm not in." "Sure I will, ma'm." When she entered her room the telephone was calling. She locked the door; and for as long as it continued to ring, which it did for upwards of five minutes with brief rests in discouragement, Lucinda did not move or cease to regard it in frightened fascination, as if it were a thing of malign intelligence which all her wit and ingenuity would hardly serve to frustrate. At length it gave it up as a bad job, and she sank limply into a chair near the door, and there remained stirless, trying to master demoralized nerves, trying to think, till a knock brought her to her feet in a flutter. She had trouble finding voice enough to be heard through the door: "Who is it?" "Your bill, ma'm." Not Bel's voice. Still it might be a trick. When she forced herself to turn key and knob, she more than half expected to see her husband. But the bellboy was alone. Lucinda took the bill and was counting out the money, when the telephone began to trill again. "Take those bags, please," she said, indicating the new dressing-case and the bag which she had brought from New York, "put them in a taxi at the door, and hold it till I come down. I shan't be long." Alone, she answered the telephone. "Hello? That you, Linda? It's I, Bel." "Y-yes, I--I know." "Thank God, I've found you! See here: I'm coming up, if you don't mind. All right?" "Yes, Bellamy--it--it's all right." Running out into the hall, she found the stairs and pelted up two flights. One of the elevators was rising. It stopped two floors below, then came on up in response to her ring. The attendant whom she had tipped so well was in charge, and there was nobody else in the car. "Did you let somebody out at my floor?" "Yes, ma'm, gempman." "Take me down, please, without stopping." The car dropped with sickening rapidity, and she stepped out into the foyer, but only to realize in consternation the flat futility of her strategem when Bel placed himself before her, blocking the way to the street. Her heart checked and raced, she was oddly at once aghast and elated. She couldn't be sorry her ruse had failed, subconsciously she had wanted all along to see Bel, just for a minute, face to face, with her own eyes to see how he looked, how her flight had affected him, whether ill or well. Though he seemed to be quite himself, neither under the influence of nor suffering from recent indulgence in drink, his face looked thinner, his eyes a trifle more deeply set in his head; and there was new firmness in the set of his mouth. In this new guise, the old appeal was strong. For a space of several beats her heart misgave her.... In a matter-of-course way Bel offered a hand, and Lucinda touched it mechanically. "Sorry, Linda, if I disappointed you, but thought I recognized your handbag being carried to the door, and waited for this car to come down on the off-chance...." "I see," she articulated with an effort. "Hope you're not angry...." Bel smiled as if he read her weakness, smiled with a fatal trace of over-confidence. "Had to see you, couldn't let you get away without giving me a hearing, after all the trouble I've had finding you." "It's too late, I'm afraid--this isn't the place, either, to discuss such matters. Besides, I'm in a great hurry." "You can give me a few minutes, surely. If you'll step into the reception-room with me for a minute----" "Bel: I tell you it's too late." Struggling to keep his temper, Bel caught his underlip between his teeth, while Lucinda cast witlessly about her for some way of escape. None offered. But she noticed that a young man standing nearby was observing them with keen interest, a rather brilliantly good-looking young man, brilliantly well dressed. As Lucinda's glance rested transiently on him, his face brightened with a tentative smile, and she thought he started as if he were impulsively minded to approach. If so, he reconsidered instantly. With a frown she looked back to Bel. He made a gesture of entreaty. "You can't put me off like this, Linda, when I've come so far, gone through so much----" "I can because I must, Bel--I will." "No, by God! you can't and shan't!" He caught her arm lightly as she tried to pass. She stopped, her face hardening. "Are you going to make another scene, publicly disgrace me again even when sober?" His hand dropped to his side. Lucinda began to walk rapidly toward the street entrance, but had taken few steps when Bellamy ranged alongside. "Linda: you've _got_ to listen to me! There's something I've got to tell you----" "Then go back to New York and tell it to Harford Willis. If it's anything I want to hear, he will write me." "Harford Willis! What's he--!" The significance of her words seemed to come to Bel all at once. "You don't mean to say you're going--! You can't be meaning to--!" With a long stride Bel swung in front of her again at the head of the stairs to the street. "At least, tell me what you mean to do." "I mean to go to Reno, as soon as you let me pass." Bellamy's eyes narrowed as if in physical pain. He threw out a hand of inarticulate protest, and let it fall in despair. Subduing a strong desire to bolt for it, Lucinda began to descend at a pace not inconsistent with dignity. At the same time, sensitiveness to the situation, the feeling that they had been playing a scene of intimate domestic drama for the edification of an entire hotel, made her aware that the young man whose interest had first manifested near the elevators had followed and was now standing at the head of the steps, over across from Bellamy. Pushing through the door, she breathed thankfully the stinging winter air. The canopy lamps made the sidewalk bright and discovered her bellboy shivering by the open door of a taxicab. As she moved toward it she heard the revolving door behind her buffet the air, then Bel's voice crying out her name. Abandoning all pretense, Lucinda ran. The bellboy caught her arm to help her into the cab and chattered: "W-where t-t-to, m'm?" She was prevented from answering by Bel, who elbowed the boy aside and caught her by the shoulders. "No!" he cried violently. "No, you shan't--d'you hear?--you shan't go without listening to me!" By some means, she did not know quite how, Lucinda broke out of his hands and stepped back. "Let me alone!" she insisted. "Let me----" Somebody came between them. Startled, she identified the strange young man of the foyer. "Can I be of service?" he suggested in an amused drawl. Instinctively she gasped: "No, please--!" At the same time Bel tried to shoulder the other roughly out of his way; the gratuitous champion stood firm, merely counselling "Easy, old thing, easy!" Then Bel lost his head. Lucinda heard him damning the other. There was a slight scuffle, in which the two, locked in each other's arms, reeled to one side. The bellboy was shouting "Now, ma'm--now's your chance!" She stumbled into the taxi. Holding the door, the boy demanded: "Where to, ma'm--where to?" She gasped: "Anywhere--only, tell him, hurry!" The door crashed, gears meshed with a grinding screech, the cab leaped forward with such spirit that Lucinda was thrown heavily against the back of the seat. When she recovered, the vehicle was turning a corner. Through its window she caught a glimpse of the sidewalk in front of the Blackstone, just a bare glimpse of two figures struggling, with several others running toward them. Then the corner blocked out the scene. XVII Darting and dodging through traffic-choked thoroughfares, the taxicab had travelled a mile and more before Lucinda felt able to give the next steps the careful consideration which this pinch of mischance imposed. In the upshot, though street clocks advised that she had the best part of two hours to kill before she could board her train, she tapped on the window and directed her driver to proceed to the Santa Fé Station. She felt reasonably safe in assuming that Bel wouldn't look for her there. Since she had told him she was going to Reno, his natural inference would be that she meant to travel by the direct overland route, he would set himself to waylay her in the Union Pacific terminal if anywhere. Provided, of course, that he had succeeded in discouraging the attentions of the gallant busybody in fit shape to make himself a nuisance again that night. She couldn't help giggling nervously over the picture painted by a superexcited imagination. The remaining hours of the evening worked out as eventlessly as she had hoped. Bellamy didn't show up at the station, she dined after a fashion in its restaurant, with her nose in a newspaper none of whose intelligence meant anything to hers, as soon as the platform gates were opened she was conducted by a porter to her reservation in the last car of the train but one, the observation-car; and in the latter Lucinda waited till her berth had been made ready. Then she went to bed. She had planned to read herself asleep, but the armful of books and magazines purchased at the station bookstall either purveyed only fiction of a peculiarly insipid sort or else life itself was just then too richly coloured, too swift of movement to admit of that self-surrender which is requisite if mere artistic effort is to take effect. And then the thoughtful porter had fastened a folded sheet across the double windows to temper the penetrating breath of that bitter night. So it wasn't possible to divert oneself by watching the snow-clad land unroll its blurred vistas of blue nocturnal beauty. One could do nothing, indeed, but try vainly not to think, watch the curtains swaying that shut out the aisle, listen to the tireless thrumming of the trucks and the melancholy hooting with which the engine saluted every cross-road, and pray for sleep. Somewhere a peevish child wailed fitfully for hours on end, somewhere else a man snored as if strangling in his sleep. Till long after midnight noisy feet straggled intermittently to and from the observation car. And once Lucinda, at last on the verge of drifting off, started suddenly wide-awake, stabbed to the heart by tardy appreciation of the fact that, now Bel knew where she was bound, she could not be sure of finding even Reno a refuge from his persistence, his importunities. For the matter of that, if Bel, or the detectives whom he had told Willis he might employ, had been cunning enough to trace her to Chicago, they would find her no matter where else she might seek to hide herself away. Only perhaps by changing her name.... But how could she sue for divorce if she lived under an assumed name? Toward morning she drifted into an uneasy form of semi-slumber, and from this into deep sleep. It was late when she was awakened by the bustle of people fighting with their garments and breaking the trails to the wash-rooms, and in the aisle a negro voice intoning musically: "Las' call fo' brekfus in the dinin'-cyar"--over and over. To find the dining-car Lucinda had to make her way through so many sleeping-cars that she lost count, cars all alike as to aisles obstructed by people dressing, people passing to and fro, porters dismantling tumbled berths. By way of some slight compensation, she was allotted a small table with places for two, the other chair being untenanted, which she considered much preferable to the tables for four across the aisle. Then, too, the napery was spotless, the silverware lustrous, flowers were brave in a vase at her elbow, the waiter was civil and seemed eager to please. Lucinda scribbled her order on the blank form provided, then rested her cheek on a hand and gazed moodily out at wheeling perspectives of a countryside blanketed with snow. Reminding herself that the train was due in Kansas City during the morning, she seriously thought of leaving it there and waiting over till accommodations could be had that would insure privacy for the remainder of the journey, even though this might involve weeks of delay. Grape-fruit, coffee, and toast, all excellent, made her feel a bit better. Nevertheless she made up her mind to ask the conductor to arrange a stop-over for her at Kansas City. As she was pouring herself a second cup of coffee, the vacant chair at her table was drawn out and an amiable, amused voice asked: "Do you mind my sitting here, Mrs. Druce?" Lucinda jumped in consternation. The speaker bowed with an ingratiating smile: her unsought champion of the night before!... She recollected herself and gave a jerky inclination of her head; but all she could find to say was "Oh!" Whereupon the young man laughed quietly and, construing her consent, sat down. "I'm surprised, too," he confessed--"pleasantly, if you don't mind my saying so. And yet the dear public continually kicks about coincidences!" Lucinda found her tongue but found it incompetent to frame any but formal phrases: "I have a great deal to thank you for----" "Please don't think of it that way. To the contrary, I owe you all sorts of apologies----" "Apologies!" "For butting in where any rational angel would have been scared to death to tread, and particularly for being here--though that was my fault and this isn't. But I'm glad you're not angry with me--" The waiter thrust an order blank with the bill of fare under the young man's nose, and he concluded to give them attention with an easy: "If you'll excuse me...." The head he bowed over the cards was well-modelled and thatched with a good quantity of hair, light brown in colour and amazingly lustrous. A skin whose patina of faint tan resembled that of old ivory, with never a blemish, covered boldly fashioned features. The mobile face had a trick of lighting up when its owner was talking as if aglow with the light of his thought, so that his look was in fact more eloquent than his speech. Lucinda thought she had never seen hands more strong and graceful, or any better cared for, not even Bel's. Nor had Bel ever dressed in better taste. The object of her interest waved the waiter away and met her openly interested regard without loss of countenance. "I guess it's time I introduced myself, Mrs. Druce. My name is Summerlad." After a slight pause and with a hint of self-consciousness, he amplified: "Lynn Summerlad." Sensible that he seemed to expect her to think well of that precious name, Lucinda found no echo for it in the chambers of her memory. She bowed and said "Thank you," and all at once discovered that she had reason to be mystified. "But how is it you know my name, Mr. Summerlad?" "That's easy: your husband told me." Again Lucinda was reduced to a blank "Oh!" This time she felt that she was colouring. "In the police station," Mr. Summerlad added with a broad grin. "But don't be alarmed, we weren't either of us mussed up much. Only, you see, Mr. Druce rather lost his head--can't say I blame him--and when the innocent bystanders insisted on separating us, and a cop happened along and took a hand, he--wouldn't be happy till he'd had me arrested on a charge of assault. So the officer marched us both off to the nearest station-house, with half Chicago tagging at our heels. By the time we got there your husband had cooled down and remembered that publicity wasn't his best bet. So he withdrew the charge." "How dreadful!" Lucinda murmured, her thoughts with Bellamy. "I'm so sorry." "No reason to be. If you must know, I enjoyed the adventure tremendously. That's what one gets for having been born with a perverted sense of humour." "But if you had been locked up----!" "Oh, it wouldn't have been for long, I'd have got somebody to bail me out inside of fifteen minutes. But there wasn't ever any danger of that, really. You see, the sergeant knew me at sight and--well, the sentiment of all hands seemed to be with me. Besides, it wasn't as if I'd never been pinched before." "You don't mean to tell me you're in the habit of--of--" "Of mixing in every time I run across a matrimonial rukus? Hardly! I mean, pinched for speeding. You know what the roads are, out on the Coast, hard and smooth and straight as a string for miles at a time. You can hardly resist them, once you get beyond the city limits. Guess I'll have to after this, though. The last time they got me, the judge gave me his word I wouldn't get off again with a fine, the next offense would mean the hoosegow for mine. And between you and me, I haven't any hankering to see the inside of the Los Angeles County jail." "I should hope not." Lucinda caught the eye of her waiter and gave him a bill to pay for her breakfast. But she couldn't escape with good grace just yet, unless she wished to administer a downright snub she would have to wait for her change. "I'd like to show you what motoring is around Los Angeles," Mr. Summerlad pursued with breath-taking assurance. "If it isn't an impertinent question, may I ask if that's where you're bound?" "No," Lucinda replied briefly. One began to foresee that to put a damper on such abounding enterprise would prove far from easy. "I see: taking in the Grand Canyon, I suppose. You'll find it well worth your while. Gorgeous scenery and everything. I've done the Canyon a dozen times, used to run up there whenever I got a week to myself, you know. If it wasn't for this wretched business I'm in"--again that suspicion of self-consciousness--"I'd drop off there for a few days this trip. But I'm afraid it's no go. Too busy. Beastly nuisance. Still, there's nothing more uncertain than a job like mine. So it's well to make pay while the sun shines." "I'm sure ..." said Lucinda, gathering up her change. And Summerlad's face fell touchingly as he grasped the fact that she was really going to leave him to finish his breakfast alone. "I am deeply indebted to you," she pursued. "No, please don't tell me again I must forget it, because I can't and don't want to. I was at my wits' ends last night. But, of course, it isn't a thing one can talk about----" "Well, there are lots of other things we can talk about," Summerlad rejoined cheerily. "So let's forget the unpleasant ones. That is--hope you don't think I'm impertinent--but it's a long, lonesome trip, and I'll be very happy if you'll let me prattle in your company now and then." Since she was leaving the train at Kansas City there was nothing to be gained by being rude. Lucinda contented herself with replying, no, she wouldn't mind, and thrust back her chair. Immediately Summerlad was on his feet, napkin in hand, bowing prettily. "Awfully good of you, Mrs. Druce. Where shall I find you, say in an hour or two? The observation car?" "Perhaps," Lucinda smiled. "Or would you rather I looked you up----?" "I'm in the last car but one," Lucinda told him sweetly--"Section Ten." She made her way back to that reservation determined to lose no time about interviewing the conductor. But the porter failed to answer repeated pressures on the call-button, and at length surmising the truth, that he was getting his own breakfast, Lucinda resigned herself to wait. There was plenty of time.... Now that she was extricated from it the comic element in her late rencontre began to make irresistible appeal. She picked up a book, opened it, bent her head low above it to hide smiling lips and dancing eyes from people passing in the aisle; but was not well settled in this pose when she heard a joyful cry--"Cindy! Cindy Druce!"--and rose, dropping the book in her astonishment, to be enfolded in the arms of Fanny Lontaine. XVIII "I feel," Lucinda confessed, "precisely like a weathervane in a whirlwind, I mean the way it ought to: every few minutes I find my nose pointing in a new direction." "You dear!" Seated opposite her at the windows of the Lontaine drawing-room, Fanny leaned over and squeezed her hand affectionately. "I can't tell you how happy I am that pretty nose is pointing now the same way as ours." "And I, Fanny. It's really a wonderful sensation, you know, after all that worry and uncertainty, to know one's life is mapped ahead for a few days at least. I don't believe any lost puppy ever felt more friendless than I did just before we met, when I thought I was going to get off at Kansas City. And my present frame of mind is that same puppy's when it finds itself all at once adopted by a family that likes animals." Kansas City was already the idle menace of a dimming dream. Awkward but unavoidable explanations, haltingly offered, had been accepted without question: a manifestation of tactful sympathy which had not only won Lucinda's heart completely but, working together with her reluctance to proceed to Reno before she could feel reasonably sure of being suffered to live there unmolested, had influenced her to agree to go on with the Lontaines to Los Angeles; whither (she was tacitly led to infer) his motion-picture interests had peremptorily called Lontaine. It seemed a sensible move as well as one most agreeable in prospect. She could rest in comfort and friendly companionship for a few weeks, consult with Harford Willis by letter, at leisure and with a calm mind plan for the future. She now saw, as if new light had somehow been cast upon her problems by this meeting of happy chance, that there was really no hurry, no reason why she shouldn't take her time about the unpleasant business, attend to its transaction only when and as it suited her will and convenience. It wasn't as if she wanted to remarry, or was in any way dependent upon Bel and must beg the courts to make him provide for her. If anything, her personal resources exceeded Bellamy's. And then it would be amusing to see Los Angeles under the wing of so well-informed a motion-picture impresario as Lontaine. That afternoon at the Culp studios had been fascinating; how much more so would it be to live for a time in a city that was, at least as Lontaine limned it, one vast open-air studio, to be associated with people who were actually doing something with their lives. What a change from the life that had grown to seem tedious and unprofitable even before Bellamy had made its continuance intolerable! "But you haven't told me," she complained, "about those tests. Did you go to see them that day? How did they come out? How did I look?" "Oh, Cindy! what a shame you missed it. You were adorable, everybody simply raved about you." "Fact, Mrs. Druce. You outclassed even Alma Daley in that Palm Room scene. No, but seriously: it was you first, Miss Daley second, Fanny a good third, the rest nowhere. You missed scoring no end of a personal triumph in the projection-room. Though, if you ask me, Miss Daley was just as well pleased." "You're making fun of me." "Absolutely not." "Well, it's hard to believe, but if you mean it, the Culps and their cameraman would seem to have been right." "Oh, I'd almost forgotten!" Fanny cried. "Mr. Culp was terribly put out because you weren't there, and made me promise faithfully to ask you to call him up and make an appointment for another private showing." "Right about what?" Lontaine earnestly wanted to know. "Why, they were so sure I would screen well, as they put it, Mr. Culp made me an offer, as we were leaving, to act with his wife in her next picture." Lontaine's eyes widened into a luminous blue stare; and abruptly, as if to hide the thought behind them, he threw away a half-smoked cigarette and, helping himself to another, bent forward, tapping it on a thumb-nail. "Really, dearest? How priceless! And what did you say to the creature?" "Oh, I was kind but firm." "Ben Culp's a big man in the cinema game," Lontaine commented without looking up. "His advice is worth something, Mrs. Druce. If he says you'd make a hit, you might do worse than listen to him. That is, of course, if you should ever think of taking a flyer in the motion-picture business." "I'm not even dreaming of such a thing. Why, it's absurd!" "I'll wager you wouldn't say so if you once saw yourself on the screen. Only wish I had a print of those tests to show you." "I'm not curious." "Then you're the modern miracle, Mrs. Druce--a woman without either vanity or a secret ambition to be a cinema star." Lontaine laughed and lazily got up. "I can only say you've got a chance to make a name for yourself I wouldn't overlook if I stood in your shoes.... But if you'll excuse me now, think I'll roll along and arrange matters with the conductor and porters." "You're too good to me," Lucinda protested. "I know I'm imposing----" "Absolutely nothing in that. Only too happy." The door was behind Lucinda's shoulder. Closing it, unseen by her, Lontaine contrived to exchange with his wife a look of profound significance. Then he lounged thoughtfully forward to the club car and delayed there, in deep abstraction, long enough to smoke two cigarettes before proceeding to hunt up and interview the conductor about Lucinda's change of destination, then instruct the porters to shift her luggage to the Lontaine drawing-room and his own effects to the section she was vacating. Into making this move Lucinda had been talked against her half-hearted demurs. She knew very well it wasn't the right thing to do, to take advantage of their kindness of heart, to separate husband and wife; but they wouldn't listen to her; and after all it was hardly in human nature to undergo again the ordeal of the open sleeping-car by night if one might by any means avoid it; while Lontaine insisted he wouldn't mind in the least. "I'm an old hand at travelling under any and all conditions," he had asserted--"accustomed to roughing it, you know. Even upper berths hold no terrors for me, while a whole section is simply sybaritic sensuality. If one hadn't brought Fanny along, it would never have entered the old bean to do oneself better than a lower. Absolutely. You don't imagine Fan and I could rest in comfort, knowing you were unhappy back there? Rather not!" In point of fact, Lontaine had been at once eager to earn Lucinda's favour and not at all averse to a move which promised more personal liberty than one could command penned up in a stuffy coop with one's wife. Oh, not that he wasn't fond enough of Fan, but--well, when all was said, one was bound to admit Fan was a bit, you know, American. Not to put too fine a point on it, decidedly American. Nobody's fool, Fan. Had a head on her shoulders and used it, and a way of looking at one, besides, as if she were actually looking through one, now and then, that made one feel positively ratty. Chap could do with an occasional furlough from that sort of thing. It wasn't as if they were still lovers, you see. Rough going, the devil's own luck and mutual disappointment had put rather a permanent crimp into the first fine raptures. They got along well enough nowadays, to be sure, but it was no good pretending that either couldn't have done just as well alone. But then it had hardly been in the first place what one might call a love match. Oh, yes, tremendously taken with each other, and all that; but if you put it to the test of cold facts, the truth was, Fan had married with an eye to that distant title, whose remoteness the War had so inconsiderately failed to abridge, while Lontaine had been quite as much influenced by Fan's filial relationship to a fortune of something like eighty millions. But that hope, too, had long since gone glimmering. Rotten form, not to say vicious, on the part of the Terror of the Wheat Pit, to cut off his only begotten daughter with a shilling, one meant to say its equivalent measured by the bulk of his wealth. The legacy Fan had picked up in Chicago would have been barely enough to satisfy their joint and several creditors. Not that one was mad enough to fritter the money away like that. But if this Los Angeles venture were to turn out a bloomer.... But why anticipate the worst? Buck up and consider the widely advertised silver lining.... A bit of luck, falling in with this Druce girl, under the circumstances. No question about the solid establishment of her financial standing: the good old Rock of Gibraltar was a reed in the wind by comparison.... Now if only one dared count on Fan's being amenable to reason, grasping the logical possibilities, doing her bit like a sensible little woman.... Seated in Section 10, waiting for the porter to bring back his personal impedimenta from the drawing-room, Harry Lontaine turned a handsome face to the window, frowning absently, the nervous frown of a man whose cleverness has never proved quite equal to the task of satisfying appetites at once strong and fastidious. By degrees its place was taken by a look of dreaming: Lontaine was viewing not the dreary wastes of Kansan lands under the iron rule of Winter but a California of infatuate imagining, a land all smiling in the shine of a benign sun, set with groves of orange trees and olives, dotted with picturesque bungalows whose white walls were relieved by the living green of vines, and peopled by a race of blessed beings born to a heritage of lifelong beauty, youth, and love-in-idleness; a land in whose charmed soil fortunes grew of seeds of careless sowing, and through whose scenes of subtropical loveliness prophetic vision descried a heroic figure moving, courted and applauded by happy, unenvious multitudes, the figure of Harry Lontaine, Esq., newest but mightiest overlord of the cinema.... From this delectable realm the dreamer was recalled by consciousness of somebody standing in the aisle and staring impertinently. Racial shyness erased all signs of wistfulness in one instant and cloaked sensitiveness in a guise of glacial arrogance; in another, recognition dawned, and hauteur was in turn discarded and a more approachable mien set up in its stead. Lontaine was too diligent a student of motion-pictures not to know at sight the features of Lynn Summerlad, by long odds the most popular male star of the American cinema. A personage worth knowing.... Misreading his expression, Mr. Summerlad felt called upon to apologize. "Beg your pardon, but I was expecting to find a lady in this section, I may say a friend: a Mrs. Druce. Do you by any chance----?" XIX Bridge killed the long hours of that first afternoon on board a train whose windows revealed seldom a prospect less desolate than one of prairie meadows fallowed but frozen, dusky beneath a tarnished sky: a still and roomy land spaciously fenced, scored by rare roads that knew no turning, but ran like ruled diameters of the wide ring of the horizon: the wheat-bin of the world swept and garnished by winter winds. Lynn Summerlad made a fourth at the table set up in the Lontaine drawing-room; invited by Lontaine as an acquaintance of Lucinda's and a grateful addition to the party because he played something better than merely a good game. Not only "fearfully easy to look at" (as Fanny confided to Lucinda) but fair spoken and well if at times a shade carefully mannered, he was intelligent and ready of wit; so that, when he proved these qualities by not forcing himself upon the trio at or after dinner, he was missed; and Lucinda, while she waited for sleep to blind her eyes that night, discovered that she was looking forward to the next afternoon, when Bridge would be again in order and infeasible without the fourth. But she was too sleepy to be concerned about the methods with which Summerlad, making no perceptible effort, had succeeded in winning back the ground which over-assurance had lost for him at the breakfast table. It was enough that he qualified as that all too unordinary social phenomenon, "an amusing person." She began to study him more intently if discreetly, however, when the train pulled into Albuquerque for its scheduled stop of an hour at noon of the second day, and the Lontaines and Lucinda, alighting to stretch their legs, found Summerlad, alert and debonnaire, waiting on the platform, prepared to act as their guide and protect them against their tenderfoot tendency to purchase all the souvenirs in sight. This quiet process of noting and weighing ran like a strand of distinctive colour through the patterned impressions of the day, till, retracing it in reverie after nightfall, it was possible for Lucinda to make up her mind that she liked Lynn Summerlad decidedly. True that he was not of her world; but then neither was she herself any more, in this anomalous stage of the apostate wife, neither wife nor widow, not even honest divorcée. If Summerlad's character as she read it had faults, if an occasional crudity flawed his finish, these things were held to be condonable in view of his youth. He seemed ridiculously young to Lucinda, but sure to improve with age, sure to take on polish from rubbing up against life. Especially if he were so fortunate as to find the right woman to watch over and advise him. An interesting job, for the right woman.... Not (she assured herself hastily) that it would be a job to interest her. An absurd turn of thought, anyway. Why she had wasted time on it she really didn't know. Unless, of course, its incentive had lain in consciousness of Summerlad's naïve captivation. One couldn't very well overlook that. He was so artless about it, boyish, and--well--nice. It was most entertaining. It was also, if truth would out, far from displeasing. Apprehension of this most human foible in herself caused Lucinda to smile confidentially into the darkness streaming gustily astern from the observation platform, to which the four of them had repaired to wait while their several berths were being made up. But the hour was so late, the night air so chill in the altitudes which the train was then traversing, that no other passengers had cared to dispute with them the platform chairs; while Fanny had excused herself before and Lontaine had quietly taken himself off during Lucinda's spell of thoughtfulness. So that now she found herself alone with Summerlad, when that one, seeing the sweet line of her cheek round in the light from the windows behind them, and surmising a smile while still her face remained in shadow, enquired with a note of plaintiveness: "What's the joke, Mrs. Druce? Won't you let me in on the laugh, too?" "I'm not sure it was a joke," Lucinda replied; "it was more contentment. I was thinking I'd been having a rather good time, these last two days." "It's seemed a wonderful time to me," Summerlad declared in a voice that promised, with any encouragement, to become sentimental. "Quite a facer for my anticipations," Lucinda interposed firmly--"considering the way I had to fly Chicago and my husband." Then she laughed briefly to prove she wasn't downhearted. "But I daresay you're wondering, Mr. Summerlad...." "Eaten alive by inquisitiveness, if you must know. All the same, I don't want to know anything you don't want to tell me; and I don't have to tell you, you don't have to tell me anything--if you know what I mean." "It sounds a bit involved," Lucinda confessed, judgmatical; "still, I think I do know what you mean. And it's only civil to tell you I was leaving to go to Reno by way of San Francisco when my husband found me at the Blackstone. But now the Lontaines have persuaded me to spend a few weeks with them in Los Angeles----" "That's something you'll never regret." "I hope so." "You won't if you leave it to me." "Yes, I'm sure you mean to be nice to us; but you're going to be very busy when you get to Los Angeles, aren't you?" "I'm never going to be too busy to----" "But now you remind me," Lucinda interrupted with decision. "I've got a great favor to beg of you, Mr. Summerlad." "Can't make it too great----" "Fanny and I were discussing it this morning, and it seemed wise to us.... You've seen something of how persistent my husband can be----" "Can't blame him for that." "Well, then: the only way I can account for his having found me in Chicago is on the theory that he employed detectives. But of course I'd made it easy for them by using my own name wherever I went." "Why don't you use another name, then?" "Just what Fanny and I were saying. If I don't, Bel--Mr. Druce--is sure to follow me to Los Angeles, sooner or later, and make more scenes. I'd like to avoid that, if I can." "Surest thing you know, he'll find out, if the Los Angeles newspapers ever discover Mrs. Bellamy Druce of New York is in the civic midst. The best little thing they do is print scare-head stories about distinguished visitors and the flattering things they say about our pretty village." "That settles it, then: I'm going to be somebody else for a while. Help me choose a good, safe nom de guerre, please." "Let's see: Mrs. Lontaine calls you Cindy...." "Short for Lucinda." "How about Lee? Lucinda Lee?" "I like that. But it does sound like the movies, doesn't it?" "What do you expect of a movie actor, Mrs. Druce?" "Mrs. Lee, please." "Beg pardon: Mrs. Lee." "And you'll keep my horrid secret, won't you?" "If you knew how complimented I feel, you'd know I would die several highly disagreeable deaths before I'd let you think me unworthy of your confidence." "That's very sweet," Lucinda considered with mischievous gravity. "And I am most appreciative. But if you will persist in playing on my susceptibilities so ardently, Mr. Summerlad, I'll have to go to bed." "Please sit still: I'll be good." "No, but seriously," Lucinda insisted, rising: "it is late, and I want to wake up early, I don't want to miss anything of this wonderful country." "You won't see anything in the morning but desert, the edge of the Mojave." "But we've been in the desert all afternoon and I adore it." "Oh, these Arizona plains! they're not real desert; they're just letting on; give them a few drinks and they'll start a riot--of vegetation. But the Mojave's sure-enough he-desert: sand and sun, cactus and alkali. I'm much more interesting, I'm so human." "Yes: I've noticed. Masculine human. But, you see, a desert's a novelty. I really must go...." She went to sleep under two blankets, but before day-break a sudden rise in temperature woke her up. The train was at a standstill. Lucinda put up the window-shade to see, all dim in lilac twilight, a brick platform, a building of Spanish type, a signboard proclaiming one enigmatic word: NEEDLES. Sharp jolts in series ran through the linked cars, a trainman beneath the window performed cryptic calisthenics with a lantern, one unseen uttered a prolonged, heart-rending howl, couplings clanked, the train gathered way. As it toiled with stertorous pantings on up-grades seemingly interminable, the night grew cool again but by no means so cold as at bedtime. The outposts of Winter had been passed. The porter who tidied up the drawing-room in the morning opened a window and adjusted a cinder-screen: the breath of the desert was warm but deliciously sweet. Outside, heat-devils jigged above a blasted waste that was, as Lucinda viewed it, weirdly beautiful. The noontide air at Barstow had all the fever of a windless day of August in the East. Within the riven scarps of the Cajon Pass it was hotter still. A long, swift down-swoop toward the Pacific brought them by mid-afternoon to San Bernardino, set in emerald, where people lolled about the platform in white flannels and airy organdies. The panorama of sylvan loveliness, all green and gold, commanded by the windows from San Bernardino onward, prepared for a Los Angeles widely unlike the city of Lucinda's first confused impressions, for something Arcadian and spacious instead of a school of sky-scrapers that might have been transported en masse from almost any thriving commercial centre of the North Atlantic seaboard. She was sensible of dull resentment as Summerlad's car--an open one but of overpowering bigness and staggering in its colour-scheme of yellow and black with silver trimmings--progressed in majesty through streets where monstrous trolleys ground and clanged, motor vehicles plodded, champing at the bits, in solid column formation, and singularly shabby multitudes drifted listlessly between towering white marble walls. Only train-weariness and the glad prospect of a tub bath earned the Hotel Alexandria forgivenness for its sin of ostentation in pretending to stand at Broadway and Forty-second street, New York. That sense of having been somehow swindled was, if anything, stronger in consequence of an expedition afoot with Fanny after breakfast, in the course of which the two women explored the shopping and business district adjacent to the hotel. The imaginations responsible for the plan and building of the city had suffered from that deadly blight of imitativeness which afflicts the American mentality all the land over, restricting every form of emulation to charted channels, with the result that ambition seldom seeks its outlet in expression of individuality but as a rule in the belittling of another's achievement through simple exaggeration of its bulk and lines, in being not distinctive but only bigger, showier, and more blatant. Having lunched with Fanny (Lontaine was busy, it was understood, promoting his indefinite but extensive motion-picture interests) Lucinda returned to rooms which Summerlad had caused to be transformed in her absence into the likeness of a fashionable florist and fruiterer's shop; and while she was trying to decide whether to move half the lot or herself out into the hall, the telephone rang and a strange voice announced that Mr. Summerlad's chauffeur was speaking and Mr. Summerlad's car was at the door and likewise at the disposition of Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Lontaine for the afternoon. "Ought we?" Lucinda doubted with a little grimace. "Why not?" Fanny asked. "It seems just a bit.... Oh, I don't know. I presume it would be ungracious to question Californian hospitality." "Copy-Californian," Fanny corrected. "Chances are you'll find Summerlad's a native son of Omaha or some point East. Does it matter? He means well, and we want to see Los Angeles." "But that car!" "It is rather a circus-wagon; but judging by what we've seen in the streets today, the way to make oneself conspicuous here is to sport a car of gaudy black or screaming navy blue. In the racy idiom of the Golden West--let's go." They went. In ten minutes Los Angeles of the sky-scrapers was forgotten. For three hours league after league of garden-land, groves, plantations, ocean beach, bare brown hills, verdant valleys wide as an Eastern county, all bathed in sunlight of peculiar brilliance and steadiness falling through crystalline air from a sky innocent of cloud, passed in review before beauty-stricken eyes. In the end the car turned without warning off a main-travelled highway, swept the bluestone drive of what might well have been parked private grounds, and stopped before the imposing, columned portico of an old Colonial mansion. The chauffeur turned back a friendly, grinning face. "This is where Mr. Summerlad works," he announced--"the Zinn Studios." "Studios!" "Yes, ma'm--where they make the movin'-pictures." Lucinda stared unbelievingly at the building, finding it hardly possible to reconcile such mellow beauty of scheme and proportion, so harmonious with the spacious lawns and massed foliage of its setting, with memories of those grubby, grimy, back-street premises tenanted by the Culp studios in New York. A screen-door beneath the portico opened, Mr. Summerlad emerged, a shape of slender elegance in Shantung silk, and ran impetuously down to the car. With more deliberation Lontaine appeared and waited. "Mrs. Lee, Mrs. Lontaine: I hope you'll forgive me for telling Tom to stop in here instead of taking you back to the hotel. Lontaine's here, and we've planned a little surprise, dinner at my place out in Beverly Hills, just the four of us. You won't say no and spoil everything? That's splendid! But it's early, and perhaps you'd like a look around a regular movie factory first...." Conducting them through the building by way of a panelled entrance hall, Summerlad explained that the stages were temporarily idle, due to the fact that photography on two productions in process had recently been finished and their casts disbanded, only the directors and their staffs remaining to cut and title the films; while the production in which Summerlad was to play the lead was as yet not ready for the cameras. The working premises lay behind the administration building. But here again Lucinda noted few points of close resemblance to the Culp studios. A field several acres in extent, about half in turf, was surrounded by a sizeable village of glass-roofed stages and structures housing the technical and mechanical departments--a laboratory, a costumier's, property, carpenter and scene-painting shops, directors' offices, dressing, projection and cutting-rooms, a garage, sheds to shelter motor-cars and trucks by the score, stables, a small menagerie, a huge tank for "water stuff," a monolithic fire-proof vault of cement for the storage of film. Due in great measure to temporary suspension of active camera-work, the place seemed very peaceful and pervaded by an atmosphere of orderliness and efficiency. There were no actors wasting time about the grounds, no sets occupied the huge enclosed stages, the men at work in the several departments seemed all to be busy. "Well, Mrs. Lee: what do you think of a California studio? Not much like what you've seen back East, eh?" Lucinda shook her head, and smiled. "I am enchanted with this country," she said; "if what I've seen of it this afternoon is any criterion, I'm afraid it's going to be hard to go away from...." "You haven't begun to see it yet." Summerlad declared. "Wait till we've had a few motor trips." "As for your studio, it is most marvellous to me. If they're all like this, I don't wonder people are mad to act in motion-pictures. If Mr. Culp had promised me anything like this, I don't believe I should have had the courage to refuse." "It's not too late to change your mind, Mrs. Lee," Lontaine suggested. "In fact, if I thought there was any hope you would, I'd go down on my knees to you. Oh, not to act for Culp, but for me; or rather, for yourself, as the head and the star of your own company. No: I'm serious. I've been talking with several people today who want me to try producing out here. I can get unlimited capital to back me. This country today is crying for better pictures--and I know how to make them. I can bring to the American cinema the one thing it needs, a thorough knowledge of European methods. Only one thing makes me hesitate, the lack of a suitable star. All the people of real ability seem to be tied up under long-term contracts. I may lose months looking for the right actress unless you----" "Why pick on me?" Lucinda laughed. "I'm not even an actress." "Ah! you forgot I've seen you prove on the screen what you can do. You don't know yourself, Mrs. Lee. There isn't a woman in the country can touch you, if you'll take your ability seriously. You need only two things to make you great, a good director, and self-confidence." "Aren't you running a great risk, making such flattering overtures to an untried, unknown amateur?" "Don't worry about me. If I had any hope of being able to persuade you to try it on, I'd tell you to name your own terms, and shoulder the risk without a murmur." Lontaine's earnestness was so real that one might no longer meet his arguments with levity. There was a strained look of anxiety in the blue eyes, a restrained passion of pleading in the ordinarily languid accents. Or else Lucinda fancied these things. But a sidelong glance showed that Fanny, too, was apparently hanging between hope and fear.... And a thought revived that had once or twice before presented itself, a suspicion that all was not as well as one might wish with the state of the Lontaine fortunes, strengthening the surmise that Lucinda's decision meant more to them both than Lontaine had confessed. Still one hesitated to believe.... "But you can't be serious! Do you really want me to become a movie actress under your management?" "You can't think of anything I wouldn't do to persuade you." "Why not, Mrs. Lee?" Summerlad urged. "It would be great fun for you, and you can't fail, you can't lose anything. If you only knew how inferior most stars are to you in every way...." "And if you should fail, Cindy," Fanny chimed in--"what does it matter? Who would know? It wouldn't be you, it would be Lucinda Lee." "No," Lontaine insisted: "I've got a better screen name than that for her. Not Lucinda: Linda Lee." "Come, Mrs. Lee: say you'll try it on, if only for the lark of it." "If I should, Mr. Summerlad, it wouldn't be for fun." "So much the better." "Then you will?" Lontaine persisted. "Do say yes." "Let me think...." And why not? Lucinda asked herself. She was alone in the world, lonely but for these good friends who needed her help, or seemed to. It would be good fun, it would be interesting, it would satisfy a need of which she had been discontentedly aware even in the days when she had yet to dream of leaving Bel. And--even as Fanny had argued--if she should fail and have to give it up, who would care what had become of "Linda Lee"? "Very well," she said at length, with an uncertain smile--"suppose we try." XX "To tomorrow's morning star of the screen, Linda Lee!" Thus Lynn Summerlad, mildly exalted, graceful and gracious even beyond his studied habit, flourishing a glass of California champagne above the dinner table in his bungalow in Beverly Hills. The toast went by acclamation, and Lucinda laughed, at once gratified, diverted, and disposed to deprecate the spirit of these felicitations as premature. It all seemed rather ridiculous, when one stopped to think, this taking for granted the success of a venture projected so lately, by no strain of imagination to be considered as already launched, and based wholly upon the postulation that the greenest of novices might by some sorcery of the cinema be ripened overnight into a genius of sorts. A phrase of Culp's recurred unbidden: "A lot of kids, that's what we got to make pitchers with, a lot of kids." It was childish, in a way; on the other hand, it was undeniably pleasant to think of oneself as one was being tempted to, as a sort of Sleeping Beauty of the screen only waiting to be awakened to vivid life by one wave of the witching wand of courage and self-confidence; pleasant to let oneself go and believe such things might be. Nor was this difficult. Whether it resulted from the catching enthusiasm of her company, or from self-reliance new-born of her success in doing without Bellamy, or whether it were the glamour of this romantic land, where man since time out of memory had been accustomed to see his maddest dreams come true, certain it was that there seemed nothing essentially improbable in the assumption that "Linda Lee," could figure if she would as "tomorrow's morning star of the screen." One had only to listen to the gossip of Lontaine and Summerlad to appreciate that stranger things had happened in the history of motion-pictures. Nothing, indeed, was conceivably more strange than that same history, more fantastic and incredible than the record of its growth, almost within the span of a single decade, from the status of a toy to that of an institution forming an inseparable part of the fabric of life, taking its toll of the humblest, and throning and dethroning kings of finance with the impersonal ruthlessness of an elemental force. One of the greatest of the producing organizations, whose studios covered whole blocks of the heart of Hollywood, had had its beginnings in a trifling story photographed under a big sun-umbrella in a vacant lot. Its most formidable rival, with which it had ultimately amalgamated, had been first financed with the mean savings of a fur-cutter from the lower East Side of New York. Men whose abilities had proved inadequate to command steady employment at fifty dollars a week in the legitimate theatre were drawing a daily wage of five hundred dollars as directors of motion-pictures. The one-time pantomime comedian of an English company presenting a knockabout vaudeville act had made himself a multi-millionaire through clowning before a camera. Young men whose dramatic equipment was limited to the knowledge of how to show their teeth and slick their hair, young women who had walked into favour on the strength of their noble underpinning alone, were selling their services to the cinema under contracts running for terms of years at five thousand dollars a week; and you could take it from Mr. Summerlad that most of these had come to Los Angeles with not more than one dollar to click against another. "Why, look at me," he invited in an expansive moment: "never had earned a dollar in my life. Didn't have to, you know: folks had a little money. Six years ago my little sister caught a bad cold and the doctor prescribed a Winter in California. Mother and I brought her out and rented a bungalow in the foothills, up back of the Hollywood Hotel. One day while I was wandering about I saw a car-load of people in paint and evening clothes stop in front of a house with good-looking grounds. I stopped, too. So did others; quite a crowd collected while they were setting up the camera. Presently a little fellow in riding-breeches, with an eyeshade, a shock of red hair, and more freckles than anybody ever saw on a human map before or since, came weaving through the crowd as if he was looking for somebody. When he saw me, he stopped and said: 'You'll do. Got a dress suit?' I laughed and said I had. He took out a little book, wrote down my name and address and said: 'Studio tomorrow morning at eight, made up. We'll need you about three days. Five a day.' Then he hustled on. I went home and told my mother and sister the joke. They egged me on to try it for the fun of it. Within two months I was on the payroll at a hundred a week, and now...." Summerlad flashed an apologetic smile. "One of the worst faults we movie actors have, Mrs. Lee, is talking big about our salaries. So I wont say any more than this: outside the Big Four--Mary and Doug and Charlie and Bill Hart--there's mighty few that drag down as much green money a week as I do." "I'm glad to absolve you of the sin of boasting, Mr. Summerlad." "I suppose that did sound funny; but then, you see, I _am_ a movie actor, I don't pretend to be better than the rest of us.... You wouldn't guess who that director was--assistant director he was then--who gave me my first engagement: Barry Nolan!" The name was apparently known to Lontaine, for he exclaimed "You don't mean it!" as if no more exciting information had come to his ears in many days. "The man I've got in mind to direct you in your first picture, Mrs. Lee; that is, if you can get hold of Barry. You couldn't do better, but his salary's ee-normous. He's working down in Culver City now, and I don't know how long his contract runs, but you might be lucky enough to make a deal of some sort. I'd give him a ring and find out for you, but I happen to know Barry's got a party on at Sunset tonight. We might jump into my machine and blow down there, if you like." "There's no hurry, Mr. Summerlad. Remember, Mr. Lontaine hasn't taken the first step toward forming a company yet; he isn't in a position to make Mr. Nolan any definite offer." "Well, but I'd hate to have you lose a chance. Barry's a wonder. Even Griffith takes a back seat when Barry Nolan picks up the megaphone. And there isn't anything I wouldn't do for him. Lord! how he worked to break me in." Summerlad sighed, reminiscent. "Them was the happy days. We worked hard for little money, but we had a good time and a healthy one, out in the open air practically all day long. Light effects were then just beginning to be discussed; I don't believe two studios on the Coast had enclosed stages. Generally speaking, all our work was done either on location or on open stages under diffusers." Lucinda repeated the last word with an enquiring inflexion, and Summerlad explained. "You see, in those days we had to depend on the sun to light our interior sets, and direct exposure meant hard contrasts of light and shadow that didn't look natural. So we stretched great sheets of thin cloth on wire frames overhead, and they broke up the sun's rays and diffused an even glow all over the sets. But of course that restricted us to overhead lighting for all interiors, and that was monotonous and unnatural besides, because ordinary rooms aren't lighted from the ceiling. And my! but it used to be cosy, working under diffusers on a summer's day!" "But if you depended on the sun so exclusively," Fanny wanted to know, "what did you do in the rainy season?" "Loafed, that's all: just loafed. There wasn't anything else to do but loaf around and watch the sky for signs of a break and tell each other how good we were. That was another reason why artificial lighting had to come; it cost too much to carry studio overheads with all production at a standstill during a rainy season that would maybe last five months, or a heavy production payroll when often the rain would stop camera-work for five days on end, and you never could count on two clear days together. So, one after another, the big studios began to build enclosed stages and work more and more by Kliegs and Cooper-Hewitts, till at last--well, today the open stage is almost a thing of the past, and acting for the camera isn't the good fun it used to be--kenneled all day long on a sweltering stage, and the lights getting your eyes like they do. Sometimes, after a spell of work on interiors, I'm as good as blind for a week.... Funny to think--isn't it?--the California studios are using artificial light almost exclusively, except of course for location work, when what brought them out here was steady sunlight that didn't cost anything seven or nine months out of each year." "But if there is no longer any real reason, such as the economy of sunlight, why do the producers stop on here?" "Because they took root in Los Angeles in the early days, before people had forgotten that principles of ordinary economy might be applied to making pictures, and what took root grew, till today there are hundreds of millions invested in picture plants here. Also because all the picture people have dug in around the plants. Nearly every good actor has his permanent home here, likewise most of the bad ones; and those who do get a job in the East hurry back as soon as they finish up, so as not to be among the missing if they're wanted for another job. You can cast almost any picture perfectly in a few days in Hollywood, whereas any place else, except maybe New York, it would take weeks to locate your people and bring them together, and there'd be transportation to pay for into the bargain." Lontaine interposed a question of a technical nature, and as Summerlad answered him at length, Lucinda's attention wandered, she began to think more about the speaker, less about what he was saying. Undeniably a most satisfying creature, at least to look at. Bending over the table, his face glowing as he illustrated his meaning with an animated play of hands: though his words were all for Lontaine. Summerlad's consciousness was constant to Lucinda, his quick eyes were forever seeking hers.... Hard hit and making no secret of it. Not that it mattered, more than for the good it did one's self-esteem to be respectfully if openly adored by a personable young man whom one found agreeable. Vanity had been sorely sprung by Bellamy's sacrifice of his wife's love to his appetite for the cheap excitement of flirting with women of cheap emotions. His pursuit of her Lucinda valued at no more than one last effort to salve the hurt her desertion of him had dealt to his vanity. Neither had Daubeney's devotion meant a great deal: being something too familiar through old acquaintance not to be misprized. It had needed some such new conquest as this to make Lucinda think well of herself again; this at least proved her charms not yet passée. Reassurance for which she was disproportionately grateful; and gratitude is commonly the most demoralizing of vices. Lucinda inclined to approve the style in which Summerlad maintained himself. The bungalow, secluded in wide and well-kempt grounds, might have served as the warm-weather retreat of a Grand Duke. And if there was a suspicion of rule-of-thumb in some of its effects, at least it could be said that Summerlad had shown sound judgment in selecting an interior decorator of sound taste. The dinner had been well cooked and served by a deft Japanese. As it neared its close a more cheerful partie carrée would have been far to seek. Indeed, had Lucinda entertained genuine misgivings as to the wisdom of her decision to try her luck on the screen, they must have been compensated by its action on the spirits of her friends. And it couldn't have been anything else, for they had partaken sparingly of the native champagne which, while fair enough of its kind, was nothing to seduce palates educated on London Dry. Yet Fanny's effervescence outvied that of the wine. Lontaine's eyes had lost altogether their tense expression, Summerlad was on his mettle in his dual rôle of host and courtier, Lucinda herself was stirred by a gayety she had too seldom known since the first years of her marriage. By merely turning her head she could look out through an open casement to a lawn where moonlight like liquid silver slept between mysterious, dense masses of purple shadow. The breath of the night was bland and fragrant. Somewhere at a distance a sentimental orchestra was playing, possibly at the Beverly Hills Hotel. In Chicago the thermometer had shivered in the neighbourhood of zero; New York, according to telegraphic news, was digging out from under a snowfall second only to that of its legendary blizzard. "I want to purr," Lucinda confessed, finding Summerlad's eyes upon her. "You're beginning to fall under the spell of California." "I told you this afternoon I was already sensitive of its enchantment. Tonight, I think, completes its work: I am enslaved." "I must make the most of these moments, then. Presently we'll both be busy, you in especial far too busy to give me many evenings like this." "I'm not at all afraid of being doomed to ennui through any lack of ingenuity in you." "If I'm not mistaken, that's a dare." "It's as you care to take it." He accepted with a smile the smiling gage of her eyes. They understood each other perfectly. When it was time to return to the Alexandria, Summerlad insisted on driving them home himself; and as they drew near to Hollywood swung the car sharply off the highroad, and took a by-way leading into the foothills. In a few minutes more they had left behind every hint of civilization, other than the well-metalled way they travelled, and were climbing a road that wound snakily up precipitous mountainsides, threaded unholy gulches, or struck boldly across spine-like ridges from which the ground, clothed in chaparral, fell dizzily away on either hand into black gulfs of silence. The air grew colder, Lucinda and the Lontaines grateful for the wraps which Summerlad had pressed upon them. In the course of half an hour the car halted on an isolate peak, and all the lowlands lay unfolded to their vision, from the foothills to the sea, a land like a violet pool with a myriad winking facets of blue-white light; as some vast store of diamonds might be strewn by hands of heedless prodigality upon a dark velvet field. Pointing, Summerlad began to recite the names of places represented by lines and groups of lights: Hollywood at their feet, the Wilshire district with Los Angeles beyond, Culver City, Pasadena away to the left, Santa Monica far to the right, Venice, Del Rey, Redondo.... "The kingdoms of the world you're come to conquer, Mrs. Lee." "I shan't say 'Get thee behind me,'" Lucinda retorted; "I've a sensible notion you're safer where I can keep an eye on you." It was true enough that the facile infatuation which California inspires in the uninitiate already held her senses in fee; she felt as one might who had miraculously found the way to cross the far horizon and go down into the magic realms of true romance. But she fell asleep that night to dream of coursing a will-o'-the-wisp through a land whose painted illusion failed and faded as she fled, till in the end there was no more beauty, nor happiness nor hope, but only the bare grin of the desert savage and implacable. She started awake with her husband's name trembling on her lips. XXI The room the Lontaines occupied in the Alexandria adjoined Lucinda's, and while she was lazing over breakfast and trying to find her way about in newspapers whose screaming local patriotism made one feel vaguely ashamed of having been born elsewhere, Fanny tapped on the communicating door and drifted in, en négligé, with a cigarette and an airy nonchalance oddly at war with a problematic shadow that lurked in her eyes. "My amiable first husband," she announced, "has charged me to arrange for an audience at your convenience." "As soon as you like," Lucinda laughed--"I mean, give me time to crawl into some clothes." "Sure you don't mind?--and the day so immature!" "Not a bit. In fact, I've been thinking, if we're really going through with this lunatic adventure, the less time we lose the better." "If!" Fanny caught the word up quickly. "Does that mean you want to reconsider?" "No, dear; merely that I've been wondering, ever since I woke up, whether the night might not have brought your husband perhaps wiser counsel." "So much depends upon what you mean by 'wiser.' But if it's a change of heart, I'm in a position to assure you nothing like that has happened to Harry." "I only meant--between ourselves--I can't think it quite wise of him to risk much on my chances of making good as a movie star." Fanny achieved a ladylike snort of derision. "Never worry about what Harry risks! Besides, I won't for an instant admit there's any chance of failure, so far as you're concerned, Cindy. But I will admit I'm counting on your common-sense to hold Harry down to earth." "How do you mean, dear?" "Oh, it isn't that I question his grasp of business conditions and fundamentals. But he's got such an active mind, he finds it hard to let well enough alone, he's everlastingly embroidering everything he takes an interest in with the most amazing arabesques. Let him run wild, and by nightfall he'll have the motion-picture industry of the United States pooled under one Napoleonic directing head, whose identity I leave you to surmise--and all on the basis of his undertaking to shape the film destinies of Linda Lee. And he'll draw diagrams and produce figures to prove what he predicts can't fail to come true, he'll even name the date of the coming millenium in the Lontaine fortunes. So somebody's got to keep a check on the accelerator, and I'm incompetent, I don't know the first thing about business, and I'm looking to you." "Afraid you're leaning on a broken reed, my dear." "Don't believe it. You're so wonderfully level-headed about things, Cindy, I have implicit confidence in you. Now this morning Harry has waked up with his poor dear bean more than usually addled with gorgeous schemes, and says he wants to consult you. What he really wants is your unconditional approval of everything he has to propose. It's only fair to warn you, any other attitude will prove inacceptable in the extreme. That's what Harry calls 'talking business.' So do be wise as well as kind." "I'll try," Lucinda promised. Considered in the light of this semi-serious warning, all that Lontaine had to lay before her seemed almost disappointingly conservative. But perhaps he was more subtile than Fanny knew. Uncommonly grave and intent when he presented himself for the conference, in business-like fashion he went at once to the heart of things. "I've been thinking it over all night," he assured Lucinda seriously, as she and Fanny settled to give him attention, "and it seems to me I ought to let you know more specifically what you're letting yourself in for, before I ask you to hold yourself pledged." "That sounds suspiciously like preparation for letting me down easily." "Please don't think that." There was a convincing glint of alarm in Lontaine's look. "Never more enthusiastic, more sure of anything than I am of your eventual success. But it's going to mean hard work for both of us, slavery for many months, and hindrances may crop up we ought to be prepared against." "I shan't mind hard work," Lucinda replied. "In fact, I can't think of anything that I'd find more agreeable than consciousness of at least trying to do something worth while with my life. As for disappointments, I don't expect much, so I can't be very hard hit if everything doesn't turn out as happily as one might wish." "If that spirit won't win for us, nothing will," Lontaine declared. "Now for a tentative programme.... Our first step, naturally, will be to incorporate. And since it seems to be the fashion on this side, and our corporate name will serve as a trade-mark, I venture to suggest '_Linda Lee Inc._'" "One name is as good as another, don't you think?" "Good. Call that settled. Then as to finances. Going on my own judgment and observation, I'm all for a small capitalization, just enough to give us working capital with a fair margin to insure against loss of time." "I don't think I understand." "Well, it's like this: My study of American studio conditions has satisfied me that production costs this side are normally excessive. Of course, allowance must be made for exaggeration; it seems to be a custom of the trade for the producer to multiply several times his actual outlay on a picture and broadside the result as if dollars made pictures and not brains. But I happen to know the average cost of a well-made picture today is between eighty and a hundred and twenty thousand--too much by half." "Mr. Culp's secretary told me Alma Daley's pictures cost between a hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand each." "If so, Ben Culp is throwing money away through ignorance or bad management or indifference. The returns are so tremendous from a really good picture, or almost any picture with a popular star, nowadays, the cinema financier can count on getting his money back and as much more in the first year of a picture's life and still have a going property, one that will bring in clear profits for a couple of years to come. So he isn't much inclined to worry about costs. Then again, in the big organizations, production costs are inflated by heavy overhead charges." "I haven't the faintest idea what that means." "Overhead means a proportionate charge against each production of the cost of maintaining the entire organization, including all expenses, many of which have nothing to do with the actual making of pictures. In a small organization, such as ours will be, overhead will be cut to the bone. We can make as good pictures as anybody at an average cost of not more than fifty thousand dollars; with care and ingenuity, once we get going, we'll be able to pare that down considerably. But say a picture does cost fifty thousand, its gross earnings, the first year, should be two-hundred and fifty thousand. Of that the producer gets sixty-five per cent., in round figures a hundred and sixty-five thousand. We ought to turn out not less than four pictures a year, which will mean at least four-hundred and fifty thousand clear profit to be split up between the star, the executive, and the capitalists." "It sounds like a fairy tale." "It _is_ a fairy tale--come true in real life. Nothing else could account for the present-day tribe of motion-picture millionaires. Some of them have a certain shrewdness, almost all have business cunning of a low order, I daresay a dogged Diogenes could run to earth one or two who are honest, but precious few of them are men of either education, taste, artistic instinct or appreciation." "But how could such men----?" "They had imagination enough to see cheap amusement for the masses in what most intelligent people, a dozen years ago, considered merely a mechanical curiosity. So they invested their small savings, these fur-cutters and petty tradesmen and barnstorming actors, in the venture that high finance scorned; and the boom, when it came, found them securely in the saddle. That's why the public gets so much perfunctory and stupid stuff thrown at it today." "But our pictures aren't going to be in that class--are they?" "Rather not! We're going to go at this thing in an intelligent way. We'll pick a good staff, select our stories with care, get the best men to write our scenarios, and gather round us a group of actors, like those who have made the Continental cinema what it is today, more interested in their work than in themselves, willing to take their chances of scoring in fine ensemble acting instead of insistent that every story shall be distorted, every scene directed, every picture cut to throw a so-called star into prominence. Even in America such sincere actors exist, and we'll find and bring them together and prove that cinema production can be an art as well as a money-grubbing scheme." "Bravo! bravo!" Fanny interpolated. "Hark to the dear man! Now if only he'll perform one-half as bravely as he promises----!" Lontaine flushed a little but paid no other heed. "To get back to the question of capitalization.... Arbitrarily setting fifty thousand as a fair production cost, we'll want at least a hundred and fifty thousand to begin with." "But surely we won't need a hundred thousand margin for safety?" "Not for safety--for economy. When we finish our first picture it will be a matter of six months at least before it can be exhibited, before, that is, it will begin to repay its cost. Meantime, we can't afford either to disband our company or hold it together in idleness. We ought to start our second picture the day after we finish the first. Thus we will waste no gestures. And allowing three months to each, we should have our second and third ready by the time the first is released. Do you follow me, Mrs. Druce?" "I think you're quite right. You said yesterday you had some people ready to furnish the necessary capital?" "In half an hour I can find half a dozen who'd jump at the chance," Lontaine replied without a quiver. "They don't know you, of course, Mrs. Druce, I mean they don't know Linda Lee and what she's capable of, and naturally they would be inclined to boggle at such a proposition coming from anybody but me. But they do know me, they have faith in my ideals and my practical knowledge of the business, and nothing would please them better than to see their money at work in my hands. The question is: Do we want to take them in? Is it necessary? Is it good business?" Lucinda shook her head. "I'm sure I don't know," she said, smiling. "Please be patient with my stupidity in money matters." "I mean to say: With profits of approximately half a million a year in sight, do we want to see the third share that would ordinarily go to capital diverted to the pockets of people who have no interest in our business except as a source of revenue?" "Can we avoid that?" "Simply enough, if you care to take the risk. I'll be frank with you and confess I'm not financially in a position to invest in the business myself. But if you should decide to back yourself, use your own money to finance Linda Lee Inc. you would ultimately receive two-thirds of the profits instead of the one you'd be entitled to as the star. And no outsider would have anything to say about the way we conduct our own business." "I don't think I care about that," Lucinda observed thoughtfully. "But it does appeal to me, the idea that if I use my own money nobody but myself can suffer if we're making a mistake." "Then--you will find the capital yourself, Mrs. Druce?" "I think I can manage it without too much trouble." Lontaine sighed quietly and relaxed. The contented glow of last night crept back into his eyes. He produced his cigarette-case, and began to smoke in luxurious puffs. "Need there be any trouble?" "I'm only wondering what Harford Willis will say." Lucinda laughed quietly. She could imagine the horror that would overspread the carven countenance of the gentleman of the old school when he learned that she meant to add the unpardonable solecism of play-acting to the heinous but after all fashionable estate of divorcée. "An old friend of my father's who looks after my estate," she explained to Lontaine's echo of the name. "He thinks I've disgraced myself as it is. When I tell him what more I mean to do, I'm sure he'll think I'm damned beyond redemption--socially, at all events." "Need he know?" "I'm afraid so. I don't believe I've got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars on deposit altogether. You see, most of my income is reinvested promptly as it comes in, leaving only enough to meet my usual, everyday expenses." "Surely you can fob him off with some excuse, Mrs. Druce." Lontaine was frowning at the carpet. "Of course, you understand, I'm only thinking of your peace of mind." "I'll think it over. But whether he likes it or not, we'll go ahead as we've planned. And as for money to get started with, I'm sure I can put something over fifty thousand at your command." "Famous!" Lontaine's brow cleared instantly. "I may call on you for a cheque in a day or two, for preliminary expenses, a retainer for our lawyers, incorporation fees, and the like, you know." "That brings up a question that bothers me," Lucinda confessed. "You see, my cheques will be signed Lucinda Druce, and I don't like to risk my incognita as Linda Lee. I don't want Bellamy to find out where I am--and I don't want anybody else to know but the three of us--and Mr. Summerlad, I'd almost forgotten he knew--unless I really do succeed." "Nothing to fret about," Lontaine declared. "Simply make your cheques payable to me. I'll open an account with a local bank in my name first, and transfer it to the account of Linda Lee Inc. as soon as we incorporate." XXII Lucinda at about this time began to know imitations of a psychic phenomenon working within herself for which she could find no better name than that of multiple personality. She was well aware that she didn't mean by this precisely what the term would have connoted to the mind of a psychoanalyst, but it was as near as she was able to come to a description of the disconcerting performances of the several Lucindas who seemed to tenant her by turns and be forever warring for the right to rule her daily actions and form her final destiny. Figuring her soul in the likeness of a ship at sea, her sensations much resembled those which might conceivably inform a passenger watching half a dozen captains who were continually elbowing one another aside and taking command and steering each a quite new course of individual preference; with the inevitable result that a chart of any one day's run must have closely counterfeited the trackings of a fly that had crawled out of an ink-pot upon a fair white sheet of paper. Most puzzling circumstance of all, the one true captain seemed to be standing apart throughout and observing the antics of these upstart understudies with considerable interest, not a little wonder, and some alarm. Certain it was that she had ceased to be the single-minded and straightforward young woman she had been accustomed to think herself, a creature moulded in an uncompromising cliché of caste and moving through life upon lines definitely laid down, thinking only the thoughts, uttering only the formulæ, describing only the motions, experiencing only the sentiments and sensations considered suitable to one of her condition. One act of mutiny had made an end to that one's reign and left an empty throne to be contested by this odd crew of usurpers, who were so many and so various, and in general so vaguely defined, that they defied cataloguing; though a few there were who by virtue of pronounced idiosyncrasy came to be recognized familiars. There was one clear of vision, unillusioned even unto cynicism, but honourable, straight-spoken and fair-dealing, at once proud and unpretending, who was mostly in evidence in her hours of social life with the Lontaines, as distinguished from the time she spent with them in the way of business. This was Mrs. Bellamy Druce of her equivocal phase, who had ceased to be a wife and had yet to become unwedded: a woman worldly-wise and a trifle weary, but warm of heart, tolerant, and companionable. Then there was Linda Lee, the rather excited and ambitious young thing who was all the while flying hither and yon in motor-cars, making curious acquaintances by the score, simulating an intelligent interest in affairs, legal matters, comparative merits of different studio accommodations, cost of equipment, salaries of employees, all those questions upon which Lontaine did her the honour of consulting her, knowing full well that she was fully satisfied as to his competence and incredulous of her own, and would faithfully endorse any course he might take or recommend. The first function of Miss Lee's office in the scheme was apparently that of drawing cheques. She led a busy life.... It was also anything but an uninteresting one, though Miss Lee often wondered what it was all about and how she had come to be in it and sometimes felt that she was no better than a poor impostor and doomed in due course to be disgracefully shown up. Another was a rare, shy visitant, never viewed by mortal eyes, who held dominion only in the dead hours of these nights when Lucinda lay wakeful and lonely, feeling lost without that which for so long had seemed an essential part of life, Bel's love and the dearness of him. A pathetic spirit, prone to tears and sighs and bitter self-reproachings. But when morning came, this one had always retreated to the outermost marches of memory, where she lingered, looking back a little wistfully, a timid wraith with pleading eyes, tenuous and evanescent as the souvenir of some caress long perished. Again one was aware of a Lucinda who, abhorring the vacuum of empty hours, committed the maddest extravagance and fairly ran amok in shops, buying right and left with a recklessness that soon made her unawares the axis of a gale of whispers; in this manner dissipating a minor fortune before her first month in Los Angeles had run out. Lamentably there was a Lucinda who did not scruple to resort to the shabbiest shifts to compass her ends; who, for example, without one qualm of conscience wrote to Harford Willis that, having been influenced to delay proceeding to Reno, she had fallen under the spell of Southern California, thought seriously of making it her future home, and would be glad if he would turn her certain investments into ready cash against the contingency of her deciding to purchase some princely property. Last of all the major company of these lately apprehended Lucindas was the woman emotionally malcontent, newly fallen out of love but none the less still in love with love, who with eyes now amused, now indulgent, now shocked or startled, saw herself slowly and reluctantly but surely weakening to the wooing of Lynn Summerlad. In a way the thing seemed fated. She knew nobody else, aside from the Lontaines. She was meeting people daily, of course, but not on terms to warrant any but the most commonplace civilities: men of affairs who reasonably reckoned her a pretty nonentity and concentrated on Lontaine as the person with money to spend; now and again some minor celebrity of the cinema colony, who, if male, would find some means to let her know she wouldn't be too ill treated should she succumb, or if female, would both envy and resent her inimitable chic, and at the same time put her in a place as a mere amateur who mustn't expect too much. When she came to look back at those days, Lucinda saw herself as one always on the go with the Lontaines and Summerlad in his spectacular motor-car: pelting headlong for some objective leagues away, Riverside for luncheon at the Mission Inn, San Diego for a week-end, Santa Barbara for the drive along the magnificent Coastal Highway, or any other of two-score remote play-grounds; going out of an evening to one of the local restaurants, Victor Hugo's for its good food and urbane service, Marcelle's for dancing and its dumbfoundering scheme of decorations, Sunset Inn for the lark of it and the people one saw, the Ship for its wild traditions, or to some lost place in the labyrinth of strange streets below South Main, to which Summerlad alone knew the way, where one might get food purely exotic in character, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese; or (and this was part of the programme of nearly every night) braving the bill-of-fare at one or another of the city theatres or their arrogant rivals, the sumptuous cinemas. In the course of that first month Lucinda sat through more photoplays than she had ever seen before, interested even when, as all too often, they were overweeningly ambitious of intention and sorry in execution; determined to read their riddle and learn what Summerlad and Lontaine were talking about when they argued in the jargon of the studios.... But it was really the audiences that thronged these thundering temples of the silent drama that fascinated her, audiences of a texture inexplicably strange to Eastern eyes, like the street crowds from which they were drawn, so dense and constant that one was tempted to believe the people of Los Angeles never went home except to sleep. Such torrents of motor vehicles brawled through the city channels, the only wonder was that anybody ever walked. Yet it was seldom Lucinda's fortune to view the sidewalks in the heart of town when they were not aswarm with moving masses of the most heterogeneous composition, shuffling, staring, oddly taciturn. The great body of these seemed to be sober-sided souls in steady circumstances; a bourgeoisie smug and semi-shabby, ignorant of its past, heedless of its future, largely unconcerned with its present; self-dedicated to existences as uninteresting and useful as a cow's. Summerlad cursed it with a local aphorism to the sense that Los Angeles was governed by small-town people from the Middle West who had come to California each with one lung and one dollar and a grim determination to hang onto both to the bitter end. Infiltrating this primary element was one alien to it but comprehending also figures that might have served for a pageant of North American history, figures many of them like old wood-cuts brought to life; red Indians, Down East Yankees, Mexicans, gaunt hillsmen from Kentucky and Tennessee, towering Texans, ranchmen from the plains, and folk in whose eyes shone the brooding abstraction of the desert; in the main ill-clothed and uncouth of gesture, hiding behind apathetic masks a certain awe and sense of awkwardness. And then, like spume wind-torn from the crests of sullen seas, glittering with rainbow iridescence, a froth of creatures money-drunk and amusement-mad, drones lured to California by its fabled Winter climate, and an earth-born army audaciously experimenting with wings bestowed by the careless bounty of the cinema. Against this picture of a ceaseless crush in the centre of the city, Lucinda set in contrast so sharp that it never lost its power to stir her wonder, a picture on every hand repeated off the main arteries of traffic in the radiating residential suburbs: an interminable street of broad-eaved white bungalows hugging the ground, each isolate in its unfenced plot of green, to each its vines, its flower beds, its stripling orange trees, and each and every one silent and in all seeming lifeless, cowering in the day-long glare of that vast and empty vault of blue, like a city of doll-houses which the children had outgrown.... XXIII The incorporators of Linda Lee Inc. were not, however, long left dependent on motor-cars that plied for hire and the orange-and-black outrage on wheels which was everywhere known as "Lynn Summerlad's bus." One of Lontaine's first acts as president of the fledgling organization was to pay out ten thousand dollars of its capital for a startling blue-and-silver car, the whim of an absent-minded motion-picture star whose sudden flitting from threats of arrest on charges of bigamy had left the car on the hands of its builders, to be picked up at what Lontaine called a bargain price. Lucinda was disposed to hold the cost immaterial, but demurred about accepting it for her personal use; and the consideration urged by Summerlad, that the more eye-arresting the colour scheme the better the advertisement for Linda Lee, failed to move her. So Lontaine felt constrained to use it himself; and Fanny demurely professed resignation, pointing out that in such a conveyance no husband would ever dare pursue any but paths of conspicuous rectitude. For herself Lucinda eventually selected a modest landaulet of dark maroon; but it saw little service, save on shopping trips, till she began to use it for daily transportation to and from the studio. Weeks slipped stealthily away, the rainy season waned, a Spring ensued like an Eastern Summer, with lusty vegetation, lengthening days of dry heat, and nights deliciously cooled by airs that swept through every sunless hour from the highlands to the sea; while delays on delays accumulated and still the day when "shooting" should begin lingered remotely down tomorrow's dim horizon. Lontaine had leased studio space in the Zinn plant, which Summerlad recommended as the most modern and completely equipped on the Coast. For this the company was paying a weekly rental of fifteen hundred dollars. An expensive executive and technical staff, lacking only a director, was kicking heels of enforced idleness on full pay. A story had been selected, an old novel by a moderately popular author to which Zinn had in 1914 purchased all motion-picture rights outright for five hundred dollars and which he was now willing to part with for ten thousand as a special courtesy because he had taken such a mad fancy to Lontaine. A scenario writer, warranted by Zinn "the best in the business," had received five thousand for casting the story into continuity form, the labour of one whole week, and retired rejoicing to his hundred-and-fifty a week job in the Zinn scenario department. A reading of his bastard brain-child had persuaded Lucinda that continuity writing must be the mystery its adepts alleged; in fact, she couldn't understand the greater part of it, and what she did understand somewhat preyed upon her mind. But Lontaine seemed satisfied, Summerlad solaced her misgivings with the assurance that P. Potter Monahan simply couldn't write a poor continuity, and both agreed that Barry Nolan would know what to do to make it right when he got down to work on it. Incidentally, he did: Nolan read it half-through, thoughtfully shied the manuscript out of a window, and dictated a continuity all his own, of which nobody but himself could make head or tail, and which at times in the course of its production seemed to puzzle even its perpetrator. But this Nolan was a resourceful lad and never hesitated to revise himself when at a loss: "That's out," he would inform his assistant; "we'll cover up the break with a subtitle. C'mon, let's shoot the close-ups;" or it might be: "Got another angle on that now. Instead of that scene where she casts him out of her life forever, I'm going to stick in some business Leslie Carter used to do in the last act of _Zaza_. We'll get round to that later. What's next?" But these revelations of an unique technique, justly celebrated as such, were reserved for the indefinite future. Notwithstanding that he was under contract to Linda Lee Inc. to begin work as soon as he had finished the production he was then making, Lucinda was to be hounded through her professional début by another megaphone than Barry Nolan's. In the engagement of that one resided the only reason for the delays. While negotiations for his services (at twice as much pay as he had ever received before) were in progress, Nolan confidently expected to be free in a fortnight. The day he signed the contract he admitted that he might possibly keep them waiting a trifle longer. It was two months later when he at length notified Lontaine that he was running up to San Francisco for a few days' rest and relaxation but would positively be "on the lot" and ready to go to work, in another week. In the meantime Lucinda had moved to the Hollywood Hotel, the Lontaines to a furnished bungalow nearby, where they vainly pressed her to join them. She thought it wiser to decline. "I'm far too fond of both of you to risk living with you," she explained. "It's no good deliberately placing ourselves in a position to get fed to the teeth with one another. Besides, I've got to get accustomed to shifting for myself, and it's high time I was learning to breathe in a proper motion-picture atmosphere." This the Hollywood provided to admiration. Summerlad assured Lucinda, and on her own observation she could well believe, that at one stage or another of their careers almost every motion-picture player of consequence in the country must have registered at this hotel. Many continued to reside there, though no reason existed why they should not observe the custom of other happy holders of long-term contracts and move into homes of their own. Aside from such fixtures--and a non-professional element composed mainly of middle-aged folk with set incomes who had contracted the habit of spending their Winters and not much else in California--the hotel boasted a restless movement of birds of passage: stars of the legitimate stage brought on from New York to play in a single picture, lesser lights coming West at their own risk to solicit a "try-out;" playwrights and novelists with reputations in two continents declining to profit by the experience of innumerable predecessors, fatuously assuming that imagination, intelligence and honest workmanship had a dog's chance in the studios; directors enjoying their favorite pastime of hopping from Coast to Coast with everything paid; overlords of the cinema visiting the West Coast to look after their own or their rivals' fences and filch actors and directors from one another. These came and went by every trans-continental train. Remained the incurable addicts with yet another element, hardly less habitué but humbler, maintaining precarious residence in the hotel on meagre means, on remittances from home or God knew how (and, knowing, wept) hanging on desperately to hope of happier tomorrows, when they, too, would have their own cars call to take them to their daily toil, instead of trudging or trolleying from studio to studio in pursuit of the elusive day's work as an extra: a class largely feminine and insistently youthful. With most of these Lucinda became acquainted by sight, with many she grew accustomed to exchange smiles and the time of day. They were a friendly lot, indomitably cheerful and brisk. If sheer joy of living didn't keep their eyes bright, belladonna did; their hand-painted smiles were unfailing; their slender, silken legs twinkled in vivacious by-play on veranda steps and in the public rooms; by every sign they were ever on the wing and jolly glad. Lucinda liked them all involuntarily, and wished them well; and when she came to know some of them better her heart ached for them. This was inevitable. The most glacial reserve must have melted to the warmth of such gayly casual overtures. It was good business to know Miss Linda Lee, and they made it their business without undue delay. She had not been twenty-four hours a sister-guest before all these young things knew an astonishing lot about her that wasn't so, and a deal that was. Lucinda was a raw tenderfoot who was going to finance her own company, a prominent stage favorite trying her luck under an assumed name, a Baltimore society beauty with the motion-picture bee in her bonnet, nobody at all except the dear friend of this or that nationally known man, who was paying to put her into pictures to get rid of her. It didn't matter who or what she was, more than what was irrefutably established: that she was Linda Lee, she had simply sloughs of coin, she was to star in her own productions, Barry Nolan had been engaged to direct her, Lynn Summerlad had gone nutty about her; all of which summed up to this, that Lucinda was in a position to utter words of power whose fruit might be days and days of work at ten or fifteen per--who knew?--perhaps the miracle of a steady job! They made up to her saucily or shyly, according to the style they believed became them best, with assurance or with humility, with ostensible indifference, and some in open desperation. But on one point they were all agreed: they wanted work. Lucinda spoke about two or three of them to Lontaine, who laughed and advised her to recommend them to Barry Nolan's assistant, when that far day dawned on which the question of casting subordinate rôles would be in order. She spoke to Lynn Summerlad, and was rewarded with a worried frown, the first sign of care she had ever detected in him, together with some well-chosen thoughts on the dangers of contracting haphazard hotel acquaintanceships. Lucinda explained that she hadn't sought them, they had been practically forced upon her; she could see no merit in being rude and "upstage." Summerlad retorted darkly that one never could tell; the motion-picture colony harboured any number of queer birds; it wouldn't do for her of all women to pick up with a wrong one. "First thing you know, they'll be trying to borrow money from you." Lucinda was silent for want of a conscience that would sanction an indignant rejoinder. "I was afraid of this when you moved into the hotel. But then I told myself not to be a fool, you weren't the sort to encourage total strangers." With malice, Lucinda enquired absurdly: "Are you reproaching me with relaxing from the conventions of my former milieu, Mr. Summerlad?" "You know very well what I mean, Linda." "You think, perhaps, I'm growing to be a shade too free and easy?" "If you must know, I do." "But this is, after all, Hollywood." "No excuse for doing as the Hollywoodenheads do." "Then, I take it, you think it might be more discreet of me to stop going about with you alone." Since the same roof no longer sheltered them, the Lontaines had ceased invariably to include Lucinda in their plans and gaddings, as when social courtesies were extended them by people whom Lontaine met in the way of business and to whom Lucinda was not known at all. So she was enjoying some little time to herself, when Summerlad's attentions permitted; and when they didn't, felt free to follow her inclination and dispense with chaperonage on occasion, irrespective of the looks of the thing. (If anything could be held to have any particular "looks" where principles of laissez-faire and assiduous attention to one's own concerns were so generally vogue.) Linda Lee, furthermore, could do as she pleased when her pleasure must have been taboo to Mrs. Bellamy Druce. "O Lord!" Summerlad groaned. "I might've known better than to start an argument with a woman." "I don't relish being reproached by you for lack of decorum." "Decorum! I'm only anxious you shan't get in with the wrong sort, be victimized or worse." "Touching thoughtfulness on my behalf.... But Lynn: what do you mean by 'worse'?" "Not sure I know, myself. I don't want anything to happen to worry you." "What could?" "Oh, I don't know. If I did, I could take measures to prevent its happening. But not so long as you insist on living here. A hotel's no place for a woman alone. People all the time coming and going.... Who knows who and what they are? You might be recognized." "So that's what's on your mind?" "I don't like to think of any outside influences working on you just now." "Just now?" "Distracting your attention from really important matters, like me and what you're going to do about me. I'm so desperately in love with you, Linda." Lucinda said nothing for a little. She had been expecting this for days. Now that it came it found her, of course, unprepared. Nothing to complain of in that; a declaration of love always finds a woman unprepared, no matter how long she may have been preparing for it. The primitive instinct of flight from the male is deathless, though it manifest only as in that one brief moment of panic that Lucinda knew. She was glad of the darkness of that section of the hotel veranda where they had been sitting for a quarter of an hour after returning from dîner à deux in the city. It had seemed early to part, as people interested in each other reckon the age of an evening together--not much after ten--and since no one was visible on the veranda, Lucinda had suggested that Summerlad stop and chat a while. Now she wished she hadn't. Not that it made much difference. This had been bound to come before long. One knew the signs in a man who had held his peace about as long as he could. Five weeks since that night when, in the Beverly Hills bungalow, she had concluded that Summerlad's interest in her was neither impersonal nor of a transitory nature.... An amazingly long time for him to wait, had she but known, a tribute to the sincerity of the passion she had inspired, to the respect in which he held her whose training had not been such as to encourage much respect for women in general. Almost anybody in Hollywood would have told her that Lynn Summerlad was "a fast worker." That no one had done so was probably due in most part to an impression that to carry such information were work of supererogation.... The worst of it was, she was glad. How strange (and what proof of her heart's unique intricacy!) that she should be affected by such paradoxical displeasure in the pleasure it gave her to hear Lynn profess a passion of which she had been so long and well aware; as if it grated upon some slumbering sense of what was fitting; as if any reason today existed why Lynn shouldn't be in love with her and, for the matter of that, she with him (only, of course, she wasn't) or why he need hesitate to speak and she be loath to listen.... "Well, Linda?" She put away her pensiveness, smiling softly in the darkness that enfolded them, smiling to see Summerlad bending forward in his chair, whose arm just failed to touch the arm of hers, anxiously searching her face for a clue to her mind, but with the anxiety of impatience more than the anxiety of doubt. He wanted to have her in his arms. A pleasant place to be, perhaps; but she wasn't ready yet, she was not yet sure.... "Well, my friend!" she said in amused indulgence--"so it seems you love me." "How long have you known it?" "Quite as long as you have loved me." "And you----?" "I don't know yet." He ventured too confidently: "I don't want to hurry you----" "You couldn't, Lynn. And--you won't be wise if you count on me." "You don't mind my loving you, Linda?" "No. I think it makes me happy." "Then I'm going to count on you--unless you want me to think you're merely amusing yourself." "But you don't think that. So be patient." "I'm not at all sure patience and love are even related." "Then I'm afraid the only kind of love you know is not the kind that lasts." "If so, I'm glad I've known none that lasted; that leaves me free to be truly in love with you." "That's rather clever of you, Lynn, almost too clever." "I've got to be clever, I guess, to make you love me." "Lynn, I'm afraid you're artful. Yes--and much too experienced! You'd better go now before you talk me into something that isn't real and.... If you do love me, you aren't wanting anything else." "You'd really like to get rid of me?" "For tonight, yes. I need to be alone to think--about you." "Fair enough--if that's a promise." "It's a promise." Lucinda stood up, a maneuvre that lifted Summerlad unwillingly out of his chair. He took her hand and sketched an intention of using it to draw her to him. But she laughed quietly, shaking her head. "Good night, my dear." "I've never tried to kiss you, Linda...." "And won't, I know, till I want you to." "Confound you! That's what I get for giving you an opening to put me on my honour." "It's more than you'd have got--or deserved--if you hadn't." His lips barely failed to find her hand; Lucinda had drawn away in the nick of time. "Don't go before you've answered my question, Lynn." "Question?" "What I'm to do about these unlucky young women?" "Hoped you'd forgotten them." "I can't." "You've got too soft a heart, I'm afraid, Linda. I don't see why you always let it rule your head--except about me." "Perhaps it's a good sign, though." "I'm sure I don't know how to advise you. Obviously you can't turn Linda Lee Inc. into a refuge for misguided females." "There's one girl in especial I'm worried about, Lynn. She seems so ill and wretched. And even so, she's pretty. I'm sure a little happiness would make her radiant. Why can't we find or make a chance for her somewhere?" "Once you start that sort of thing, the whole pack will be on your back, they won't give you a minute's peace. But if you insist.... What's her type?" "Olive brune; about my height; and the loveliest, most tragic eyes...." "Any experience?" "Yes. She told me she'd been working in the East, but her health broke down and the doctors advised California. She'd been out here before, I gathered, but not in pictures. At least--I'm not sure--that's what I understood. She only got in last night, and they put her at my table in the dining-room, so we met at luncheon today." "Lost no time boning you for a job----" "She didn't suggest anything of the sort. I don't believe she's heard yet about my having my own company. All she said was, she hoped she wouldn't have too much trouble finding work, she needed it so desperately." "Well, since you make a point of it, I'll see what I can do--speak to Zinn about her. What's her name?" "Miss Marquis--Nelly Marquis, I think she said." Summerlad had just then opened his cigarette case. After a thoughtful pause he shut it with a snap, neglecting to help himself to a cigarette, and replaced it in his pocket. Then becoming sensible of the query in Lucinda's attitude, he asked in a dull voice: "What name did you say?" "Nelly Marquis. Why? Do you know her?" "I know a good deal about her. Rather a bad lot, I'm afraid. Look here, Linda: I wish you'd drop her." "Don't be stupid, Lynn." "I'm not. I mean it. I can't very well tell you what I know, but I do wish you'd take my word for it and cut this woman out. She's really not the sort you can afford to get mixed up with." "You're sure, Lynn? You really want me to understand she is--what you're trying to avoid saying?" "Yes--and worse. I'm in earnest, Linda. I think you might trust me. After all, I ought to know my way about Hollywood, I've lived in it long enough." "Of course I trust you, Lynn. I'm sorry though. I felt so sorry for her, she didn't seem one of the usual sort." "She isn't." Summerlad gave a curt, meaning laugh. "But you said you wanted to get rid of me, and I think I'd better go before the old curiosity gets in its fine work and you ask me questions I wouldn't want to answer." He possessed himself of Lucinda's hands again and kissed them ardently, while she looked on with lenient eyes, more than half in love already. Why, then, must she persist in hanging fire with him? Was it merely crude, primordial instinct prompting her to withstand the male till his will prevailed? Or was there something wanting in the man, some lack divined by a sense in her subtle, anonymous, and inarticulate? Infinitely perplexed, Lucinda lingered on where Summerlad had left her, near the far end of the veranda, where it rounded the rotund corner of the hotel. Here there was always shade by day, thanks to a screen of subtropical foliage, by night a deeper gloom than elsewhere on the veranda, and at all times a better show of privacy. The engine roared as Summerlad's car swung down the drive, then changed its tune to a thick drone as it took the boulevard, heading away for Beverly Hills. Still Lucinda rested as she was, absently observing the play of street lights on leaves whose stir was all but imperceptible in the softly flowing air. Impossible to understand herself, to read her own heart, make up her mind.... A thin trickle of sound violated the mid-evening hush, a broken and gusty beating of stifled sobs that for a time she heard without attention, then of a sudden identified. Windows of guest-rooms looked out on the veranda, but Lucinda had made sure these were closed and lightless before permitting Summerlad's wooing to become ardent. The semi-round room on the corner, however, had French windows let in at an angle which she could not see. After a moment she moved quietly to investigate, and discovered that one of these was open, that the sobbing had its source in a shapeless heap upon the floor in the darkness beyond. Entering and kneeling, Lucinda touched gently the shoulder of the stricken woman. "Please!" she begged. "Can I do anything?" In a convulsive tremor the woman choked off her sobs and lifted her face to stare vacantly. Enough light seeped in from the street to reveal the features of Nelly Marquis. Her voice broke huskily on the hush: "Who are you?" "Miss Lee--Linda Lee. Can't I do something----?" With startling fury the girl struck aside Lucinda's hands and at the same time flung herself back and away. "No!" she cried thickly. "No, no, no! Not you! Go away--please go!" "I only wanted to help you, if I could," Lucinda explained, getting to her feet. "If you're unhappy--I'm so sorry----" The movement must have been misinterpreted, for the girl sprang up like a threatened animal. "I don't want your help!" she stormed throatily. "I don't want anything to do with you--only to be left alone!" She flung herself at Lucinda as if to thrust her out by force. "Go! go! go!" she screamed. Then the window slammed. "Poor thing!" Lucinda told herself--"she must have heard...." XXIV There was at this time little room in Lucinda's inner life for other people's troubles, she was much too agreeably engrossed in doting on this radiant new avatar of Linda Lee, victress in a form of duel of which Summerlad was reputed a master who had never known defeat. Rumours current of his success with women had found her credulous and lenient; mortal vanity saw to that. It feeds on strange foods, vanity, it waxes fat on inconsistencies. Think as well as you will of yourself, you shall not find unacceptable the belief that one well loved by many has been laid low by love of you alone.... And indeed a great part of that indecision at which Lucinda in those days played so daintily was due to the knowledge, unformulated in her consciousness but none the less exercising constant influence on her moods, that she was less in love with Lynn than in love with being loved by Lynn Summerlad the idolized. In many ways admirable, a fine animal who kept himself always exquisitely fit, intelligent enough to share or seem to share her every taste and prejudice, Lynn had laid a spell upon her mind no less than on her senses. The minor faults of which she had earlier been aware, the little things he sometimes did or said that jarred, he had amended. Or she was no longer competent to perceive them.... So she put away all care on account of the strange woman whose unhappiness had excited her quick compassion, and let fancy have its fling at the dissipation of thinking how blessed was her lot, how supremely distinguished as fortune's favorite she was who had everything, youth, beauty, health and riches, and to whom all things good were granted, love, friends, admiration and envy of the general, and--never to be misprized--a life, in its present phase, of vicissitudes highly diverting. And if she knew seasons when memories twinged like an old wound slow to mend beneath its scar, she found a certain casuistry to console regrets and compound with conscience, holding herself spiritually, as in material circumstances, a free agent, free to listen to any man, if she would, and if she would to love him. The phantom fiction of a legal bond, all that was left of her married life, she could do away at will, at little cost in inconvenience.... That morning, as every morning now, she woke with a smile responsive to the smiling promise of the day; and when she had lazily girded on her armour against fault-finding eyes, called for her car and sallied forth to while away yet another day of idleness. Her rooms were so situate, at the end of one wing of the hotel and on the lower floor, that to reach the main entrance she had to pass the corner-room now occupied by Nelly Marquis; and malicious luck would have it that the two should meet. The Marquis girl had been out and was returning with a small packet gripped in a shabbily gloved hand. A well-made woman with a graceful carriage, her face held elements of beauty of a wild, sweet sort, but dimmed and wasted by despondency and impaired health. Today the dark rings under her eyes were deeper, the eyes themselves more desperate than when their look had first appealed to Lucinda's sympathies. And seeing her so, Lucinda with a solicitous cry--"Why, Miss Marquis!"--paused and extended an impulsive hand. The girl swerved away from the hand, shrinking to the wall, her scant natural colour ebbing till the rouge was livid on cheeks and lips, while her eyes grew hard and hot. "Well!" she said sullenly--"what do you want?" Confounded by this proof of a hostility as pertinacious as it was perverse, Lucinda faltered: "But--you are ill----" "Well: and if I am, what's that to you?" The words uttered in a level tone nevertheless seemed to force explosively past the tremulous, waxen lips. "Oh, don't worry your head about me; think about yourself. Don't forget you can be contaminated by a creature like me, don't forget"--she accomplished a singularly true reproduction of Summerlad's tone--"I'm 'really not the sort you can afford to get mixed up with'!" "I'm so sorry you heard, Miss Marquis. Of course neither of us had any idea you were----" "Eavesdropping! why don't you say it? I'm not ashamed." "But are you fair to me? I meant you no harm, I didn't say--what you resent--you know." The girl gave a grimace of pure hate. "No," she snarled--"_you_ didn't say anything unkind, you were too busy posing as Lady Bountiful to pass uncharitable remarks! But he--he said enough--enough for me. Oh, I'm not saying he didn't tell the truth! I'm 'a bad lot,' all right--a rotten bad lot, if you want to know--and I'll be worse before I'm better. So you watch out and keep away from me--d'you hear? I want and warn you to keep away from me. I don't want your pity or your charity or any of your holier-than-thou butting in--all I want's just to be let alone. Any time I change my mind, I'll send you an engraved notice.... I trust I make myself clear, Miss Lee!" "Yes, thank you," said Lucinda coolly--"quite"--and went her way. Insolence so patently hysterical could neither hurt nor harden her heart. She consigned the affront to the limbo of the insignificant, and had put all thought of it away when, fifteen minutes later, her car brought her to the Lontaine bungalow. Here Lucinda had to rout Fanny out of bed and make her dress, against her protestations that she'd been on a party the night before, with Harry and some people, so needed rest and kind words more than exercise and open air. The reflection cast a shadow as transitory as a flying cloud's upon the bright tranquillity of Lucinda's temper, that Fanny, by her own frank account, had been going in for parties rather heavily of late, and it wasn't doing her any good. Not that she showed ill effects more than in a feverish look that really enhanced her blonde prettiness. But with Fanny's insatiable appetite for the sort of thing that she called fun.... After all, that was Fanny's concern, and Harry's. One had confidence in their ultimate good sense, in their knowing where to draw the line, when to call a halt. From the Lontaine bungalow the two proceeded to the Zinn Studios, having nothing better to do and thinking to pick up Harry there and run him down to the Alexandria for luncheon. But the shabbily furnished little office assigned to Linda Lee Inc. was empty, the blue-and-white car was missing from the yard, and nobody had any information concerning Lontaine's whereabouts or probable return. This was nothing unusual, Lontaine was always on the wing, blowing to and fro between Los Angeles and the studio; but his absence left the young women at loose ends until Fanny suggested that they look up Lynn, find out what he was doing, and make him stop it. Summerlad's company was busy doing nothing at all on one of the enclosed stages, contentedly lounging in and about a bizarre ball-room set and waiting for something to happen; the occupation which, Lucinda by this time had come to know, earns the motion-picture actor about ninety per cent. of his wages; the other ten being paid him for actual acting. Neither Lynn nor Joseph Jacques, his director, was in evidence, but the cameraman said the two of them had retired to the director's office for a conference. To the office Lucinda and Fanny accordingly repaired and--their knock being answered by a morose growl--there discovered Summerlad, in elaborate evening clothes, tilted back in a desk-chair, a thoughtful scowl on his handsome, painted face, with Jacques, a mild-mannered, slender young cinema sultan in riding-breeches and boots, sitting on the desk itself and moodily drumming its side with his heels. These got upon their feet in such confusion that Fanny was moved wickedly to enquire whether Lucinda or herself had been the subject of their confabulations. "And," she further stipulated, sternly, "what you were saying about whichever of us. I never saw two people look more guilty of scandal." "It wasn't scandal," Jacques insisted with an air of too transparent virtue. "We had been talking about Miss Lee, though." "Wondering if you'd care to be an angel to us, Linda." "Look out, Linda," Fanny warned, "when a man begs a woman to be an angel to him, he's generally working her up to do something she oughtn't." "What is it?" Lucinda enquired, laughing at Summerlad's dashed expression. "I'm not sure you ought to, at that," he replied--"in your position, that is. But it'd be sure angelic of you." "Help us out of the worst sort of a hole, Miss Lee," Jacques added. "I wish you would." "But what is it?" "Oh, nothing at all!" Summerlad assured her with a laugh that decried the very idea--"all we want you to do is forget you're a star, or going to be, and play a little part with me in this picture we're doing now." "But how can I? I'd love to--you know that, Lynn--but we've no way of knowing when Mr. Nolan will be ready." "That's just it, Miss Lee. It isn't any part at all, so to speak, we'll only need you three or four days; what Mr. Summerlad's afraid of is, you'll think it beneath your dignity." "Is it such an undignified part?" "Well, you'd have to play second fiddle to Alice Drake." Miss Drake was Summerlad's leading woman pro tem. Lucinda made a laughing face. "Is that all? Going on the fuss you make, I thought you'd at least want me to play a Sennett Bathing Beauty. I see no reason in the world why I should balk at playing second to as good an actress as Miss Drake." "Well, not only that, but the part isn't big enough for you, Linda--only a bit, you know, so little it's scarcely worth mentioning." "Then who will know or care who acts in it? I'd perfectly love to do it for you, if you think I can." "Knew she would!" Jacques crowed. "What'd I tell you? A thoroughbred's a thoroughbred every time!" "You are a brick, Linda, and no mistake. You've no idea what a load you've taken off our minds. You see, this part, while nothing to speak of in itself, is awfully important to the picture in one way; it absolutely demands somebody who's got everything you've got." "If we stick in anybody that hasn't," Jacques interpolated, "the whole works will postolutely go ker-flooey." "We did the best we could," Summerlad pursued, "had Gloria Glory engaged; but this morning, when she was to report for work, she sent round word she had ptomaine poisoning and was being taken to a hospital." "Gloria Glory?" Fanny put in. "Why, I saw her down at Sunset last night. And the only thing the matter with her then was _not_ ptomaine poisoning." "Too much party," Jacques interpreted. "I had the hunch, all right. Gloria sure do crook a mean elbow when she gets it unlimbered." "Then you'll do it, Linda?" "I'll love doing it. What do you want me to wear?" "You'll do!" Summerlad chuckled. "Only a natural-born picture actress would ask what to wear before wanting to know what the part was. You begin tomorrow if you can get your costume ready, and you'll only want one, a riding habit." "Cross-saddle costume, Miss Lee," Jacques explained. "White breeches and a pair of swell boots--you know--like the society dames wear when they go hoss-backing in Central Park, New York, if you've ever seen 'em." "Yes," said Lucinda soberly--"once or twice." "Have you got a riding costume, Linda?" "No; but I daresay I can pick one up in Los Angeles this afternoon." "Do that, will you, Miss Lee, if you can? And be on the lot at eight tomorrow, made up, please. It's a forty-mile run to the location, and we want to get there early's we can so's to get all set to shoot when the light's right." Actor and director pranced grateful attendance on the two women as they returned to their motor-car; and when it had vanished down the drive, Summerlad fell upon Jacques and shook him fervently by the hand. "You're a true friend, Joe!" he declared in mock-emotional accents. "I'll never forget what you've done for me this day." "Worked out pretty, didn't it?" the director grinned. "What d'you know about them dames walking in on us, just when we'd got it all doped? But you always were a fool for luck, Lynn, s'far's the skirts are concerned--you old hyena!" "I am this flop, anyway," Summerlad mused with a far-away look. "Those white riding-breeches were a regular inspiration, Joe: if she finds a pair before night, I miss my guess." "Well, it don't do to ride your luck too hard. You've got all afternoon with the coast clear--maybe! Get your make-up off and beat it quick." XXV As it turned out, however, Lucinda experienced no great difficulty in fitting herself acceptably with a ready-made costume of white linen for cross-saddle riding, and light tan boots of soft leather. The prospect of at last doing real work before a camera, after her long wait since falling in with Lontaine's scheme, inspired a quiet elation. She had already been elaborately tested and re-tested, of course, by the cameraman under contract with Linda Lee Inc.; she had ceased to feel self-conscious in the fierce white light of the Kliegs, and was familiar almost to satiety with the sensation, at first so nightmarish, of sitting in a darkened chamber and watching herself move to and fro upon a lighted screen. This last, however, had given Lucinda confidence in the photographic value of her good looks; and she had furthermore learned, through measuring her unproved abilities by those of established screen actresses daily displayed to the millions, not to be apprehensive of scoring an utter failure when her time came to entertain with the mobile shadow of her self audiences that had paid to be amused. So she felt assured of doing well enough in her work with Summerlad. And if her mood was serious, when she alighted at the hotel and gave a bellboy her purchases, it was because she was thinking of nothing but her immediate purpose, which was to try on her costume all complete, with hat, boots, gloves and riding-crop, before a mirror, partly to make sure every detail was as it should be, but mostly to satisfy herself that she would look as fetching as she felt she must. It wasn't till she found herself in the corridor leading to her suite that Lucinda remembered Nelly Marquis; she hadn't given the girl two thoughts since morning, and in all likelihood wouldn't have given her another had she not met the bellboy returning from delivering the parcels to her maid, and paused to tip him in front of the door to the corner room. Then, as he thanked her and passed on, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar, the room beyond dark with early dusk, and finally, where the light from the corridor struck in across the threshold, a white hand at rest upon the floor, a woman's hand, palm up, the fingers slightly contracted, absolutely still. A startling thing to see.... For a few seconds Lucinda stood entranced with premonitions of horror. Then she moved to the door and rapped on it gently. There was no response, the hand didn't stir. She called guardedly: "Miss Marquis!"--and when nobody answered laid hold of the knob. The door met a soft obstacle when less than half-open, and would yield no farther. The light now disclosed an arm bare to the elbow. With a shiver Lucinda stepped in and groped along the wall till her fingers found and turned the switch illuminating the central chandelier. Nelly Marquis lay supine, breathing if at all so lightly that the movement of her bosom, beneath the ragged lace of a dingy pink silk négligé, was imperceptible. Her lids, half lowered, showed only the whites of rolled up eyes, her lips were parted and discoloured, her painted pallor was more ghastly even than it had been in the morning. On the evidence of her body's posture in relation to the partly opened door, she had been taken suddenly ill, had rushed to call for assistance, and had fallen in the act of turning the knob. Lucinda shut the door, knelt, touched the girl's wrist, and found it icy cold. But her bosom was warm, the heart in it faintly but indisputably fluttering. In relief and pity, she essayed to take the girl up in her arms and carry her to the bed, but found the dead weight too great. Casting round at random for something in the nature of a restorative, smelling salts or the like, she saw nothing that would serve, at first, only a disarray of garments and other belongings characteristic of natures in which care for appearances and personal neatness has become atrophied through one cause or another--if it ever existed. But she noticed absently that one of the windows stood wide to the veranda, and went to close it and draw the shade before pursuing her search. Then, in the bathroom, she found a bottle of aggressive toilet water and a pint flask of whiskey, half emptied. Alternately moistening the pale lips with the whiskey and bathing the brows and temples with the pungent water, she observed for the first time a reddish bruise under the left eye, the mark of a blow, possibly sustained in falling. But there was nothing nearby that the girl could have struck to inflict such a hurt except the door-knob, and if she had struck this with such force she must have slammed the door. It was puzzling.... Her ministrations eventually began to take effect. The bleached lips quivered, closed, then opened and closed several times. The woman's lashes trembled and curtained her eyes. Lucinda went to the bathroom for water. When she returned with half a glassful liberally laced with whiskey, Nelly Marquis was conscious; but her eyes, with pupils inordinately expanded, remained witless until she had drained the glass with convulsive gulps and Lucinda had set it aside. "Do you think you're strong enough now to get to bed, if I help?" The girl nodded: "... _try_," she whispered. Using all her strength, Lucinda succeeded in getting Nelly Marquis on her feet. About this time the clouded faculties began to clear. Clinging to Lucinda's arm, Nelly started as if in a spasm of fear, darted swift glances of terror round the room, then turned a look of perplexity to Lucinda. "Where is he?" the whisper demanded. "Has he--has he gone?" "There is no one else here, nothing to be afraid of. Come: let me help you to bed." Recognition dawned as she spoke, with a movement of feeble fury the girl threw Lucinda's arm away, but deprived of its support staggered to the foot of the bed, to which she clung, quaking. "You!" she cried--"what you doing here?" "The door was open, I saw you lying senseless on the floor. I couldn't go on and leave you like that. You'd have done as much for me." "Oh! would I? A lot you know!" Her knees seemed about to buckle; will-power alone kept Nelly Marquis from sinking; yet she persisted: "I suppose I ought to thank you. Well: much obliged, I'm sure. Is that enough?" "Quite enough. I've no wish to annoy you. Only, let me suggest, you need a doctor. May I ask the office to call one?" "When I want a doctor, I'll call him myself. Good night." "I'm sorry," said Lucinda simply. With no choice other than to go, she went. But the vision she carried away, of Nelly Marquis glaring at her with eyes malevolent, her frail body vibrating so that it shook the bed, must have haunted Lucinda's conscience all evening long had she let the affair drop then and there. Returning to her room, she telephoned the office and asked for the hotel physician. The clerk reported that the doctor was out, but promised to advise him of her call as soon as he came in. Upwards of an hour later a knock ushered in a quiet young man with weary, understanding eyes, who attended gravely to what Lucinda had to tell him. "She seems to have taken such an inexplicable dislike to me," Lucinda wound up, "I'm sure she won't see you if she knows you come through me. But the girl is really ill and needs help. So, I thought, perhaps you might find someone else in the hotel who knows her and could get her to consent to see you." "I fancy I know her well enough myself to excuse a friendly call," the physician answered. "She's an old patient of mine, though she hasn't been in Hollywood for some time, I believe." "Then you must know what's the matter with her...." "Yes, I know.... But it would be unprofessional to tell you, of course, Miss Lee." "Then tell me this much: that you can help her." "I'm not sure of that. Not unless she's willing. To do her any real good, I'd have to have her under observation for some weeks. And cases like hers are peculiar, peculiarly strong-headed.... However, I'll see if I can do anything with her now, and let you know." Three minutes after he had left, he knocked again. "Too late, Miss Lee," he reported. "Nelly Marquis checked out about a quarter of an hour ago, they tell me at the desk--called for an auto and left no address." XXVI The indigene of Southern California has long since ceased to regard with much interest the publicly practised tribal customs of those clans which herd upon the motion-picture reservation. He no longer thinks he's seeing life when he comes upon troops of fairy policemen rapturously chasing their trails by broad daylight, or woebegone gentlemen with too much trousers popping out of manholes in public thoroughfares, or painfully unconscious sweethearts in broad-minded evening dress at high noon fondling each other in front of, say, the Hollywood Hotel. He no more knows a thrill when motor-loads of revellers in giddy costume and with sanguine noses blow by his unromantic bungalow at breakneck speed, preceded or followed by other cars filled with bored proletaires in workaday clothes, among them one embracing affectionately the slim young limbs of a camera tripod. And if he should chance to observe his next-door neighbour lamming the everlasting daylights out of his wife on the front lawn, he would make sure there was no camera within range before telephoning for the police. A month of Hollywood had so accustomed Lucinda to such sights that she became a part of them, at least in as far as involved coursing through the streets in full make-up, without any sense of making herself unduly conspicuous. She even forgot to think it strange that she, Lucinda Druce, should not resent being made love to unprofessionally, that is to say without an eye to the camera, by a man with rouge on cheeks and lips and eyelashes beaded with mascaro. If the feeling that she had cast her lines in strange places was quick to wear off, in those three days of work with the Summerlad company, the fun of it wasn't. Lucinda threw herself into the detail of every hour with tremendous zest, and liked it all as she seldom had liked anything before. To rise hours before the time at which use had habited her to waking, rout the drowsiness from her flesh with a cold plunge, dress hastily in her becoming white costume, snatch a bite of breakfast and dash out into the cool glow of morning sunlight to rendezvous at the studio; to pick up Lynn and Fanny for company on a cross-country race to a wild canyon of the Sierra Madre; to change to horseback when the going grew perilous for motor travel, and ride five miles farther up a trail that now ran level with the rushing waters of a mountain stream, now climbed dizzily above it on rocky ledges barely wide enough to afford foothold for one horse at a time, ending in a lovely wilderness spot which Jacques had selected because, he said, it hadn't been "shot to death"; to idle, chat and giggle with Lynn, Fanny and Alice Drake during the long delays devoted by Jacques to making up his mind what he wanted the company to do in preference to the action indicated in the continuity which he was politely presumed to be producing; to lunch al fresco, grouped round a blanket on which a decidedly rude and hearty picnic meal was spread; to frolic through a few minutes of make-believe while the camera clicked and Jacques bawled directions through a megaphone; then to drive back in the evening lull, with lights breaking out in lilac dusk like fireflies in a tinted mist; to get home so weary that she could hardly keep awake long enough to wolf down the dinner for which she was ravening, then to fling herself into the warm, all-obliterating haven of bed; and all the while to be falling more and more madly in love but still practising delectable, self-tantalizing self-denial: this wasn't work in any sense, but play, sheer play of a most gorgeous sort and of which surely one could never tire. If this were all there was to motion-picture acting, then Lucinda could not wonder that, as she was one day informed by a crusty veteran of the colony: "Bums may turn revivalists, and lawyers honest, but there ain't no known cure for a lens lizard." In the name of all things reasonable! why sigh to be cured of a vocation at once so profitable and so enthralling? There was another side to the business, of course, there had to be. One knew it couldn't be all beer and skittles, one heard dark hints of the uglier side, one even caught glimpses of it and its workings now and then, as in the instance of Nelly Marquis; but awareness of it had no perceptible effect upon the spirits of those with whom Lucinda found herself associated for the time being. Some of the younger members of the acting division seemed to take life a thought seriously--"life" meaning, as a rule, themselves--but the more experienced, and the men of the technical groups, the directors, cameramen, and their assistants, the property men and jacks-of-all-trades, went about their work with jests ever on their lips. Lucinda heard few orders given or acknowledged other than in the semi-jocular vein known as "kidding." Even Jacques, whose office clothed him with a certain dignity, by which he was intermittently depressed, seemed in his most earnest moments to find it difficult to express himself in terms of becoming gravity. The common attitude summed up to this: that making pictures was all a huge lark and (strictly between those engaged in it) a darned good joke on the people who paid the bills. As for the part she was supposed to play in this picture of Summerlad's, Lucinda never managed to secure an intelligible exposition of its nature or its relation to the plot. Both Summerlad and Jacques seemed strangely vague in their own minds concerning it, and Alice Drake frankly confessed she hadn't read the 'script and hadn't the faintest notion what the picture was about. She did what Jacques told her to do, and did it very well, and so long as there were no complaints and her weekly cheque turned up on time, she didn't care (she said) a thin red hoot about the story. Neither was this an uncommon attitude, she averred; not infrequently directors imposed it upon the actors and actresses working under them. There was George Loane Tucker, who had directed _The Miracle Man_; Miss Drake had worked for him and could testify concerning his methods. He never told any of the cast what the story was, only what he wanted them to wear and do and how and when to do it; that was all. He had even invented a secret system of numbering the "takes," so that he alone could properly assemble the thousand or so separate scenes and close-ups which go to make up the average motion-picture when photography on it is finished, scenes which are never by any chance photographed in consecutive order. Nor was Tucker the only one.... Later on, in the projection-rooms of the Zinn Studios, Lucinda saw the "rushes" of the scenes in which she had played; "rushes" being the first positive prints made from the uncut negative: "takes" running anywhere from twice to a hundred times the length of the scene to be finally incorporated into the finished picture and disclosed to the public. She was well content with the way she had done what little had been given her to do, but was left in the dark as to what it was all about. And in the final cutting and editing, that sequence of scenes dropped out of the film altogether. So that nobody ever knew, except possibly Summerlad and Jacques.... To the best of her observation her rôle was that of an involuntary vamp. Not vampire: vamp. No other term will serve so well. Originally a derisive diminutive, the usage of the studios has endowed this monosyllable with a significance all its own, not readily definable. A vamp no longer means of necessity a vampire, a scarlet-mouthed seductress of strong men's souls. A vamp may be a far more socially possible person that that, in fact any attractive woman who comports herself toward another woman's man consistently with the common amenities of civilized intercourse. As an involuntary vamp, then, Miss Lee was to meet Mr. Summerlad under romantic circumstances and innocently wean him from strict fidelity to the charms of his betrothed (or it may have been his wife) Miss Drake. Of this situation Miss Drake was in due course to become cognizant. What was to happen after that between Miss Drake and Mr. Summerlad was no concern of the involuntary vamp's. Furthermore, she never learned. The said romantic circumstances proved sufficiently thrilling to bring about an early wedding in most films. Miss Lee was run away with by her horse while taking an early morning canter in mountains conveniently adjacent to her family's suburban villa. Mr. Summerlad, similarly engaged in health-giving equestrianism, happened along at the right time to observe her peril, pursue, and snatch her bodily from her saddle to his arms at the very instant when her mount was plunging headlong over a precipice. After which he escorted her to her home, and on the way the two indulged in such normal love-making as was only to be expected when the facts of the case were taken into consideration. Jacques used up all of one day and two-thirds of the next staging and shooting the runaway and the rescue scenes, in none of which either Lucinda or Summerlad figured in person. Lucinda, it is true, was photographed from several angles, riding along the mountainside trail at a point where it was broad enough for her horse, with safety to its rider, to shy and start to run away. The animal was an unusually intelligent, perfectly trained and docile trick-horse that, given the right signals, would perform a number of feats such as shying, running away, stopping short, falling dead under its rider. And Lucinda was a good horsewoman, though not good enough for such rough and really dangerous riding as would be required after the start of the runaway. A double was therefore provided for her, a tough and wiry young person of about her height and weight who made her living by risking her life in just such ways, and who, with Lucinda's white coat, hat and boots added to her own white riding-breeches, passed well enough for Lucinda in "distance shots." A double was likewise provided for Summerlad, though he was a superb rider and vigorously asserted his right to take what chances he pleased with his own neck. But Jacques explained it wasn't Summerlad's neck he cared about, it was finishing a picture in which eighty thousand dollars had already been sunk and for whose completion Summerlad's services would be required for four more weeks. Thereafter he could break his neck as often and in as many places as he liked, for all of Jacques. So Summerlad held his peace and his place at Lucinda's side, well out of harm's way, while Jacques went ahead and directed the rescue. Runaway, pursuit and rescue were all staged on a ledge-like trail three hundred feet above the boulder-strewn bed of the brawling stream, and were photographed simultaneously by three cameras, from the river-bed shooting upwards, from the opposite side of the canyon on a level with the trail, and from the trail itself but at a distance great enough to prevent the fact that doubles were used from becoming evident when the pictures were projected. It was all honestly hazardous and ticklish work, rendered doubly and trebly so by the fact that each part of the action had to be replayed over and over again to satisfy Jacques, an old hand at "stunt stuff" and a painstaking one. Lucinda's heart, as she looked on, was in her mouth more often than not. It made no difference that it was all played at a far slower tempo than would appear when it was screened; the projection-machine flashes the pictures across the screen at a faster rate than that at which they are taken; consequently it is only necessary to crank the camera at slower than normal speed to attain an effect of terrific speed in projection. Fast or slow, it was risky enough in all conscience; and Lucinda was more than glad when the last repetition had been shot and Jacques gave orders to shift to a location near the mouth of the canyon. For those scenes of sentiment which Lucinda and Summerlad were to play in person, Jacques wanted the contrast of richer and more abundant vegetation, and the location he selected brought the party at length to a point below that at which the automobiles had been forced to stop. Here Lucinda and Summerlad were photographed time and again, in distance shots, medium shots, and close-ups, riding side by side, registering the dawn of a more intimate interest each in the other, dismounting to rest in a sweet sylvan glade by the side of the stream, and finally in each other's arms, with Miss Drake riding up to surprise them as they kissed. Whether by intention or because such scenes are a commonplace of picture-making, Lucinda could not say, but she had not been in any way prepared for the fact that she was to be kissed by Summerlad; whereas she had been flirting with him decorously but dangerously for the best part of three days. Now suddenly, toward the close of the third, she was instructed to permit his embrace, submit to his kiss, and kiss him in response. She made no demur, for that would have seemed silly, but did her best to ape the matter-of-course manner of all hands, and went through it with all the stoicism, when the camera wasn't trained on her, that was compatible with the emotions she must show when it was. But her heart was thumping furiously when she felt Summerlad's arms for the first time enfold her; and when, murmuring terms of endearment appropriate to both the parts the man was playing, he put his lips to hers, she knew, both despite and because of the tumult of her senses, that she was lost. Control of the situation between them passed in that instant from her hands to his. Released at length, she looked round, dazed and breathless, to find that, during the business of the kiss, a party of uninvited onlookers had been added to their professional audience. A motor-car had slipped up on the group and stopped, and one of its two passengers had alighted and drawn near to watch. This was Bellamy. XXVII Momentarily stunned eyes saw the face of Bellamy only as a swimming blur of flesh-colour shaded by a smile of hateful mockery. Then, not unlike rays of the sun escaping from complete eclipse, Lucinda's wits struggled from out a dark penumbra of dismay to make new terms with the world--or try to, under the handicap of panicy conviction that it was all up now with Linda Lee. Such was her first thought.... In another minute or two, as soon as she was able to acknowledge what she might not much longer ignore, Bellamy's attitude of patient but persevering attention, everybody present must learn that she had no right title to the style by which she had palmed herself off on Hollywood; by nightfall the studios would be agog over the news that Linda Lee was no less a personage than Mrs. Bellamy Druce. She was curiously disturbed less because of the circumstances in which her husband had found her out than on account of the menace he presented to the plans she had of late begun to nurse so tenderly. All at once Lucinda discovered how passionately her heart had become implicated in this adventure, how deeply the ambition had struck its roots into her being to win by native ability unaided to those starry eminences whereon the great ones of the cinema sojourned. To hear the inevitable verdict read upon her career before it was fairly launched, "Another screen-struck society woman!" were an affront to decent self-esteem by the side of which it seemed a trivial matter that Bellamy, no more her husband but by grace of the flimsiest of civil fictions, had caught her in the act of kissing another man. Notwithstanding, her cheeks were hot, she experienced infinite vexation of the knowledge; and--all her efforts to recover hindered by a silence damnably eloquent of general sensitiveness to a piquant and intriguing moment--she was shaken by gusts of impotent irritation in whose grasp she could almost without a qualm have murdered Bellamy where he stood, if only to quench that graceless grin of his, and the more readily since he, on his part, seeing her reduced to temporary incompetence, chose to treat her with the most exemplary and exasperating magnanimity. Hat in hand, the other proffered in sublime effrontery, smiling his winningest smile, Bel strode blithely into the forbidden ground of the camera lines; while his gay salutation fell upon ears incredulous. "How d'you do, Miss Lee. Don't say you've forgotten me so soon! Druce, you know, Bellamy Druce----" "Don't be ridiculous, Bel!" "Can't blame me for wondering--can you?--the way you stare, as if I were a ghost." "So you are," Lucinda retorted, shocked into gasping coherence by this impudence. "I can't imagine a greater surprise...." "I believe you. But think of mine--I mean, of course, my astonishment." Bel would have her hand, there was no refusing him that open sign of friendship; for an instant Lucinda let it rest limply in his grasp, appreciating there was nothing she could do now but take his cues as they fell, and treat the rencontre as one of the most welcome she had ever experienced.... "But wherever did you bob up from, Bel?" "From the East, naturally--last night's train. The Alexandria told me where you'd moved, the Hollywood directed me to your studio, somebody there said you might be found out here--'working on location,' think he called it. So took a chance--and here I am. Hope you don't mind...." "Mind? Why should I?" "Couldn't be sure I wasn't violating Hollywood etiquette. Never saw a movie in the making before, you know. Most entertaining. Congratulate you and Mr. Summerlad on the way you played your little scene just now. Only for the camera over there, I'd have sworn you both meant it." "Don't put too much trust in the camera, Mr. Druce," Summerlad interposed blandly. "Rumour to the contrary notwithstanding, the blame' thing has been known to lie." "H'are you, Mr. Summerlad?" Bellamy met his impudence with irresistible audacity. "So we meet again. Sure we would some day. Well: pleasanter circumstances than last time, what?" "Conditions are what one makes them, out here in California. I hope you'll find the climate healthier than Chicago's." "Trust me for that," Bellamy retorted in entire good-humour. "But, I say"--he glanced in feigned apprehension toward the camera--"not obstructing traffic, am I?" "No fear, or Jacques would've bawled you out long ago." "'Sright," Jacques averred, coming forward to be introduced. "All through for today, folks," he called back. "Le's go!" Breaking into small knots and straggling off to the waiting motor-cars, the company prepared for its journey home, while cameras and properties were packed up and the horses herded away toward their overnight quarters in Azusa. Slender, fair, insouciant, looking a precocious little girl in her extravagantly brief skirts, but with all the wisdom of Eve a-glimmer in her wide eyes, Fanny sauntered up and permitted Bellamy to be presented. "My chaperon," Lucinda explained with the false vivacity of overtaut nerves--"the straight-laced conservator of les convenances." "I hope very truly," Bel asserted, bowing over Fanny's hand--"you never need one less charming or more complaisant." Fanny giggled, enjoying the contretemps hugely and determined it shouldn't lose savour for want of ambiguous seasoning. "As for complaisance, the camera covers a multitude of indiscretions. That aside"--her glance coupled Lucinda and Summerlad in delicately malicious innuendo--"taking one consideration with another, a chaperon's lot is not a vapid one." "I'm sure of that," Bellamy agreed with a straight face. "Not only that, but if you've any time at all to spare for your job, Mrs. Lontaine, the percentage of impaired eyesight among native sons must be high." "Appreciation is such a beautiful thing!" Fanny purred. "Dear man! I do hope you'll be lingering in our midst a long, long time." "No such luck for me. A few days at most. I only ran out to go over some matters with my man of business out here." "The square-headed body with the blue gimlet eyes?" Fanny enquired, openly appraising the person who had accompanied Bellamy to this meeting, but who remained in the car with stony gaze riveted on nothing in particular--"who looks like a private detective in a five-reel re-hash of the eternal triangle?" "The same." "You have so many interests in California, you need a man on the spot to look after them?" "Not many but, such as they are, of prime importance to me," Bellamy corrected with meaning. "How romantic!" Fanny sighed, with a look so provocative that Bellamy's mouth twitched involuntarily and he hoped fervently that Lucinda wasn't looking. He needn't have worried. Lucinda was too thoroughly occupied with her own reactions to the several more agitating aspects of this predicament to have any thoughts to spare for frivolous by-issues. Not only that, but in pace with the growth of her interest in Summerlad, the sense of detachment from all actual relationship to Bellamy had come to be so absolute it could never have occurred to her to be anything but entertained by the notion of a reciprocal interest springing up between Fanny Lontaine and her husband. Fanny knew her way about, in the by-ways of flirtation was as sure of foot as any chamois on its native crags. As for Bellamy, in Lucinda's sight he was no longer property of hers, he was free to follow the list of his whim, free as the wind, as free as herself.... But the bare conception of anything of the sort was far from her mind just then, too many graver considerations were making imperative demands. To begin with, she was at one and the same time grateful to Bellamy for being so decent about her assumed identity and in a raging temper with him for having dared to follow her across the Continent, in sequel to the even more intolerable insolence of setting detectives to spy upon her. No more than in Fanny's mind was there question in Lucinda's as to the real calling of that "man of business" whom Bellamy had left in his car. But she earnestly wanted to know how long and how closely that one had been her shadow, and what he had reported concerning the interests professional and social which had been engaging her. More than this, Lucinda was at a loss to think how to deal with Bel, now he was here. Patently on his good behaviour, taking care of himself, not drinking too much; more like the man she had married for love so long ago; showing so vast an improvement over the Bellamy of later years that his unpretending presence alone somehow was enough to diminish the stature of every man present and place even Summerlad on the defensive--Lynn Summerlad, the crowned exquisite of the screen!--obviously the Bel of today was not to be reckoned with as readily as one had reckoned with the drink-stupid, conscience-racked Bel of yesterday. Disturbed by the sound of a voice addressing her in a tone pitched to pass unheard by Bellamy, she lifted perplexed eyes to Summerlad's face. "You're dining with me tonight. Don't forget." "I don't know ..." Lucinda doubted. "Ought I?" "Why on earth not? Surely you won't let _him_ influence you?" "I don't know what's best. It might be better to see him tonight and get it over with." "Don't be foolish. Besides, I'm telling you, not asking you. I'll call for you as soon as I can get home, change, and run back to the Hollywood." She liked and resented this dictation, and showed both emotions in a semi-petulant smile which she intended as a preface to a retort that was never uttered. For Bellamy interrupted, and immediately she was glad of Summerlad's insistence and forgave him. "Anxious to see you, Linda, of course, and have a talk, some time when you're not professionally engaged. Tonight be agreeable?" "Sorry, Bel, but I'm booked for tonight." "Tomorrow, then?" "But tomorrow night Cindy has a date with us," Fanny objected. "I'm out of luck. Never mind: I know Linda won't keep me in suspense forever." "No: you may call on me the next night, Bel." "That will be Friday. At the Hollywood, of course? Many thanks. And now I mustn't keep you, it's a long ride back and you must be quite tired out with your long day's work, the emotional strain and everything." Bellamy was punctiliously gallant about helping Lucinda and Fanny into their car, then returned to his own, wagging a cavalier farewell to Summerlad as the latter sped away with Jacques in the orange-and-black juggernaut. When they had been some time under way Fanny broke in upon Lucinda's meditations with an ecstatic murmur: "Priceless!" Lucinda came to with a frown. "I'm glad you think so," she said shortly. "Don't be upstage. You know it's priceless. Why didn't you tell me your Bel was such a lamb?" "He's not my Bel any more, and I don't consider him a lamb." "Then I presume you've no objection to my vamping him?" "None whatever, if it amuses you, dear. But why waste your powder on such small game? Any pretty piece can vamp Bel. I'm not sure she need even be pretty." "Only for your sake, darling. I don't fancy the brute, thanks." "For my sake?" "Don't you see through his little game? He's out here to persuade you he's a changed man, a reformed character, and beg you to take him back on probation." "Then he's far stupider than I imagined." "Whereas if he falls for my girlish wiles, I'll have shown him up in all his deceitfulness." "Don't put yourself out on my account." Lucinda curled a lip. "I wouldn't take Bel back no matter how absolute his reformation." Fanny wanted to ask more questions but, heeding the counsel of discretion, contented herself with a little private sigh. Going on her tone, Lucinda quite meant what she had just said. Good news for Harry, whose plans would be seriously embarrassed if there were any real reason to fear the defection of Lucinda through reconciliation with her husband. For of course, if she took Druce on again, it would mean an end to the still young history of Linda Lee: Druce never would consent to let his wife continue in the picture business. "All the same, if you don't mind, I think I'll practise on Bellamy." "Oh, I don't mind. But Harry might." "Oh, Harry!" Fanny had a laugh of light scorn. "For all Harry cares----!" But Lucinda was inattentive; she had lapsed swiftly into an abstraction which had little or nothing to do with the unseasonable reappearance of Bellamy or the prospect of a wearing time with him before he could be finally discouraged. Whatever proposals Bel might wish to make, the answer to them all stood immutably decreed by Lucinda's heart. It was not with matters of such certainty that she was concerned, but with the problematical issue of the Summerlad affair, an issue whose imminence was to be measured now by hours. Nothing that had happened since had served to erase the impression of that first kiss, nothing conceivable could seem half so momentous. The presence of the camera had meant nothing, they had kissed in earnest; mute, her lips had confessed too much. It remained only to be determined whether or not Summerlad had understood their message. If he had, Lucinda well knew, she was a lost woman. She was possessed with a species of rapturous alarm.... XXVIII In sequel Lucinda knew two days made up of emotions singularly stratified. This notwithstanding the fact (of which she needed to remind herself with provoking frequency) that she had put Bel out of her life for good and all, he was less than nothing to her now and, in the simple nature of things, seeing she was pledged to another, never could be more--more, at least, than the trial his pertinacity was rendering him at present. Most of the time, of course, all of it spent with Lynn or in dreaming of him, she was merely but comprehensibly a young woman in love and glad of it; pleased with herself, pleased with her lover, delighting in the sweet secrecy with which it were seemly for the while to screen their love. Nevertheless, dark hours alternated in apprehension of what she was resolved must be her final talk with Bel. But how successful dared she hope to be in the business of making Bel agree even to that? Lucinda found it by no means easy to compose an attitude which she could depend upon to dishearten Bel decisively, without going to the length of telling him point-blank that she was in love with another man and meant to marry him as soon as her professional commitments would leave her free to go through the mill of Reno. And to know Bellamy as she did was to have a good warrant for mistrusting lest, far from reeling down to defeat under the impact of that revelation, he might be moved merely to make fun of it. It would be just like Bel to refuse to believe that Lucinda Druce née Harrington meant to marry a movie actor. "Go ahead, Linda, by all means divorce me if your heart's set on it"--one could almost hear him say it--"but don't tell me you're doing it just to marry a man who paints his nose for a living." Somehow one got scant comfort of the retort obvious, that if Lynn did paint his nose he at least did it with nothing more harmful than paint. At all costs, then, she must avoid the risk of telling Bel what she intended, and keep the tone of the impending scene in tune with the dignity which she had thus far been successful in maintaining, be firm but cool, and give him clearly to understand it was hopeless his attempting to make whole again that sacred vessel which his impious hands had shattered. Maintained upon such a plane that scene must have been both beautiful and conclusive. And no doubt it would have been so but for one circumstance: Bel not only failed to call on Lucinda at the time appointed but failed even to send word of apology or explanation. An affront whose realization transmuted nobility of spirit into resentment most humanly rancorous. Lucinda had sacrificed the evening to sense of duty; a true sacrifice, for Lynn was leaving early next morning to spend a fortnight with his company in an Oregon logging camp. So this would have been their last evening together for fourteen livelong days, if Lucinda hadn't promised it to Bellamy, and if Summerlad hadn't mournfully agreed (measurably to Lucinda's disappointment in him) that she could not afford to dishonour her promise. Surely their secret happiness was enough to compensate for that much self-denial, especially when it meant the last of Bellamy.... Losing patience after hours of waiting, Lucinda called the Alexandria on the telephone, and was informed that Mr. Druce had "checked out" early in the morning, saying nothing of an intention to return. Mystified even more than angry, Lucinda went to bed, but lay wakeful a long time trying to fathom the enigma of such conduct in one whose need of her had brought him all the way across America to beg that very audience which had been granted only to be coolly ignored. The readiest explanation, likewise at first blush the likeliest, was none the less at odds with the premeditation to be read in Bel's leaving his hotel before noon, which wasn't the action of a man whom drink had made forgetful, but rather that of one who repented his haste in suing for something which sober second-thought had satisfied him he didn't really want. How funny, if so! How very human! Lucinda contributed her first smile since nightfall to the darkness of her bedchamber. But having smiled, she frowned involuntarily.... No note came from Bellamy the next morning, and nothing transpired in the course of the next several weeks to afford any clue to the riddle; with the upshot that Lucinda thought about her husband a great deal more than she wanted to or had at any time since leaving Chicago. Curiosity being piqued no less than vanity, though she kept assuring herself it was a matter of indifference to her what Bel did or didn't nowadays, invariably the consideration followed that, all the same, it was strange, it wasn't like Bel to treat any woman so rudely. She would, in those days, have been glad and grateful for some interest so absorbing as to relegate this vexing question to the realm of the immaterial, where rightly it belonged. But, with Summerlad away, nothing much happened with enervating regularity, the most interesting hours Lucinda knew were those spent in her rooms waiting for Lynn to call up on the long distance telephone. This he did every evening, and though she was thus daily provided with exhilarating moments, those that followed always seemed desperately the duller. The truth was, lacking the sense of danger, of flirting with fire, that was intrinsic in their love-making, lacking the sense of doing something that she oughtn't, calmly flouting the rigid code of her caste and having nothing to pay, Lucinda was beginning to find her environment a trifle tiresome. Say what one would, there was a certain cloying sameness about it all. Somebody once said in her hearing that there wasn't any weather in Southern California but only climate. And it was true that at times the wonder and beauty of everlasting sunlight seemed a poor offset to its monotony; so that Lucinda would sometimes find herself grown a little weary of the sky's dense, inexpressive, day-long blue; and even its nightly extravagance of stars now and again impressed her as being too persistently spectacular, an ostentation on the part of Nature as tasteless as many jewels plastered on a woman's pretty bosom. One rather wanted to recommend the chiffon of clouds.... Then, too, one grew acquainted with certain, definite limitations restricting the amount of amusement to be had of taking active or passive part in the simple, rowdy pleasures of the motion-picture peerage. When one had several times attended the festivities these staged in the public resorts most in favour or in their private homes, one was apt to feel moderately surfeited with jazz of all sorts, mental and moral as well as musical, and a society made up in the main of men who thought it too much trouble to dress and women who as a matter of habit airily consummated the contradiction of being at one and the same time under and over-dressed. And once the novelty of learning to speak a strange tongue had worn off, no great amount of intellectual nourishment was to be extracted of studio shop-talk, which commonly was concerned in the ratio of one to ten with the business of making motion-pictures and with the private, broadly speaking, lives of the people who were making them, lives seldom held worth the discussing when their conduct was decorous. Though personal liberty of action and freedom of speech be part of the inalienable heritage of the American people, it was the sum of Lucinda's observation that in the studios both were practised to the point of abandon. She considered herself the most liberal-minded of women, the life she had led till now had left her few illusions, she had even been known to enunciate an aphorism in the sense that hypocrisy is a lubricant essential to the mechanism of society: here, however, she remarked, such lubrication was so generally dispensed with that oftentimes the bearings screeched to Heaven. But Heaven made no sign, and the Hollywood of active and retired tradespeople, to which the studios had brought prosperity beyond its maddest dreams, stuffed its ears and made believe there was nothing to hear. As for the studios, busy, complacent, and well-content to be spared the troublesome necessity of pretending to be better than they were, they forgot (if, indeed, they ever stopped to think) that they did not constitute the whole of the community, and chuckled openly over a saying that ran their rounds that season, the mot of one of their own wits: "Are you married? Or do you live in Hollywood?" XXIX Lucinda had by now become sufficiently conversant with the ways of directors to hear without much surprise--if with a little sinking of her lonely heart--the news which Summerlad had to communicate on the tenth day of his absence, when he telephoned that Jacques was threatening to find a fortnight too little for the work that had taken the company away from Los Angeles. And the next day, when she paid the studio the perfunctory call of routine--to learn, as usual, that Barry Nolan had as yet sent no word concerning the date when he expected to begin directing for Linda Lee Inc.--Lucinda saw, as she left her car in front of the administration building, the owner of the premises lounging against one of the fluted columns of the portico and mumbling an unlighted cigar, and got from him a moody nod instead of the beaming salutation he had taught her to expect. Himself a monstrously homely man, short, stout and swart, Zinn had an alert eye for feminine good looks, which had never before neglected to give Lucinda to understand that it was on her and humid with approbation. By birth a Russian Jew, offspring of immigrants from Odessa, Isadore Zinn had worked his way into the producing business, as the saying ran, through its backdoor; that is to say, from the exhibitors' side. Indefatigable industry and appetite for hardship coupled with quenchless greed and a complete absence of scruples and moral sense, had promoted him from the office of usher in a "nickelodeon" of the cinema's early days successively to be the proprietor of the enterprise, organizer of a chain of motion-picture theatres, and president of a league of exhibitors, which last had eventually pooled its resources and gone into the business of producing as well as that of showing pictures. The money of this league had built what were today the Zinn Studios; just how this property had come to pass into Zinn's sole possession was a matter of secret history concerning which there were many rumours, all unsavory. Zinn was reputed by his loving employees to set no more store by a dollar than by an eye-tooth or an only child. On leaving, half an hour later, Lucinda found the man in the same spot and pose. Apparently he had not moved a muscle in that interval. She paused to ask why, and was frankly told. "I'm figuring on killing a director, Miss Lee, and wondering if maybe I couldn't get away with it. I could all right, if you only could believe all you hear. You ask any of them fellers in there"--Zinn jerked his head toward the building behind him--"takes my good money and calls me Mister Zinn--and they'll tell you I get away with murder every day or worse." He sighed dismally. "If they was any truth in that, I'd be a happy kike and a lot of directors' wives wouldn't have nothing on their minds no more, only their hair. The way I am today, the first one I'd take a load off her intellect would be Mrs. Jacques." "I didn't know Mr. Jacques was married." "Maybe he ain't right now, it's hard to tell. You take actors and directors, they're all the same, you never know when they ain't married or how long they been that way. The way it seems to me, they get married off and on just to see what difference it will make if any. 'Most everybody you know's got a loose wife or husband kicking around somewhere this side the Cajon Pass. The only way you can keep track of them is don't try." "It must be frightfully embarrassing at times...." "Ah, they don't mind! I had one little feller working for me, playing leads in two-reel comedies, his director was his first wife's second husband, and the little lady played opposite him was his second wife once removed. They got along fine s'long's they was on the lot, but outside the studio they wouldn't speak, only bark when they passed." "But you haven't told me what Mr. Jacques has been doing...." "Oh, him--! I got a wire from him just now, says he's going to have to keep the Summerlad outfit up in that logging camp maybe another couple weeks. Joe could of shot all the scenes he had to shoot up there in a week if he'd of went at it the right way; so I give him two weeks, and now he wants four. And I don't dare give him the razz for fear he'll make it six weeks or quit." "But if you aren't satisfied, surely you can find another director." "Sure I can. And the first thing _he'll_ do is run all the rushes in the projection-room and tell me they're rotten and got to be retook the way he sees it. And then he'll rewrite the continuity and, just to show me what a low piker Jacques was, he'll stick in a lot of new stuff that'll cost maybe another hundred thousand dollars." "I don't understand," Lucinda objected. "Why should Mr. Jacques deliberately waste time on a production?" "He's getting his two thousand a week, ain't he? And if he makes this picture cost less than the last one Summerlad done, how's he going to keep his tail up with the other dogs, next time the hooch hounds meets down to Santa Monica? Not only that, if he should ever get a rep for making pictures quick and cheap, the only jobs he'll be offered will mean honest-to-God work." "But, Mr. Zinn: if that's the usual director's attitude toward his job, I should think you would do as we're doing with Mr. Nolan, pay each a fixed sum for every production he makes." Zinn drew down the corners of his mouth in sour pity for Lucinda's innocence. "Twenty-five thousand a picture's what Nolan's going to drag down, ain't it? When a director gets that class, he's doing you a favour to make pictures for you, to start off with; and then he spreads himself to spend more coin more ways than any other director ever thought of, just to show you he's the big-money boy. A director don't think big means anything without a dollar-mark parked in front of it; and the producer's the poor sap that puts up the dollar-mark every time. They's only one way a producer can beat a director, the way it is today, and that's quit the fillum business cold." "I presume that's what you'll do, if the directors persist in making it impossible for you to make any money." A twinkle kindled in the beady eyes, a rougishly confidential grin formed on the fleshy features. "Now, listen, Miss Lee: I never told you I wasn't making money, did I? It's the jack directors waste on me I'm kicking about. Any time things get so bad you can't give one of them megaphone nurses his head and still get your production cost back and something over, I got it all framed so I can ease out and never be missed." And when Lucinda had obliged by voicing a polite doubt that such a thing as this could ever come to pass, Zinn concluded with grim humour: "I got everything all set to sell the studio to the county for an insane asylum; then nobody in Hollywood won't never know the difference." Running true to the form thus forecast, Jacques kept the Summerlad company away so long that its return found the first Linda Lee production in full swing, with Barry Nolan in command, Lucinda playing the supple puppet of his whim from sun to sun, Fanny demurely walking through the feminine part of second importance, and Lontaine functioning at the peak of his capacity as executive genius of the organization and showing the strain of it all in his prominent blue eyes. Why it should be so hard on him nobody seemed to know and Lontaine was too busy to explain; while Lucinda, in the prepossession of her anxiety to give a good account of herself before the camera, carelessly accepted that prodigious display of activity, that mien of unremitting abstraction, as phenomena doubtless common to men of affairs, and never paused to wonder why Lontaine need be so fretted and fretful when everything was now in the hands of Nolan and his assistants, who did pretty much as they pleased anyway, as a rule consulting Lontaine if at all only after acting on their own initiative and leaving to his office merely the routine of financial matters. Nevertheless Lontaine was ever the first of the Linda Lee forces to show up at the studio in the morning, the last to leave it at night, and between whiles kept incessantly on the go: trotting from his desk to the stage to give Nolan the benefit of advice which was invariably attended to with much patience and disregarded with more promptitude as soon as its source turned his back; to the laboratory to run a wise eye over negative newly developed as it came dripping from the vats to be stretched to dry upon huge revolving drums; to the studio of the technical director, to badger that competent and long-suffering gentleman about sets and their dressing; to Zinn's sanctum overlooking the "lot," where that old-timer sat spying out on the comings and goings of his employees and spinning his endless schemes of avarice, but ever ready to lend an ear and give cunning counsel to a tenant who paid his rent on the nail; to the projection-rooms to view the rushes; back to the stage to flatter Lucinda, felicitate Nolan, and buttonhole subordinate players for earnest conferences apart concerning their performances--this last a habit which, since it afforded the actors a chance to talk about themselves, earned Lontaine the loving gratitude of all hands, barring the directorial staff whose job it was to undo all that he did, were it well done or ill, for the sake of morale and to preserve unimpaired the precious prestige of Barry Nolan. At other times members of the cast loafing about the lot while they waited to be called to work on the stage, would observe the president of Linda Lee Inc., at the window of his tiny office in the administration building, brooding portentously over documents of legal aspect, or with fine flourishes of the fountain-pen affixing his hand to those cheques which, issuing forth in a steady stream, kept the treasury always at low ebb no matter how often or how generously Lucinda might replenish it. Neither did the silver-and-blue car know overmuch rest. In view of the man's ubiquity in the studio, it was surprising how often Lontaine was to be seen speeding down Sunset Boulevard, bound for the business centre of Los Angeles, to other studios for mysterious conferences with local somebodies who had no known interest in the destinies of Linda Lee Inc., or to objectives whose nature remained a close secret between Lontaine, his chauffeur, and his God. To all these picturesque symptoms of hustle and bounce, so little in character with the Briton of tradition, his wife played silent but attentive audience; though oftentimes her pretty eyes would light up with an unspoken comment too pungent to be wasted and, discreetly questing a sympathetic confidant would find it without fail in Barry Nolan, who learned to watch for that look whenever one of Lontaine's antics made a more than everyday appeal to his sense of humour. Irish both by descent and profession, Nolan had at least that sense conspicuously developed. What others he possessed of which as much might be asserted, was a question which came to occupy many of Lucinda's spare moments. She was not at all disposed to be hypercritical, in the beginning, she had yet to cultivate conceit in her abilities as an actress, she knew that she knew little more than nothing about the manufacture of motion-pictures; and Summerlad had so highly recommended Nolan she inclined to suspect there must be something radically wrong with her judgment. With all this, she couldn't pretend to account for Nolan's high place in the hierarchy of the cinema, unless a sprightly and affectionate disposition, a fetching grin, infectious verve, impudence without end, and a distinctly indicated vein of genius at crap-shooting, summed up the essential qualifications of a director who pretended to earn a wage of twenty-five thousand dollars per production. Certainly nothing that Nolan was contributing to this present picture, in the way of action, business, sense of dramatic proportion and feeling for pictorial values, appealed as in any way inspired--except occasionally by a retentive memory. True that common usage in methods of production, working together with such special circumstances as Lucinda's inexperience and the absence of any fixed plan of plot development other than in the omniscience of Barry Nolan, made it anything but easy to judge the man fairly by the record of his work from day to day. In the continuity which Nolan concocted to supplant that prepared by Zinn's staff writer--as in every proper continuity--each scene had been placed in its right sequence, where anybody uninstructed in the way of a director with a picture might reasonably look to see it appear in the completed photoplay. But as soon as the typist had transcribed Nolan's dictation, the new continuity was turned over to his assistants to be dismembered and rebuilt with its scenes arranged as they were to be photographed, by groups, without respect to chronological sequence. Obviously it would be stupid (as Lucinda was quick to appreciate) to take the scenes as laid out in the continuity; for example, to photograph Scene 1 in a studio set, transport the company ten miles to photograph Scene 2 on, say, an ocean beach, and jump back to the studio to take Scene 3 on the same set as used for Scene 1. Consequently all scenes indicated for each particular set were shot seriatim; after which the set would be promptly demolished, to clear the stage for the erection of another. It resulted from this that only an intelligence comprehending the whole plan and scope of both story and continuity could have kept track of the scenes as photographed and rated each rightly at its proportional value. Even in the ranks of studio veterans, minds of such force and grasp are few and far to seek. The Linda Lee company hadn't been at work two days before Lucinda began to feel in relation to the story like one lost in a fog, helplessly dependent upon the guiding hand of Barry Nolan, and none too well satisfied that he knew his way about as well as he pretended to in that beclouded labyrinth. Neither was confidence in his infallibility encouraged by a habit to which he, like most directors, proved lamentably prone, of improvising improvements on the story as he went along. All of a sudden, while directing a scene, Nolan was wont to break out in a profuse inspiration, and incontinently some well-remembered bit of business or episode from an old stage success would be interjected into or substituted for incidents really germane to the original plot. That this practice as often as not produced results in conflict with the fundamental mechanics of the story, if it missed throwing them out of kilter entirely, seemed to be a consideration of minor consequence. Thus Nolan laboured long and passionately to persuade Lucinda it would benefit the story to engraft on it a scene wherein she would figure as a lonely prisoner in a garret, menaced by hordes of hungry rats. This regardless of the fact that there was no garret in the original story, nor any room for one, and no reason why the young person portrayed by Lucinda should be imprisoned in one, but solely because Nolan happened to fancy a resemblance between her and an actress whom he had several years before directed with great success in a garret scene with rats ad lib. That the rats didn't work their way into the picture eventually, whether Lucinda wanted them or not, was mainly due to Nolan's misfortune in failing to think of them before his star began to show symptoms of what he called the swelled-head; that is to say before, having worked several weeks under his direction, Lucinda began to suspect that Nolan wasn't really sole custodian of the sacred mystery of motion-picture making, and to assert herself modestly as one whose views ought to have some weight with a director whose pay came out of her own pocket. Nor is she to this day ready to believe that Nolan, left to himself, would not ultimately have overborne all opposition and had his willful way with the rat episode. But it was neither because of this instance, nor because of other arbitrary changes that Nolan made in the story, that Lucinda first learned to mistrust his ability, but because of the appalling ignorance which he betrayed concerning what she believed should be matters of general knowledge, such as rudimentary principles of social usage. Since the story they were concerned with had to do with people of fashionable New York transacting the business of life in their homes and public rendezvous, Lucinda thought it important that their manners should conform to approved convention; but Nolan was so little learned in such matters, and his impatience with them was so wholehearted, that she presently abandoned all effort to correct him, and in a fatalistic spirit endeavoured to comfort her misgivings with his customary rejoinder to advice in any form: "Ah, what's it matter? Ninety per cent. of your audiences are solid bone from the neck up, and the rest wouldn't think they'd got their money's worth unless they found something to beef about in a picture. Why worry about little things like that? Life's too short, and we're wasting time!" So Lucinda schooled herself to suffer in silence when she saw men of alleged gentle breeding offer women their left arms to escort them from the drawing to the dining rooms of Fifth avenue or when two bickered in public as to which should escort to her home a woman married to a third, and when Nolan posed a pair of lawless lovers in the foyer of a restaurant and instructed them to register unutterable emotion by holding hands, in the view of hundreds, and swelling their tormented bosoms until (as Fanny described it) they resembled more than anything else a brace of pouter pigeons shaking the shimmy. She held her peace even when Nolan directed a father and his son, both presumptive adepts in the social life of New York, to pause on meeting, when each was decently turned out in morning-coat and top hat, strike attitudes of awed admiration, solemnly wheel each other round by the shoulders and, wagging dumbfoundered heads over the sight of so much sartorial splendour, exclaim--in subtitles to be inserted in the film--"Some boy!" "Some Dad!" And when a woman in a scene with Lucinda parted from her, uttering an injunction put in her mouth by Nolan, "Don't forget, dearie--tea at the Ritz at one o'clock," Lucinda, conceiving this to be a slip of the tongue, said nothing. But when later she viewed in the projection-room that sequence of scenes roughly assembled, with what are termed "scratch titles," in place, and read the words as quoted, and on making enquiry learned that they had been copied verbatim from Mr. Nolan's continuity, she ventured to remonstrate. "But, Mr. Nolan, tea is a function for four o'clock or later all the world over." "That's so, Miss Lee? Well, what d'you know about that? Guess I must've been thinking about luncheon." "But your subtitle introducing the restaurant sequence later on says 'Tea at the Ritz.'" "That's right. I remember now, I meant tea, not luncheon. It's that way in the book." "But in the restaurant scenes the tables are covered with cloths and the waiters are serving all sorts of dishes, course meals." "What's the matter with that?" "Why, nothing is served for tea but tea itself and toast and perhaps little pastries." Nolan grinned sheepishly and scratched his head. "I guess we're a terrible lot of roughnecks out here on the Coast, Miss Lee--not onto fine points like that. But it's all right: we'll change the subtitles to read luncheon instead of tea." "But you've just shown me lunching at another restaurant. It isn't reasonable to make me eat two luncheons in one day." "That's easy. We'll make the subtitle read: 'Luncheon at the Ritz the next day.'" "I hate to keep on objecting, Mr. Nolan, but the situation depends on these people meeting at tea the very day they lunched together." "Well, if we can't fix it with a subtitle, we'll have to change the situation, then. We can't go back and shoot those scenes all over again, it'd cost too darn much; and anyway we haven't got time." Having kept the Linda Lee organization awaiting his convenience for five weeks after the date upon which he had agreed to begin directing for it, Nolan was now with the utmost sang-froid trying to jam through in one month an undertaking for which he would, going his normal gait, require all of two; partly because he was being paid by the job instead of by the week, in part because his services for the next picture had not been bespoken and he was flirting with a bid from the East, an offer contingent upon his being able to leave Los Angeles not later than a set date, finally and not in the least part for another reason altogether, a peculiarly private one. He wasn't happy in his present circumstances, his vanity was deeply wounded, and the wound was not likely to heal so long as he must continue in the humiliating position to which he had been reduced by Lucinda's insusceptibility to his charms of person. Nolan had all along looked forward to this engagement with considerable animation, because Lucinda was a type new to him and he counted on learning about women from her, too. The trouble was, he hadn't in the least suspected that she was to prove not only new but unique in his experience. He knew what it was to be resisted, and didn't mind that so much, finding it at worst flattering. Once or twice since becoming a director he had even met with the appearance of indifference, and had had the fun of showing it up for what it really was. But this was the first time in many years that any woman with whom he had been brought into professional contact had proved not so much indifferent to him as unconscious that he boasted any attractions calling for even such negative emotion. Nolan needed some time to appreciate that this unprecedented and outrageous thing could really be, and when he did he was hurt to his soul's marrow. By nature buoyant, he found himself growing morose; by reputation the best-tempered of directors, he heard himself snapping at his subordinates like the veriest martinet of them all. Worse yet, Lucinda seemed not even to reckon him a genius at his calling. An unheard-of state of affairs and one intolerable to a man of his kidney. He wanted more than he had ever wanted anything to be quit of her for good and all and at the earliest possible moment. For the indignities which he felt had thus been put upon him in a fashion wholly uncalled-for there was, of course, reparation proffered in Fanny Lontaine's indisputable awareness of him. And even as Lucinda, Fanny too was clearly "class." On the other hand, she had a husband, undeniably an ass, puffed up out of all reason with self-importance, but still and for all that a husband. Besides, having set his heart on a star, Nolan conceived it to be inconsistent with his dignity to content himself with a satellite. So he sulked and could not be comforted. Necessarily the picture suffered through the languishing of his interest; and Nolan, foreseeing the professional and public verdict, did his best to forestall it by privately letting it be known he'd been a dumb-bell to tackle the job of making an actress out of a rank amateur, only for the jack involved he would never have tried it. And then the story they'd asked him to do--! One of these society things, you know: no punch, no speed, no drama, nothing but five reels of stalling, clothes and close-ups, padding for a lot of lines; a regular illustrated dialogue. What could you do with a story like that, anyway? More openly, in the course of time, as he grew acutely self-conscious of inability to cope with what he chose to deny, the dramatic possibilities intrinsic in the story of a father who falls in love with the woman loved by his own son, a woman whom he has sworn to expose as unworthy to be his son's wife, Nolan spoke of the production in the studio as "this piece of cheese." His name ranked high on the roster of America's foremost photoplay directors. Whenever one of the Los Angeles cinema houses booked a picture of his making the bill-boards of the town heralded in twenty-four sheet posters the coming of "A Barry Nolan Production"; frequently the lettering of this line over-shadowed that in which the name of the star was displayed, invariably it dwarfed the name of the story. After witnessing several of these offerings, Lucinda began to wonder why.... XXX But that distrust of Barry Nolan's competency which troubled Lucinda's mind almost from the very outset of their association had yet to crystallize on the Saturday when Summerlad was expected home; and her disposition toward the director was rendered only the more amiable when, toward noon, he informed her that he wouldn't need her again till Monday morning. Nevertheless it threatened to prove a long afternoon to an impatient woman, and Lucinda, wanting company to help her while it away, promptly petitioned for Fanny's release as well. Fanny, however, was busily employed, as she had been ever since early morning, waiting for Nolan to put her through a scheduled five-minute scene which would round out her full day's work. But Nolan graciously promised to set her free in another hour, and then--to get rid of Lucinda's presence, which instinct was already beginning to warn him was silently skeptical of his claims--artfully suggested that she might like to review the rushes of yesterday's camera-work. Assuming that she would find the projection-room empty, Lucinda made her way to it without bothering to remove her make-up, but on opening the door saw a fan-like beam of turbid light wavering athwart its darkness, and would have withdrawn, had not Zinn's thick and genial accents hailed her from the rear of the long, black-walled, tunnel-like chamber. "Come right on in, Miss Lee. We'll be through in a minute. Just running some of the fillum come through from Joe Jacques yesterday. Maybe you'd like to see it. 'Sgreat stuff that boy Summerlad's putting over this time." Murmuring thanks, Lucinda groped her way--bending low, that her head might not block the light--to one of the arm-chairs beneath the slotted wall which shut off the projection-machines in their fire-proof housing. When her vision had accommodated itself to the gloom, she made out several figures in other chairs, sitting quietly behind ruddy noses of cigars and cigarettes. At a table to one side the glow of a closely shaded lamp disclosed an apparently amputated hand hanging with pencil poised above a pad, ready to note down anything the traffic of the screen might suggest to Zinn. The latter was conversing in undertones with somebody in the adjoining chair, and the rumble of their voices was punctuated now and again by a chuckle which affected Lucinda with a shiver of uncertain recollection. But she couldn't be sure, in that mirk she could by no means make out the features of Zinn's companion or even the shape of his head, and the surmise seemed too absurd.... She was none the less perturbed to a degree that hindered just appreciation of the admirable work of Lynn Summerlad, whose shadow, clad in the rude garments of a lumberjack, was performing feats of skill and daring against a background of logging-camp scenery; and thanks to her misgivings, as much as to the custom of taking and retaking again and again even scenes of minor importance, had grown well weary of watching Lynn bound frantically from log to log of a churning river to rescue Alice Drake from what seemed to be desperately real danger in the break-up of a log jam, when abruptly the shining rectangle of the screen turned blank, the beam of clouded light was blotted out, and a dim bulb set in the black ceiling was lighted to guide the spectators to the door. Then, with a fluttering heart, Lucinda identified her husband in Zinn's companion; and anger welling in her bosom affected her with momentary suffocation, so that she was put to it to reply when Zinn, leering hideously, presented Bellamy. "Shake hands with Mr. Druce, Miss Lee: new tenant of mine, going to work here same as you, just signed a lease for space to make his first production." "What!" At that monosyllable of dismayed protest, Lucinda saw Zinn's little eyes of a pig grow wide with surprise; which emotion, however, might have been due quite as much to what Bellamy was saying. "But I am fortunate, Mr. Zinn, in already having the honour of Miss Lee's acquaintance." Bellamy took possession of her hand. "How do you do, Linda? So happy to see you again--looking more radiant than ever, too!" "Is that so? You two know each other! Whyn't you tell me?" "Wasn't sure it was this Miss Lee I knew until I saw her." "Well, well! Ain't that nice! You ought to get along together fine, both working in the same studio and everything." Lucinda found her voice all at once, but hardly her self-possession. "It isn't--it can't be true! Bel: it isn't true you're----!" "Afraid it is, Linda." Bel's smile was lightly mocking. "The picture business has got me in its toils at last. Only needed that trip out here to decide me. Now I'm in it up to my ears. Something to do, you know." "But not--not as an actor?" "Bless your heart, no! All kinds of a nincompoop but that. No: I'm coming in on the producing side, forming a little company and starting in a modest way, as you see, on leased premises, with the most economical overhead I can figure. If I make good--well, I understand Mr. Zinn is willing to sell his studio, and I'll be wanting one all my very own." "Any time you want to talk business, Mr. Druce, you know the way to my office. Don't stand on ceremony, and don't let nobody kid you I'm into a conference and can't be disturbed by anybody who wants to buy me out of this Bedlam: just walk right in, slap the cheque-book down on my desk, and unlimber the old fountain-pen; you'll find me willing to listen to reason. Well: got to get along, folks. They're going to run some of Miss Lee's rushes now. Maybe you'd like to look at them, if she don't mind." "I hope very truly she won't," Bellamy said, smiling into Lucinda's eyes. Lucinda uttered a faint-hearted negative: no, she wouldn't mind. No other way out till they were alone.... But her heart was hot with resentment of the way that Bel was forever forcing situations upon her in which she must accept him on his own terms. Immediately the door had closed behind Zinn, however, Bel's manner changed, his show of assurance gave place to diffidence or its fair semblance. "I'm sorry, Linda--I really don't mean to be a pest----" "Then why are you here? Why _won't_ you keep out of my way?" "Give me half a chance, I think I can make you understand----" "You had that chance weeks ago, and deliberately refused it. Do you imagine I will give you another opportunity to affront me as you did?" "But surely you got my note----" "What note?" "The note I sent to the Hollywood, explaining I was called East on two hours' notice, but would return as soon as I could; begging you to consider our interview merely postponed----" "If you sent any such note, I could hardly have failed to receive it." "But Linda! I did send it, an hour before I left, by special delivery--'pon my word I did!" "Possibly," Lucinda suggested with laboured scorn, "you misaddressed it, forgetting which of your numerous feminine acquaintances you were writing to." "I addressed it," Bel insisted stoutly, "to Mrs. Bellamy Druce." "If so, that explains it. They know me at the hotel only as Linda Lee." "How was I to know that?" "Your sources of information concerning me seem to be fairly busy and accurate." "I'm sorry if you've been annoyed"--Lucinda cut in a short laugh of derision--"no, really I am! But I had to----" "Wait!" Lucinda had become aware of a head framed in the little window of the projection-booth and regarding them with a smile of friendly interest. "Not now--later." "All ready, Miss Lee," said the operator, unabashed--"if you are, I mean." "Yes, thank you, quite ready." As she settled back into her chair and Bellamy placed himself by her side she added in a guarded tone: "As soon as I've looked these scenes over, we can go to my dressing-room...." The ceiling light winked out, stuttering rays thrashed through the dark to paint in black and white those winsome gestures which Lucinda had described before the camera. But her interest in her pictured self for once had lapsed, vanity itself was for the time being wholly in abeyance, she watched without seeing the play of light and shadow, and when it faded from the screen could not have said what she had seen. Weird, to sit there in the dark with the man beside her who had once filled all her heart that was now filled with longing for another.... When the screen once more shone blank and the ceiling light flashed on, Bel was smiling cheerfully. "No wonder you fell for the screen so hard, Linda: you're exquisite, and no mistake. If you stick at it, never fear; it won't be long before you'll be wiping the eyes of the best of them." "Thank you," she said stiffly--"but I don't think I want that. I only want a life I can live and hold my self-respect." "And you come to Hollywood to find it?" She flushed darkly and with an angry movement got up. "Please come." Her maid was waiting in the dressing-room, but Lucinda sent the woman to explain to Mrs. Lontaine that they might be a few minutes delayed, and told her not to come back till sent for. Alone with Bellamy, she showed him a face on fire with challenge. "You said you wanted to explain, Bel; you won't get another chance." He nodded soberly. "Quite realize that. But this once will do, can say all I want to in three minutes. Then you're free to call it quits for good, if you like." That posed her rudely. Did he mean--could it be possible he meant he had become reconciled to the rift in their relations? Had the arrow she had loosed into the dark, that night when Bel had broken his appointment with her, flown straight to the mark? Was Bel really "cured?" He had that look; there was deference without abasement in his bearing, if regret now and then tinged his tone it conveyed no hint of repining. By every sign he was doing very well without her. "Can you doubt that's what I'll 'like,' Bel? Or what must I do, more than I've already done, to prove I ask nothing better than to call it quits for good with you?" "Oh, you've done all that was needed, thanks. I'm convinced--have been for some weeks, if you want to know--in fact, from the moment when I found out you'd lost your head over a movie actor." "Indeed?" Lucinda mastered an impulse to bite her lip. "And have you anything to say about that?" "Not a blessed thing. That's your affair." "Pity you didn't know in time to spare you the trip." "I'm not sure, Linda. Knowing you as I did, I don't think I'd have believed anything I didn't see with my own eyes----" "Anything so greatly to my discredit, of course!" "Easy, Linda! I didn't say that. You know best what you want--that's something nobody else can ever tell one. I'm not criticizing, I'm merely explaining." "And very good of you, I'm sure." But Lucinda had not been able to utter the taunt without a tremor. Bellamy gave his head a stubborn shake and stepped nearer. "Please don't be angry because of anything stupid I may say. You see, you misunderstand me: I came out here that first time dead-set to win you back at any cost, still madly in love with you, absolutely unable to conceive of a life that didn't pivot on you, Linda. I was prepared to give you any pledges you could possibly ask----" "Did you flatter yourself any pledge you could give would mean anything to me, when you'd broken your word so often?" "I hoped I could make you understand what a blow your leaving me had been, how it had brought me to my senses at last, jolted me up on the water-wagon, where I've been ever since--I haven't had a suspicion of a drink, Linda, since that night you ran away--and made me see what an unspeakable rotter I'd been, fooling around with women as I had. That's another thing I cut out like a shot. I haven't looked sideways at another woman since...." "Not even after discovering I'd fallen in love with another man?" "Not even after that. Somehow casual women don't mean anything to me any more--I mean, casual flirtations. They're too damn stupid--silly waste of time. I guess I had to be squiffy as I used to be most of the time, not to be bored by them. Oh! I'm not saying I shan't ever fall in love again, just as you have; but when I do, it will be the real thing, Linda--not the simple cussedness that makes a child play with a gun because he knows it's loaded." "This is all very interesting, I'm sure. But after all, it doesn't explain--now, does it?" "It explains why I followed you out here the first trip, why I had to see you in another man's arms, kissing him, and then hear all the small-town gossip about you two before I'd believe...." "There is gossip, then?" "What do you think? According to all reports, you've been going it, rather, you and this chap Summerlad--'stepping out together,' as they say in Hollywood." Lucinda affected a shrug of indifference: Bel mustn't guess she cared what people said. "But I am still waiting to hear why you've come out this time; what it means when you hire quarters here in the studio where I am working daily, and pretend you're going into the producing business. You may be able to make Zinn believe that tale; at least, he won't ask embarrassing questions so long as you put money in his pocket; but you can hardly expect me--!" "You're wrong there, Linda. I'm just as much in earnest about becoming a producer of good motion-pictures as you are about becoming a star. I got a little look into the game that fascinated me, in those two days while I was killing time, waiting for the night you'd set for our talk. You ought to be able to understand: you were fascinated yourself at first sight." "But you--! Bellamy Druce dabbling in the motion-picture business!" "Well, what price Mrs. Bellamy Druce in the same galley?" "No, Bel: frankly, I don't believe you. You're here with some wild idea you can influence me to do what you wish--whatever that is, since you say you've given up wanting me to come back to you." "Oh, as to that--absolutely!" "Then why must you set up your shop here, where we can't help running into each other half a dozen times a day?" "Because there isn't another inch of stage to be hired in all Los Angeles today. I've had a man looking round for me ever since my first visit, he's tried every place. The only thing I could do to avoid renting from Zinn was to build, and that meant a longer wait than I wanted. Ask anybody who knows the local studio situation, if you doubt what I say." "So you didn't come out this time with any idea of seeing me at all, Bel?" "Of course, I did. I had to see you. Things couldn't rest as they were, especially after you'd taken up with this Summerlad. I'm assuming you're serious in that quarter, of course." "And what has that to do--?" "Just this: I don't like it. As I say, if you want to run around with a movie actor, that's your affair; but so long as you remain my wife, it's my affair, too. Don't forget it's my name you're trailing through the muck of this sink-hole of scandal." She flamed at him--"_Bel!_"--but he wouldn't heed. "You don't suppose you're going to get away with the Linda Lee thing much longer, do you? If all these people don't know it's an assumed name now, they jolly soon will. How do you suppose I found out you were up to this game? No: not through detectives, but simply by calling on your friend, Ben Culp, the man who first put this picture bee in your bonnet. Nelly Guest gave me that cue, and I thought Culp might know something helpful. Well: he did, when I called he had on his desk a trade paper that carried a report of the incorporation of Linda Lee Inc. Did you imagine anybody would need more than that name, coupled with Lontaine's as president of the company? Culp himself was the first to tumble to it.... And that's what I'm here to ask you. If you're going through, if you're bent on leading the life you have been leading ever since you fell in with these people, be good enough to keep my wife's name out of it! Get your divorce and get it soon. That's all I have to ask of you." Lucinda replied with a slow inclination of her head. "What you want is my dearest wish," she said. "Depend on it, Bel, I shan't waste a day, I'll take the first train I can catch for Reno, after finishing this picture." "That's simply splendid of you!" Bellamy declared heartily. "Anything I can do to help along, of course--just let me know." "I'll be glad if you'll go now," Lucinda told him. "I think I've had about all I can stand for one day." "Then good bye, my dear--a thousand thanks!" XXXI Lucinda told Fanny that, when the dressing-room door had shut Bellamy out, she "didn't know whether to laugh or to cry"; though it's true that the laugh, if any, being admittedly on herself, she was the more moved to weep. And for some minutes she stood in thought, with a curiously uncertain expression, a look that, trembling between a smile and a frown, faithfully reflected a mind that couldn't readily choose between relief and chagrin. In the end throwing herself into a chair, she hid her face in her hands and shook with mirth which she really wasn't able to control, all the while aware that, but for the assurance of Lynn's love to cushion the shock to self-esteem, tears instead must have been her portion. After all, one couldn't deny that it had been a facer, that complete snub Bel had administered to her expectations with his cool relinquishment of all pretense of claim upon her, barring that which was his beyond dispute, his right to demand the speediest feasible dissolution of their bonds. "And you really think divorce is what he's after?" Fanny doubted darkly, having duly turned the matter over in her mind. "I'm sure you'd think so, if you had heard him." "I don't know.... Of course, he was your property long enough, you ought to know his wretched little ways. But I wouldn't trust any man to mean what he says to a woman under such circumstances." "Fanny! how long is it since you set up to be such a cynic?" "As long as I've been an honest married woman, darling. I think the first thing a woman with her wits about her learns, once she begins to convalesce from that foolish bride feeling, is that men are just as treacherous as we are in affairs of the heart, so-called. Anyway, if your Bellamy were mine, he'd wait a long time for me to give him his freedom, precisely as long as he insisted on sticking round and making me uncomfortable.... The most outrageous proceeding I ever heard of!" "I don't see through Bel, myself," Lucinda admitted. "You'd think it would be the last thing he'd do. Of course--I'll speak to Harry about it tonight--we can't stay, we'll have to move as soon as we finish this picture." "We're lucky to be as well along as we are, in that case. Barry Nolan said today he expected to finish up in two weeks more." "Then there's no time to be wasted. Your husband will have to begin looking for new studio accommodations right away; though I haven't the least idea where we'll find them, if Bel told the truth." "It's barely possible he did, of course. And then it's equally possible that he's taking advantage of the demand exceeding the supply to force you out of the business, assuming you'll quit Zinn's even if it involves suspending production, rather than be made miserable by seeing him every day. In which case, of course, he'll have some other scheme ready to make it difficult if not impossible for you to resume." "Heavens! what a wild-eyed theory, Fanny!" "Any more wild-eyed, pray, than the facts in the case?--than what Bellamy has done in leasing space in the same studio with a woman whom he has every reason for wishing to avoid, if one can believe a word he says! Cindy: don't tell me you believe Bellamy Druce ever left New York, his home and his friends, to come out here and muck about Hollywood because he likes it, or because he's discontented with having been no better than a drone all his life long and wants to redeem himself by doing something worth-while? If _that's_ his motive, in Heaven's name! what made him pick out the motion-picture business?" "It is funny," Lucinda confessed. "I don't pretend to understand...." No more did she. But the seeds of suspicion that conversation planted took root readily and flowered into a dark jungle of strange, involuted fancies in which fears ran wild until Lynn Summerlad came home to charm them all asleep. Lucinda only needed to see him, indeed, to forget her troubles altogether and become once more the voluntary thrall of a species of intoxication as potent to her senses as a drug. The Lontaines had arranged a supper party at Santa Monica in Summerlad's honour for that night, but considerately had neglected to preface it with dinner. So the lovers had the hours till eleven to themselves. At seven Summerlad called, finding his way unannounced to Lucinda's sitting-room. She went to his arms with a cry of joy, buried her face on his shoulder, clung to him as if she would never let him go. "I've missed you so, Lynn, I've missed you so!" He seemed startled and unmistakably affected by the artlessness of this confession, and held her close, comforting her with all the time-old and tested responses of the lovers' litany, with a tenderness in his voice more deep and true than he had ever sounded in the most impassioned moments of his wooing. "But, my dearest girl! you're trembling. What is it? Tell me...." "It's so wonderful to have you back, Lynn. Don't ever leave me for so long again." "You tempt me to," he laughed indulgently. "I think you've learned to love me better while I've been away than you did in all the while that I was here!" She answered with an odd little laugh of love and deprecation: "I really think I have...." They dined at Marcelle's, not the happiest selection for their first few hours together, for the place was thronged with picture-folk, as it is always of a Saturday, and acquaintances were continually running over to their table to tell Summerlad how glad they were to see him back. Practically the only moments they had alone were when they danced; so they made excuse to leave early, that they might drive to Santa Monica by the most round-about way. Nothing was wanting to endue that drive with every illusion of a dream. Spring was so well advanced that the night air, windless, was as warm as it would ever be in Summer. There was again a moon, as on that first night when Summerlad had driven Lucinda and the Lontaines home from dinner at his bungalow and on the way had turned aside to show Lucinda from that high place in the hills all the provinces of her new kingdom mapped out beneath her. Summerlad's car, its superb motor in perfect tune, made light of speed laws on lonely roads far from the main-travelled ways that link the towns. On the back seat, snuggled into the hollow of Summerlad's arm, Lucinda rested a long time in contented silence, watching the molten magic of the night fling itself at their faces, dissolve, blend into rushing shadows, and sweep behind, to music of cloven air like fairy laughter. How could she ever have been so stupid as to harbour a thought disloyal to this land of dim enchantment? "It is too perfect," she murmured at length, "too sweet to last. It can't last, I know it can't!" "Why not? So long as we love, what's to prevent all beauty lasting?" "Life. I mean"--it took all her courage to speak of what she had till then purposely kept back--"Bellamy." Summerlad's arm tightened protectingly around her. "What about him? Has he come back? Been annoying you any way? Tell me about it." She told him her version of that noon-hour meeting at the studio, Summerlad swearing softly beneath his breath as he listened. "So you see, my dear--as I said--it can't last. We can't continue to work together in the same studio, with Bel spying on us, or able to do so any time he happens to want to. I'll have to move--you can't, of course, because your contract is with Zinn himself. And I imagine--in fact, I'm sure--the best thing for us both is for me to leave Los Angeles altogether for at least six months." "Go away from Los Angeles? From me! Linda, you can't mean it." "Only to make it possible to be nearer to you when I come back, dear. I mean, I must go to Reno, where I should have gone in the first place. If I had, these impossible conditions Bel has brought about could never have been." "Oh, damn your husband!" "I don't know: he's making things awkward for us, truly, but perhaps in the end we'll be grateful to him. If it weren't for Bel, it's quite likely I'd keep on putting off my divorce rather than be separated from you for so long. But after all, what are six months, when they earn us the right to spend all our lives together afterwards?" Lynn made no answer, other than to hold her more tightly. She twisted round to look up into his face. The moonlight showed it set in a scowling cast. "What's the matter, Lynn? Don't you think as I do about Reno?" "Of course," the man muttered. "But I don't fancy your being away from me so long. Six months! Anything can happen in six months." The car was swinging into the streets of Santa Monica. Lucinda gave him her lips. "Let's forget it for tonight. Kiss me again while there's time." The restaurant to which the Lontaines had bidden them was the one in those times most favoured by the froth of the picture colony for its weekly night of carnival; an immense pavilion by the sea, but too small by half for the crowds that besieged it toward midnight every Saturday, pathetically keen to rub shoulders with celebrity in its hours of relaxation from arduous labours before the camera. When Lucinda and Summerlad arrived the velvet rope across the entrance was holding back a throng ten deep, a singularly patient and indefatigable lot, its faces all turned in hope toward the lights beyond, eager to catch the eye of the proprietor, though informed by sad experience that the reward would be what it always was for those who had failed to make reservations, a coldly indifferent shake of the head and nothing more. Through this fringe prayers and elbows opened a sullen way till Summerlad's unusual height won recognition from within, and he passed through with Lucinda to a place where pandemonium set to jazz ruled under light restraint. Round the four walls and encroaching upon the cramped floor for dancing, tables were so closely ranked that passage between them was generally impracticable. It seemed little short of miraculous that so many people could be crowded even into that huge hall, incredible that they should care to be. Yet everybody of any consequence in the studios was there, and everybody knew everybody else and called him by his first name--preferably at the top of his lungs. Much fraternizing went on between the tables, much interchange of the bottles of which at least one was smuggled in by each male patron as a point of honour, against the perfunctory prohibition of the management posted in staring letters at the entrance. An insane orchestra dominated the din by fits and starts, playing snatches of fox-trots and one-steps just long enough at a time to permit a couple to make half the round of the dance floor at the meditative gait imposed by the mob massed upon it, then stopping to let a leather-lunged ballyhoo bullyrag the dancers into contributing their cash as a bribe for further measures. When the musicians rested and the floor was cleared, impromptu exhibitions of foolery were staged by slapstick clowns and applauded with shrieks and cat-calls. The women present, mostly young--for the camera has little use for years beyond the earliest stages of maturity--exhibited themselves in every degree of undress short of downright déshabille. Masculine Hollywood as a rule thriftily saves its evening clothes for service under the Kliegs. Lontaine's party, a large one, comprising the most influential members of the colony with whom he and Summerlad were on agreeable terms, had been long enough in session already to have become individually exalted and collectively hilarious. Summerlad it took to its bosom with shouts of acclaim, and he seemed to find it easy to catch the spirit of the gathering. But Lucinda sat with it and yet apart from it, a little mused. She could not drink enough to be in tune with her company, and would not if she could. A sense of frustration oppressed her. Before her dreaming eyes the pageant passed again of hills and fields asleep in sweet glamour of moonlight, breathing pastoral fragrance upon the night. She had been happy half an hour since. Here in this heady atmosphere of perfumed flesh, tobacco reek and pungent alcohol, the idyl of her evening grew faint and fled. While the man she loved had no regrets. In a moment of disconcerting lucidity she saw him as a strange man, flushed with drink and blown with license, looking on other women with a satyr's appraising eyes, bandying ribald wheezes with the lips she had so lately kissed. And she winced and drew away, recalling that abandon of affection with which she had given herself to his embrace at the hotel, feeling of a sudden soiled and shop-worn as from common handling. A strange man, a man she had known but a few brief weeks! Covertly watching him, she saw Summerlad in the middle of a passage of persiflage start and fall silent, his lips in an instant wiped bare of speech. And following the line of his stare, she espied, at some distance, at a table near the edge of the dance-floor, Bellamy sitting with a woman. He saw her but made no sign more than to intensify his meaning smile, and immediately returned courteous attention to his companion. At this last Lucinda stared in doubt for several seconds, she was so changed. But finery that shrieked of money spent without stint or taste could hardly disguise the wild and ragged loveliness of Nelly Marquis. XXXII In a freak of unaccountable reluctance to believe it was really the Marquis girl, Lucinda looked a second time. More than a month had passed since that brief, distressing chapter of their acquaintance, which Lucinda had put out of mind so completely that her efforts to recall the features of the other conjured up only a foggy impression of a shabby, haggard, haunted shadow, by turns wistful and feebly defiant, that bore what might be no more than chance likeness to this figure of flaunting extravagance at Bellamy's table. A question forming on her lips, Lucinda turned back to Summerlad, but surprised the tail of his eye veering hastily away, and fancied a shade of over-elaboration in the easy, incurious air he was quick to resume; as if he wished her to believe he either hadn't noticed those two or else saw no significance in their association on terms apparently so intimate and mutually diverting. So she held her tongue for a while, till the comforting suggestion offered that Lynn in all probability had but sought to spare her feelings.... She stole another glance across the room. By every indication Bellamy found his company most entertaining; he was paying her sallies a tribute of smiling attention which she as evidently found both grateful and inspiring. It was plain that she had had enough to drink and something more; but on that question she held strong views of her own, and while Lucinda was looking drained her highball glass and with an air peremptory and arch planted it in front of Bellamy to be replenished; a service which he rendered with the aid of a pocket flask--adding to his own glass, however, water only. Not that _that_ necessarily meant anything. Bellamy knew the chances were that Lucinda was watching him. Still, one had to admit he was showing none of those too familiar symptoms; in that gathering, where the cold sober were few and far between, Bel looked conspicuously so. Was he, then, to be believed when he insisted he had finally foresworn alcohol in remorse for having driven Lucinda to leave him? One wondered.... Summerlad was eyeing her with a quizzical air. Lucinda managed half a smile. "Having a good time, Linda?" "I can't complain." A slight movement of shoulders rounded out the innuendo. Summerlad made a mouth of concern. "Tired, dear? Want to go home?" "Afraid Fanny and Harry wouldn't like it...." Was one unfair in reading disappointment where Lynn wished solicitude only to be read? "How about another little drink?" Lucinda shook her head decidedly. "Well, then: what say we dance?" She surveyed the crowded floor dubiously. "It's an awful crush, I'm afraid...." Nevertheless she got up and threaded the jostling tables with Lynn at her heels: anything for respite from the racket the Lontaines and their crew were kicking up. Odd, how those two, so quiet and well-behaved when she had first met them in New York, had let go in this demoralizing atmosphere of what Fanny had rechristened the loose and windy West. Odd, but in a way quite British. The Anglo-Saxon temperament inclines to lose its head once the shackles of home-grown public opinion are stricken off. Long ago a wise man pointed out that there wouldn't be any night life in Paris worth mentioning if it weren't for strict enforcement of the early closing law in London.... It was an awful crush. Few better dancers than Lynn Summerlad ever trod a ball-room floor, but even he was put to it to steer a safe course in that welter. It was, after all, not much of an improvement on sitting still and trying to appear unaware of Bellamy and that weird Marquis creature. Lucinda felt sure, now, she had not been mistaken about the girl, but concluded to ask Lynn anyway; and her lips were parting with this intention when she heard a hiss of breath indrawn and looked up to see Lynn's face disfigured by a spasm of pain. In the same instant he stopped short, in the next he groaned between set teeth. "Have to get out of this, I'm afraid," he grunted. "My foot--somebody with a hoof like a sledge-hammer landed on it just now. That wouldn't matter, only the confounded thing got caught between a couple of logs while we were doing that river stuff. The swelling went down several days ago, and to tell the truth I'd forgotten about it.... But this reminds me plenty!" He had an affecting limp on the way back to their table, where he delayed long enough to tell his story and receive commiserations, then announced that, though desolated to leave such a promising young party, he would have to get home and out of his shoes before he could hope to know another instant's ease. If the Lontaines wouldn't mind seeing that Lucinda got back to the Hollywood all right.... The Lontaines were ready enough to undertake that responsibility, but Lucinda wouldn't hear of staying on. Lynn's chauffeur could as well as not take her to the Hollywood after dropping Lynn in Beverly Hills.... She was glad enough of the excuse, of course, but she did resent, what she couldn't help covertly looking for on the way out, the sardonic glint in Bel's eyes. Really, Bel's effrontery seemed to know no limit. To protest at noon that "casual women" meant nothing to him any more, and at midnight to make public parade of his interest in a demi-rep! On top of that, to give his wife that odious look of understanding when she passed him with Summerlad, a look implying privity to some indecorous secret involving them! Simmering indignation rendered her demeanour unsympathetic, perhaps, while Lynn was being made as comfortable as might be in his car, with the shoe removed from his poor hurt foot and the latter extended on one of the forward seats. And for some minutes after they had got under way she maintained, in the face of inquisitive sidelong glances, a silence which Lynn seemed loath to break. But in time it began to wear upon his nerves. "Cross, sweetheart?" he enquired gently. "I'm sorry you let me drag you away----" "It isn't that," Lucinda replied, almost brusquely. "I wasn't enjoying myself, anyway--wanted to leave almost as soon as we arrived." "Then what is it?" She asked evasively: "How's your foot?" "Much better, thanks. Guess I must've dislocated one of the smaller bones, in that logging stunt. It doesn't feel just right. I'll get an osteopath in tomorrow morning and see what he makes of it." "It really was hurt while we were dancing, then?" "What do you think? That I'd make a fuss like that and spoil my party just for fun?" "I thought possibly you were pretending on my account." "You mean, because your husband was there." "So you did see him, after all." "Yes--but rather hoped you hadn't." "He wasn't alone, Lynn." "I noticed that, too." "It was Miss Marquis, wasn't it?" "Yes, Linda--afraid it was." "Afraid----?" "Your amiable husband's in for an interesting life, if that young woman has got her claws into him." "Lynn: where do you suppose the girl has been all this time, since that night she left the hotel?" "Good Lord! how should I know?" "People don't drop out of sight like that in Hollywood. One keeps meeting them if they're in Town, one can't help it--there are so few places to go. It seems funny she should disappear so completely for--how long is it? four weeks? five?--and then turn up in Bel's company." "It is funny," Summerlad agreed in a tone that rang true. "I'm only wondering where he fell in with her." "Well," Lynn submitted: "I daresay if you were to ask him...." "Or if you were to ask her!" But immediately Lucinda repented her resentment of what she had hastily taken to be an attempt to becloud impatience with ill-timed levity. For Lynn treated her to the reproof of a sulky silence, in which he persisted till she felt constrained, in self-justification, to adopt the very tone that had vexed her. "Or don't you think that would be a good idea, Lynn?" The man shifted in his corner till he sat half-facing her, his manner seriously defensive. "Look here, Linda! I've known a long time you suspected there was something between this Marquis girl and me--or had been----" "Wait a minute, Lynn: I may be stupid, women in love usually are, they say; but that thought never crossed my mind before the moment when, back there in the restaurant, I saw you didn't want me to know you'd seen her." "Then it must have been my conscience, I guess." Lynn fumbled for and found her hand beneath the rug that covered their knees. "You see----" "Oh, I see!" Lucinda snapped, and drew her hand away. "No, you don't----" "But I do, Lynn: and I'm quite reasonable about it. Only, I presume, I needed this to make me understand the kind of man I'd given my heart to." "That's unfair. You know perfectly, nine times out of ten the man isn't to blame. Besides----" "Say, rather, I have wit enough to know the causes underlying every form of human relationship are obscure past comprehending.... It isn't a question with me of blame or excuse, it's just a feeling that's suddenly come over me, a thought come home I've been refusing to think ever since we fell in love, Lynn, that I've committed my life to the care of a man who can never be wholly mine, whom I must always share with his memories of other sweethearts." "Well, but what about _my_ feelings? Do you suppose it makes me happy to be all the time reminded that Bellamy Druce----?" "Please, dear, don't. Forgive me--I couldn't help it. Besides, there's this to be said: if I did love another man before I met you, he was the only one; while you have known so many loves like--like this Marquis girl--not, you know, not quite----" "Oh, I get you!" Summerlad laughed harshly. "You don't have to be more plain-spoken. And I can't deny you've got some excuse. On the other hand, if you love me, you must love me for what I am, not as I might have been if I'd stuck to pounding the ivories in Winona's leading nickelodeon." "Pounding the ivories?" "Playing piano in a moving-picture theatre in a Wisconsin village." "I thought you told us, one night, you'd never done any work before going into pictures?" "Wouldn't call that work," Summerlad explained in haste and not too convincingly. "Work is something that puts real money in the old pay envelope. I'd be ashamed to tell you what the nickelodeon handed me Saturday nights. But it was just a sort of a lark for me. The regular orchestra was an old schoolmate of mine and when he went on his vacation I doubled for him, you see. Of course my folks kicked like steers about my taking a common job like that, but I thought it was fun; and watching the screen for music cues put it into my head I could show 'em something if I ever got a chance in pictures...." Here Summerlad was troubled by a dim reminiscence of some statement with which this account, likewise, failed to jibe, and sheered back to his former thread of argument. "Anyway, you're all wrong about Nelly Marquis. She's one that didn't happen, if you've got to know the truth." "Oh!" Lucinda commented without emotion--"didn't she?" "Along with a hundred others I get the credit for----" "I daresay, by Hollywood standards, 'credit' is the right word." "Oh, hang it all, Linda! you _must_ understand. A man in my line.... Oh, you know how it is.... There'll always be women ready to make fools of themselves over any man who manages to get a certain degree of prominence. And an actor has got to keep in the public eye. Men are just as bad, for that matter; they'll run in circles around an actress, simply because she's on the stage, who can't hold a candle for looks or good disposition to the little girl who lives two doors away on their home street. I met Nelly Marquis shortly after I'd made my first real dent in pictures. She'd come out here to try her luck, after some experience on the legitimate stage. She was so hard hit I used to be afraid to leave the house until I'd sent out scouts to make sure the coast was clear. I've always thought that trouble of hers was more than half responsible for her mania about me." "What trouble?" "Dope. She's a hop nut. Coke--cocaine's her big bet. That's what her friend the doctor boggled about telling you--must've been the trouble, that time you found her stretched out: an overdose. I didn't like to tell you because--well, frankly, I didn't want you to think I knew so much about the girl." "Oh, what a pity!" "I can't hold myself responsible----" "But why should you?" "I mean, I don't believe it was simply disappointment drove her to it.... Hang it! I can't seem to help talking like an ass tonight. What I'm trying to say is this: Nelly took to the dope after I'd met her, but only, I believe, because she got in with the wrong crowd. That's easy in Hollywood. It's hard to tell till you are in with them. And there's an awful lot of that sort of thing goes on more or less quietly out here. They lead one another on. When they've tried everything else they take a chance on the hop to see if there's really anything in it; and then they're gone. They drift into little cliques and have parties, ether parties and that sort of thing, you know, where they choose one by lot to stay off the stuff and watch the others to make sure nobody strangles to death while they lie around him in a circle----" Lucinda lifted her hands to her ears. "Please, Lynn, please! I don't want to hear any more. It's too dreadful!" "I'm sorry. I only wanted you to understand why I felt I had to warn you against Nelly. She's unfortunate, God knows, but she's dangerous, too. They all are, once the stuff gets a hold on them, there's nothing they won't do, no lie they won't tell...." "And this is what goes on in this earthly paradise!" "It isn't California, it isn't Hollywood, it's human nature, one sort of human nature. You'll find the same thing going on in every big city; read the newspaper accounts of the campaign against the drug traffic. Only, out here we know more about it, because the studios make it more or less one big village, and it's hard to keep anything quiet, talk will get about...." They were drawing near the cross-road that led to Summerlad's bungalow. He bent forward and spoke to the driver, and the car held on toward Hollywood. "I'm taking you home first, Linda. My foot isn't troubling me now to speak of, and.... Well: talking about how rapidly gossip spreads made me think it would be better you shouldn't be seen driving up to my place with me at this time of night." With a stabbing pain of loneliness and penitence, Lucinda perceived that she had only Lynn's love and consideration to rely upon for salvation from the gins and pitfalls of this outré world in which she lived, self-outlawed from her kind. No one else cared, not another soul in all Los Angeles would lift a hand in her behalf save at the dictates of self-interest. And in a sudden passion she turned and clung to him again, begging forgiveness for her suspicions and complaints. And Summerlad soothed her, patting gently the head that rested on his shoulder, smiling over it confidentially at the smiling midnight moon. XXXIII Lucinda dated from that Saturday the dawn of a fortnight when everything went wrong for her with such regularity that, in the end, the burden of its crosses grew too sore, the woman had been something more than merely mortal whose stores of fortitude and forbearance had not run low. Naturally she blamed Bellamy.... In a way he asked for this, giving her too little chance to forget that the sunlight had been kind before his shadow fell again athwart her eyes. Now when skies were overcast and the wind had a tooth, Bel figured in the picture as a sort of stormy petrel, forever to be seen wheeling somewhere within the vague of the horizon. Fare where she would on diversion bent, Lucinda seemed fated always to encounter Bel, and too often in the company of the Marquis girl; while at the studio it didn't matter much which way she turned, she could hardly avoid the sight of her husband buzzing about on the business of his new enterprise, and apparently finding it all great fun. To one who recalled the dilettante Bellamy of New York days, there was matter enough for amazement in the gusto he had lately discovered for work that nothing required him to do, in the amount of real energy, enterprise and executive ability which he was contributing to this new amusement. For Lucinda refused to take seriously his infatuation with the motion-picture business; it wasn't real, she insisted to herself, it wouldn't last, he was putting it on just to plague her.... None the less he went to work with a will, and took little more than a week to assemble a producing unit, engage a company of players, and cause camera-work to be begun under the direction of one who, observed occasionally and from a distance, conveyed a refreshing impression of quiet authority. Inasmuch as special sets could hardly have been designed and erected on such short notice, most of the company's first activities were staged away from the studio, "on location," and Lucinda knew nothing of them save through hearsay. Gossip had it, however, that Bellamy was employing no star to carry his initial production, but was rather making a "special"--the term which the motion-picture trade reads to mean a picture basing its claims solely on the strength of its story as interpreted by a well-balanced cast. Glimpses of Nelly Marquis in make-up, now and then, warranted the assumption that she had been given a part in the picture. But their paths seldom crossed, notwithstanding that they were using the same studio, and when it did the young woman somehow always happened to be possessed by an abstraction too profound to permit of her seeing Lucinda. Bel, on the other hand, was already ready with a smile and a friendly hail--"The top of the morning to you, Miss Lee! 'Tis hopeful I am the work, God bless it! is doing well"--or some similar absurdity; but never a hint that there had ever been any terms between them other than the most formal. Gratitude for this much consideration rendered it no more easy to respond in the same spirit. Lucinda had never known anything more baffling than the absence of any justifiable grounds for objecting to Bel's presence in the studio. For if it were her privilege to seek to become a star of the cinema, it was equally his to launch out as a producer.... The daily disappointment that waited on efforts to find other quarters aggravated her sense of hardship. Lucinda learned to listen impatiently for the expressions of despair which unfailingly wound up Lontaine's reports: "If we've got to clear out of this--I don't know, Linda--I'm afraid it means either buy or build." She began to be afraid it did. Studio accommodations were reported never to have been so much in demand on the Coast. Every available stage was doing double duty, two companies crowding their activities wherever possible into a space formerly reserved for one. Neither knew they any rest by night, when belated souls would see the great roofs of glass livid with the incandescence of Cooper-Hewitt tubes, burning like vast green opals against the dense blue-black of early morning skies. The tidal wave of the cinema craze that in those years swept the world was rearing its golden crest to its giddiest height; and the people of the studios rode in glee where the aureate spindrift blew, reckless of the law that every wave that lifts must fall, too drunk with money, altitude and speed to know that already, beneath their very feet, the crest was curving in upon itself, the fanged rocks were waiting. Zinn, wily campaigner that he was by instinct and training, shrewd reader of signs and portents illegible to the general, foresaw the coming débâcle and--when he had made every provision against being overwhelmed in it--assumed in private the prophet's mantle. "Been a good game while it lasted," he observed to Lucinda one day, "but it's on its way now, all right. I was reading a piece in the paper last night, all about how California seen three big booms, that time when they discovered gold, next a real estate speculation craze, and now the movin'-pictures. The first two blew up, same as this will before long. I guess I and you are lucky fools to of got a look in while the going was good." "Lucky?" Lucinda questioned dubiously. A grin of indescribable irony glimmered on the swarthy, shrewd features. "Something to tell the kiddies about when they gather around your knee, Miss Lee: 'What Grandma done and seen in the wild old days in Hollywood.'" "I don't know about that. And what makes you think times will ever be different?" "Take it from me, little lady, things can't hold up much longer the way they been in pictures. Nobody with a brain in his bean would look for it. Trouble is, nobody like that would take the fillum business serious when it was learning to walk. Now it's wearing long pants and driving its own machine, it's no use expecting it to listen to what brains got to tell it. All the same, if it don't--good _night_! "Ah, I see what's going on all the time! Audiences sick of punk pictures and putting up a howl for better, producers combing the world for authors, artists, dramatists, all the people what have got the stuff pictures need to make 'em good--and the old guard back here dug in and ready to die before they'll surrender the trenches to anybody that knows more'n they do. And why wouldn't they? It's meat and drink and gasoline to them to keep things going like they are. Where'd be the sense in them giving the glad hand to the guy who's got it in him to do them out of a nice soft job? "Take authors, now. We're having a big run on authors just't present. The producer figures anybody who's got brains enough to write a novel that won't wobble if a person gives it a hard look, ought to have brains enough to do as good with a picture story. But does he get a chanst? Don't make me laugh. The poor simps come out here on every train with their eyes shining, full of joy and pep on account of what the producers promised they was going to let 'em do in pictures. And every train takes 'em back. What's the answer? "The answer gen'ly's a bird in ridin'-breeches and a property high-brow, calls himself director-general or something gaudy like that--same bird's been making the pictures the producers want to make better. He gives Friend Author the glad smile and a hard look and starts right in telling him all what he can't do in pictures. Author wants to know how come. 'Because I say you can't, and I know everything they is to know about pictures.' Author asks producer what about it. Producer says, says he: 'If my director-general says you can't, stands to reason you can't. Say: how do you get this way? I brought you out here to learn you to make pictures, not for you to learn my director-general.' Author sees the point and fades back East. Director-general tells producer: 'Too bad about that poor fish, but he didn't savvy the picture angle, and I couldn't make him see it nohow.' "Or take another case. Producer buys a big story, like, now...." "_Paradise Lost_," Lucinda suggested mischievously. "Who wrote it?" "John Milton." "Never heard of him. Make a good picture?" "I'm afraid it would be difficult. But it's a big story." "All right. Producer hands this, now, _Paradise Lost_ to his scenario editor. She reads it, turns pale around the gills, sends out an emergency call for the director-general, says to him, says she: 'Listen, sweetheart, this'll be a knock-out if it ever gets on the screen the way it's wrote. The guy what wrote this knew pictures before they was invented.' Director-general says: 'Gosh! that won't never do, or first thing you know we'll have this boob Milton on the lot telling us our business. Stew up the continuity to suit yourself, pet, and leave the rest to me.' Fin'ly _Paradise Lost_ gets on the screen as 'A Cyril de Menthe Production entitled Sex Against Sex, by Queenie Hoozis, featuring Hope Honeybunch with bathroom fixtures by Joseph Urban and telephones hidden by Sherlock Holmes, suggested by a magazine story by J. Milton.' If it gets by, Queenie and Cyril cop the credit. If it falls down they tell the producer they done their best, but he'd ought to of known better, it ain't no use trying to make pictures only from stories framed special for the screen by somebody who cut their eye-teeth on a strip of celluloid--like Queenie. Every time anything like that happens the fillum business takes a long stride forward--towards the end of its rope." "Still, I don't quite see----" "It comes down to this, Miss Lee: nothing short of an earthquake's ever going to jar the Queenies and Cyrils loose from their jobs and give brains a chanst to horn in." "But if you see all this so clearly, Mr. Zinn, why don't you start the indicated reforms yourself?" "Who, me? Naw, naw, little lady; quit your kidding. I don't know enough. Me try to sit in with sure-enough brains? Say! I seen the way you looked when I wanted to know who wrote _Paradise Lost_. No: Isadore Zinn belongs in with the rest of the bunch that's been good enough up to about now but's got to be junked before pictures will get a chanst to be any better'n they ought to be. Oh, I ain't got no kick coming; I've made mine and put it away where nothing real mean's ever going to happen to it; and when the sky falls on Hollywood it'll find me some other place, playing pinochle and absolutely innocent of the entire fillum business." "You don't seriously believe that will ever happen." "It'll happen just as quick's Wall Street wakes up to the way it's been gypped--and it's moaning and tossing in its sleep right now. Wall Street put up its good money because pictures made half-way on the level earned more and earned it quicker'n any other investment they could find. Wall Street didn't worry none about what graft was being gotten away with as long's they thought they was going to get their money back and a hundred per cent. profit every so often. But that was yesterday, when audiences would shell out cheerful and sit through anything because pictures moved. Today they're still lining up at the box-office, but only because they can't believe the day won't never come when they'll maybe see something worth their time and coin. Tomorrow they'll be saying, 'Show me!' before they'll dig up as much's a thin dime. And that's when Wall Street's due to tumble to it, they's only one way for it to save its investments in the fillum game, and that is take hold of it and run it like a honest-to-goodness business. And when that happens, when the fancy salaries get pared down to the quick, and the good graft's all gone, and there ain't no way no more for the assistant property-man to charge the upkeep of his lady-friend's limousine to overhead, and the director what wants money to build ancient Rome with and burn it down for a showy interlude to a society comedy will only get the hearty laugh--why, along about that time a terrible lot of people are going to find out California's a cold, hard place, spite of the climate and all, and a heap of highly hand-painted automobiles is going to be dumped on the used-car market in Los Angeles." Some disturbing mental echo of this screed one day inspired Lucinda to devote several painful hours to totting up her bank account, a duty which she had been religiously forgetting for months, and whose performance brought to light the fact that she had already given Harry Lontaine cheques to his order in the sum of two-hundred and ten thousand dollars, to be cashed by him and deposited to the credit of Linda Lee Inc. If she felt slightly dashed by this discovery, it was less because of the money involved--for she had from the first been prepared to pay more dearly for her whistle than Lontaine had declared it would cost--than because the end was not yet, the first picture remained unfinished, many heavy payments on account of it were still to be met, and her private extravagances, added to the financing of Linda Lee Inc., had left little worth mentioning of the money which Harford Willis, at her requisition, had paid into her drawing account in New York. It was now necessary to write Willis and ask him to find her more money; and that involved, as a matter of simple courtesy to that old friend and a devoted steward of her interests, explanations which she would much rather not make just yet. But her only other course was to consult Lontaine in the faint hope that out of the sums entrusted to him there might be enough left in the company's treasury to see it through the present production. And this she hesitated to do because of an intuitive feeling that he would take this as directly challenging his competency to handle her money if not his good faith. Lontaine was such a sensitive soul.... However, he spared her the pain of deciding to do nothing, for the next time they met he blandly advised Lucinda that the company could do with another twenty thousand as soon as she could find time to draw the cheque; and on learning that it would have to wait a few days, or until she could hear from Willis, seemed considerably discountenanced; or else fancy misled her. As for that, it might have been merely her fancy that Lontaine thenceforward betrayed a disposition to keep out of her way, and when he couldn't was at pains to iron out the wrinkles in his temper before venturing to respond to her always friendly advances; that perceptible hesitation prefaced the utterances Lontaine addressed to her, constraint had crept into their relations, till then so easy and cordial, and added opacity was to be remarked in the stare of those introspective blue eyes. Since it was unthinkable that she should be long embarrassed, for want of ready money, or that Lontaine should believe she could be, Lucinda couldn't imagine why he should show such signals of a mind perturbed, and could only do her best to dwell upon the matter not at all. Heaven knew she had other worries a-plenty to cope with! It was annoying, for example, to feel that one was expected to feign blindness to what was going on under one's very nose, namely Fanny's essays in the ancient and vulgar art of vamping, with Bel in the rôle of voluntary victim--or a vastly better actor than he had ever before shown himself to be. Nor did the quite transparent naivete of Fanny's methods, as Lucinda viewed them, cause patience to be any the less a labored virtue. If you asked Lucinda, Hollywood had added no finish to Fanny's cosmopolitan technique of flirtation, but rather the reverse; in this respect, as in too many others, Fanny seemed to have taken on a shade too much the colour of her environment. One looked and made allowances for the crudely obvious in women educated by directors to believe that certain elementary gestures (for which see any screen) were surely efficacious with men of every class alike. But Fanny knew better than to make herself grotesque. Such, however, was the one word that seemed to suit the way she went with Bellamy. And when one had watched her practise and repeat without end the trick of the upward, sham-timid glance of eyes demurely wise, accompanied by the provocative pout of aggressively kissable life, the look that said openly: I think you're rather nice and I know I am; so why are we wasting time?--and had seen it work an apparently invariable effect upon one who called himself a man of the world, who should long since have graduated from the social kindergartens where such tactics are vogue--well, one simply longed to cuff his ears and tell him to quit being such a silly fool. It gave one furiously to repent having relinquished the right to bestow upon Bel gratuitous advice for his own good. Wherefore it came to pass that, as a general thing, whenever Fanny was wanted for a scene and was not to be found in the neighbourhood of the set, she would ultimately be discovered somewhere on the lot, more often than not in the most public corner of it, industriously rehearsing her wiles for the debatable benefit of Bellamy. And this the man who had declared that his besetting sin had lost all savour for him since it had done its part to alienate his wife! Lucinda nevertheless assured herself that she didn't so much mind Bel's inconsistency--for what were his protestations to her today?--or even Fanny's commonplace coquetries; it was the surreptitious airs with which Fanny sought to envelop these goings-on, the reticence which she persisted in observing in respect of their effect, that made their joint stupidity maddening. For never since that afternoon when Bel had caught Lucinda in the act of kissing Summerlad before a camera, and Fanny had playfully announced her intention of vamping him to a fare-ye-well, had she chosen to mention his name in any relation to herself. In the local vernacular which she had been so quick to pick up, Fanny seemed to think she was getting away with something. Lucinda resisted the temptation to disillusion her friend mostly because of a faint-hearted hope that Fanny might at any moment redeem herself with a scornful report of Bel's gullibility, but in part because of doubt whether Bel were being taken in as completely as he appeared to be. It was just possible that this old hand at philandering was simply playing Fanny's game to find out what she meant by it. Certainly he showed no propensity to favouritism. The path of his amourette with the Marquis girl ran parallel to that which he pursued with Fanny, perhaps ran faster, but strangely proved not half so tiresome to the spectator. In spite of all that Summerlad had said of her, Lucinda entertained an honest admiration for the Marquis as she was today, considered her physically quite a fascinating creature, which she unquestionably was in this revised phase, and found what Bel saw in her far more easy to understand than what he saw in Fanny. This was something partly to be accounted for by the circumstance that Lucinda saw comparatively so little of Miss Marquis, saw her so seldom save at a distance and when she was on her dignity--when, as Summerlad had it, she had slapped on thick the make-up of a lady. That it was in good measure make-up merely Lucinda had memories to testify. For all that, she saw the girl comporting herself toward Bellamy with a manner which she thought Fanny might have copied to good profit. But when she confided as much to Summerlad she found him darkly suspicious of Nelly's present good behaviour. "Don't worry," he advised: "That young woman will surprise you yet. She's being nice now and enjoying the novelty. Chances are she took the cure, that time she disappeared. But it never lasts. Once the old hop gets its hooks into anybody it never lets go, really. It may seem to be licked for a while, but it's only waiting for a moment of weakness. Wait till Nelly gets bored playing up to the gentlemanly attentions of your friend, Mr. Druce, wait till she wants him to do something he doesn't want to. Just wait. If you admire fireworks, believe me, Linda, your waiting won't be wasted." Having said which, Summerlad made haste to change the subject. But Lucinda had already learned that any reference to Nelly Marquis was calculated to make him restive. A circumstance in itself not the least irksome of the many which she counted as afflictions. She needed badly a congenial confidant, and Lynn was newly become anything but that, had, indeed, never seemed quite the same since the first night of his return. Another black mark to add to Bellamy's score. For Lynn was inevitably and pardonably disgusted with the situation at the studio, where he couldn't turn around without running into either the Marquis girl or the husband of the woman he loved. Then much of the old delight in sharing working-quarters had been lost through their tacit agreement that, under these changed conditions, a trifle more reserve wouldn't come amiss when they met under the public eye. But now, even when they were alone, the old-time spontaneity was missing, and, Lucinda was sure, through no fault of hers. It was in Lynn that she thought to detect a strange new absence of ease, what she could almost have termed a hang-dog air, a furtive fashion of watching her, if he thought she wasn't aware, that was swift to change, as soon as he found she was, to a species of feeble bravado distastefully reminiscent of Bel when Bel had been drinking just enough to feel it and not enough to have become callous; an air of having done something he oughtn't and living in instant dread of being found out. Lynn had such an air with her, that is, if Lucinda were not self-deceived, if she didn't imagine it all, if it were anything but an hallucination conjured up by a mind morbidly conscious of Bel's shadow in the offing, the shadow of that relationship which, while unresolved, must ever rest between the lover and the wife. XXXIV But these peculiar tribulations rankled neither severally nor even in their sum more distressfully than did the trouble at the studio, where daily the tension of ill-feeling between actress and director grew more taut, as Lucinda's earlier misgivings ripened into articulate dissatisfaction with Nolan's methods and their fruits, and as that sensitive artistic soul reacted deplorably, in terms of begrudged civility at best, and at other times of stubborn Celtic oppugnancy. Dilatory tactics in directing had become too fast a habit with Nolan to be broken at will, and had forced him to forego his chance at that attractive job in the East. For which, of course, he would never forgive Lucinda. And he was otherwise so fed up with the feeling that he was unappreciated, that he had taken to fuming nastily over every set-back which put off the final "take" by so much as an hour, and indeed was more than once only restrained from "walking off the lot and leaving the picture flat" by the consideration that he had as yet been able to wheedle out of Lontaine a mere niggardly half of his contract fee in advance. Aware of what was in the air, the supporting players held their collective breath against that explosion which all felt was due at any moment to hoist them into the same element and leave them there, belike, in indefinite suspense. Individually they went with a nice if naïve diplomacy in all their dealings with Miss Lee and Mr. Nolan individually; for who could foresay whose hands would hold the symbols of power when the dust had settled? But the sympathies of the producing staffs, to a man, Lucinda was sensible, were with Nolan; and though this nettled her at times, she consoled herself with the reflection that it was after all only natural, since the best directors, that is to say those with the most artful and resourceful press-agents, hand-pick their lieutenants as a general custom and carry them along as they lightly flit from berth to berth. And she derived a little comfort from the belief that the cameraman was on her side. Cameramen, being highly trained specialists in an exacting art, are more often than not men of independent minds, iconoclastic in their attitude toward the directors with whom they work. Iturbide was of this tribe. He knew his trade, not Nolan or any other could instruct him in it. If he reckoned the light not right for any take, that scene would wait though Nolan raved and the heavens quaked. In the choice of the right angle for any shot his judgment was final, even Nolan learned in time not to dispute it. And he accomplished his will with a singular economy of words and emotion, the more remarkable in view of the mercurial temper with which tradition accredits the race from whom he sprang. He was Mexican, a tall and rangey body, with eyes as beautiful as a woman's, and much to the silken courtesy of the Spanish whose blood he shared. "No, Mr. Nolan," he would announce in a strongly accented and resonant voice, shaking his head sorrowfully after setting up his camera and assaying the light by peering through a strip of negative film exposed behind the lens--"no, I no take--light no good. Tomorrow we take, maybe light better then." And while Nolan, who as like as not had voluptuously kept a regiment of extra people waiting all day to work in this the last hour of the afternoon--while Nolan spluttered and swore and offered to go down on his knees if prayers would move Iturbide to change his mind, the cameraman would be placidly superintending the demounting of his camera, and pocketing the darling lens whose care he never would trust to hands other than his own. And that scene would not be taken until the next day--not then, if the light were not exactly to Iturbide's liking. Which was one among a number of reasons why his photography was credited with having saved many a picture otherwise without virtue. Scrupulous always to avoid giving unprovoked offense, in the series of skirmishes which made the final two weeks of Nolan's engagement memorable, Iturbide played the part of benevolent neutral; but if Lucinda were not mistaken in her reading of his eyes, the best of his benevolence was reserved for her. Historically--and setting aside minor clashes of opinion as mere affairs of outposts--the private war progressed to its conclusion in three stages, which for convenience may be named the Battle of the Supper Club Set, the Affair of the Comedy Feet, and the Last Stand in the Living-Room Doorway. In the novel from which the picture in production took its name and little else, most of the plot development was worked out in a fashionable supper club, where Lucinda in the character of a professional dancer, figured nightly as what for some reason New York that stays up nights knows by the name of "hostess." The rooms of the club as described bore close resemblance to the premises for years tenanted by the Club de Vingt in East Fifty-eighth street, to whose general plan, however, fanciful embellishments had been added in an effort to make it a frame worthy of the dancer's charms. Over the lay-out, or scheme, for this set, Lucinda had spent many hours and much thought--before Nolan found time to give the production any attention whatever--in consultation with Harry Lontaine and Mr. Coakley, the talented young man who served the Zinn Studios in the capacity of general technical director: an office which as organized by the motion-picture trade, comprehends those--among others--of architect, landscape-gardener, scene, house, sign and artist-painter, interior decorator, and amateur of the art of every era, from the Eolithic to that of East Aurora. And in the end Lucinda had turned to her work before the camera well-satisfied that Mr. Coakley knew what to do and how to do it, and would assemble an excellently suitable room if left to exercise his own good taste and ingenuity. The most pretentious bit of building required by the production, the supper club was the last to be erected, and wasn't ready till the beginning of the fourth week of Nolan's reign; as Lucinda learned it was, one evening, when the assistant-director circulated a call for the entire company to work on it the next day. Accordingly, Lucinda and Fanny strolled over to the main stage, where, behind a flimsy fence of sides--frames of wood and paint-smeared canvas held up by struts--the precincts of the supper-club basked in the cynical glare of Cooper-Hewitts overhead. Inside the barricade, Lucinda halted with a cry of shocked remonstrance. In the middle of the floor, upon which she was to give the solo dance which she had been weeks rehearsing under a veteran professional, Nolan stood vivaciously lining out tomorrow's proposed campaign for the benefit of a group composed of his first assistant, Mr. Wells, Iturbide and the second cameraman, and Mr. Coakley. There was nothing else to break the full force of the blow which fate had prepared for Lucinda's expectations. Of the gay, exquisite scheme upon which she and Coakley had agreed, guided by the novel, there wasn't a sign. The main masses of woodwork were here all a dull, blank black. The panels, which were to have framed baskets of fruit and garlands of flowers, in low poly-chrome relief-work, had yielded place to paintings in the style of French posters, of women in antic postures and clothed only enough to accent their nakedness. The little tables that lined the walls were dressed with cloths checquered staringly in red and white. The imbecile geometry of the Cubists had patterned all the draperies and upholstery materials in weird juxtapositions of colour apparently intended to give away the grisly cosmic secret that there was something rotten in the solar spectrum. And at the far end of the room there was.... Lucinda looked twice to make sure her eyes did not deceive her. But, no; there it was: a bar, a veritable zinc of the common Parisian cabaret. And while she gaped aghast, hysterically torn by a desire to scream with lunatic laughter and an impulse to weep and dance with rage, Nolan spied her and, deserting his audience, tripped briskly over, beaming happily. "Well, Miss Lee! how about it, eh? A little slice off the top of the real Bohemia, I'll tell the world. And wait till you see how she screens. O bay-bee! but this glad young set's gonna photograph like a million dollars." Lucinda choked down the anger with which her lips were tremulous. For an instant she stared hopelessly at Nolan, comprehending that this vile parody of the design she had approved was due wholly to his arbitrary action in contradicting the plans without reference to her wishes. And she could have cried with disappointment and vexation. As a matter of simple fact, her eyes did fill in that bitter moment when she was made poignantly aware of how high her hopes had been and how heartlessly frustrated, and how helpless she was to express a tithe of her indignation without jeopardizing the good of the picture. If she spoke her mind it were inconceivable that Nolan should consent to continue as director. And grave and well-grounded as was her dissatisfaction with him, Lucinda was not yet ready to believe it would benefit the picture to have it finished by another intelligence than that under whose guidance it had been so ill-begun. And it is by this that the potential artistic stature of Linda Lee is to be reckoned, that in this the young beginning of her career she had already learned, what many who walk with the great ones of the screen have never learned and are incapable of learning, to think of her work before herself, to esteem her rôle as something less than the story which gave it excuse for being, to hold the welfare of the picture as a picture more important than her own. While still she faltered, fearing to speak her mind, Coakley came up with the others. To him she turned reproachfully. "Oh, Mr. Coakley! _why_ did you do this?" Before Coakley could reply Nolan cut in irritably: "Do what? What's the matter now?" "I'm asking Mr. Coakley why he didn't carry out the design we agreed on for the supper club." Coakley grinned and scratched an ear. "Mr. Nolan's ideas, Miss Lee," he drawled uncomfortably. "Mr. Nolan ordered this change?" Nolan brusquely interposed: "Of course, I did. What's wrong with the set?" "And you didn't consult me, Mr. Coakley?" "I supposed you knew, Miss Lee." "Say, listen here!" Nolan snapped--"what's the grand idea? I said I was responsible for this set, didn't I? I gave Coakley's lay-out the once-over, saw it wouldn't do, and told him what I wanted. And why wouldn't I? Look't what we got. Not much like that glorified tea-room you were satisfied with, is it?" "No, Mr. Nolan--not much. I grant you that." "Well, then, what's the big objection?" "Simply that the set is out of harmony with the rest of the picture----" "Out of harmony! Why, it's going to _make_ the picture! You ask Harry Iturbide here. He'll tell you, when that set's flashed on the screen it's going to knock your eye out." "I'm sure he will," Lucinda agreed, smiling at the cameraman. "Well, Harry?" Nolan insisted--"what about it? Who's got the rights of this argument?" "Miss Lee," the cameraman said, sententious. "Miss Lee has! Say: how do you make that out?" "You don't want to make your background too prominent, Mr. Nolan," Iturbide explained patiently. "This set is going to stick out in front of the actors. You won't be able to see what they're doing against a checker-board like that." "Ah, you give me a pain!" Nolan retorted crushingly. "That background's all right--going to photograph like a million dollars, I tell you." "But, Mr. Nolan," Lucinda resumed with more confidence: "don't you see that the set is completely out of key with the atmosphere of the story? It isn't in the least like the supper club the author described." "Bet your sweet life it isn't! Look here: I read that story, and I know all about it, and I can show you where the author was all wrong with his idea of the kind of a joint _Nelly_ was running----" "It wasn't what you call a 'joint,' to begin with, Mr. Nolan." "That's just the very point I'm trying to make. If it isn't a joint you're dancing in, where's _Richards_ get off with his kicking about you not being good enough to marry his son? It's got to be a joint, or there won't be any sense in the way he fusses when he finds out you and _Dick_ are stepping out together. If that place in the book wasn't a joint, I'm a kike!" Nolan paused in triumph to let his argument sink in. "Now"--he brandished a hand at the set--"this _is_ a joint, and a regular one, if you want to know. Some class to this. I doped it all out myself. Take those tablecloths, now: that's the identical kind they were using in Montmartre last time I was in New York. And those panels on the walls--I got the idea for them from Reisenweber's Paradise Room, only these are sportier. And that black woodwork and all.... Why, we've taken the best points of all the classiest joints in New York and lumped them into one set, and improved on them at that. Now when this poor fish of a _Richards_ sees his son dancing with you in a joint like this, he'll have some excuse for claiming you ain't all you might be." "The trouble is," Lucinda replied gravely--"I mean, from your viewpoint the trouble will be--_Richards_ will never see _Dick_ dancing with me in this set." "What's the reason he won't?" Lucinda smiled slightly, shook her head slightly, slightly shrugged. In the course of Nolan's harangue it had been revealed to her that no greater calamity could possibly be visited upon the picture than to permit its essential colour of good taste to be vitiated by the introduction of this purely atrocious set. It would be like asking the public to believe that people accustomed to sup and dance in the Crystal Room at the Ritz had transferred their favour to the roughest cabaret in the purlieus of Longacre Square. "What's the reason he won't?" Nolan repeated, raising his voice angrily. "Because I won't work on this set, Mr. Nolan--until it is restored to the design I approved." "But--my Gawd!--you can't do that, Miss Lee--you can't hold up this production like that. Why, it'll take weeks----" "How long will it take, please, Mr. Coakley?" "Well, I don't know, Miss Lee--I might be able to rush it through for you in a week or ten days." "There!" Nolan obtruded an excited smirk and weaving hands between Lucinda and the technical director. "You hear what Coakley says. Ten days! You can't hold up this production ten days, Miss Lee." "I can," Lucinda corrected coldly, "and will, no matter how long it takes to make this set resemble a place self-respecting people would patronize." "But--listen here!--you can't go to work and upset all my plans at the last moment, like this. Company called for half-past eight--fifty extra people hired for four days' work--orchestra from the Alexandria and all--the best caterer in Los Angeles engaged to serve the eats--! You can't throw me down like this----" "I'm sorry, Mr. Nolan. You should have consulted me before ordering such changes on your own responsibility----" "Look here: am I directing this picture, or ain't I?" "I'll answer that question when you answer mine: Am I paying for this production or are you? And if I am, are you the only one whose wishes are to be considered?" "Listen, now, Miss Lee." Nolan made a frantic effort to be calm and urbane. He swallowed hard. "Listen: I don't want to have any trouble with you, but you're making it all-fired hard for me. I've been in this business ever since there was a studio in Hollywood, I've directed hundreds of productions, hundreds of 'em, I ought to know my business----" "It was on that assumption precisely that you were hired," Lucinda reminded him sweetly. "But ever since I been working with you, I've felt--you've made me feel--damn it! you've been watching me and thinking sarcastic things about the way I do----" "Did you never before suspect you were psychic, Mr. Nolan?" "And now you openly criticize my judgment about this set and say you won't work on it----" "You understand me exactly," Lucinda assented. "You mean that?" She nodded. "Well, that--settles--it!" Nolan flung both hands above his head and waggled them insanely. "That _settles_ it! I'm through--I'm finished--done! I'm out! I quit!" He hesitated a single instant, searching Lucinda's face to see it blench at this awful threat; and in disappointment whirled on a heel and barged out of the set so blindly that he blundered into one of the frames and knocked it flat. Lucinda nodded quietly to the technical man. "Please make the changes as soon as you can, Mr. Coakley. It's all right: don't apologize any more. I quite understand it wasn't your fault." The president of Linda Lee Inc. wasn't in his office, neither was his car in the parking yard; but Nolan evidently knew where to find him, for Lucinda had not been twenty minutes in her rooms at the Hollywood when Lontaine's knuckles rattled on the door. His agitation, when she admitted him, was intense, almost pitiable. One gathered that he considered a tiff between star and director a catastrophe second only to national censorship of pictures. He stammered painfully over his account of Nolan's ultimatum, which had been accompanied by a demand for the balance of his pay in full and at once. "I presume you haven't heard from your lawyer yet, Linda ..." "He hasn't had time to get my letter." "I don't suppose--you couldn't wire him now? It would give us a frightful black eye if Nolan were able to say we couldn't pay him." "But he's had twelve thousand or so already. Why should he get the balance of his fee if he refuses to earn it?" "But he claims you as good as fired him----" "No doubt he would." Lucinda corrected to the last letter that misstatement of fact.... "So you see, the truth is, Mr. Nolan fired himself in a pet because I refused to let him ruin the supper club sequences. Now if he wants the rest of his twenty-five thousand, he'll have to hire himself on again." And eventually despairing of a change of heart in Lucinda, Lontaine took himself off to test his powers of moral or other suasion on Nolan; and at intervals during the evening called up to report progress, or rather that absence of progress which rewarded his best endeavours. Hope died hard in him, however; and some time after midnight the telephone routed Lucinda out of her bed to receive a somewhat disconnected communiqué to the effect that Lontaine's cunning as a diplomat had at length wrung from Nolan a promise to return to work the next day. Strains of jazz which filtered over the wire, a singing background for the muzzy accents which retailed this glorious news, led Lucinda to infer that Lontaine was calling from Santa Monica, and to suspect that Nolan's capitulation had been to some extent at least due to the humanizing, at times, influences of the stuff the genial bootlegger vends; but perhaps no more than to the intoxicating kindness of Fanny's eyes.... To her taste the Affair of the Comedy Feet was something more farcical, though Nolan did take it in a depressing spirit of deadly seriousness. In fact, one of the heaviest handicaps under which this young man laboured in his progress through life was a tendency to take frivolous matters, including himself, a shade over-seriously; a fault he shared with so many of his fellows of the studios that Zinn one day was moved to comment on its cause, not without psychological insight. "One of the big troubles with the fillum business," he observed sagely, "is the way it's made a lot of people rich what wasn't never meant to be that way. And take it from me, pictures ain't never going to be right, really, until most of that bunch gets out of the business or gets over their surprise. "Independence," he mused, "is one of the dangerousest weapons a person can put in the hands of an ignorant guy." Next to himself and his amours, the thing Barry Nolan took most seriously was Comedy, so much so that he clothed the word with the capital even in his private meditations, and devoted a good part of his professional life to perspiring efforts to interject Comedy into the pictures he directed, especially those in whose composition Comedy, as he conceived it, had no business to find place. Thus with the picture upon which his genius was at present engaged. Over the unfolding of its story the Comic Spirit did indeed preside, but manifested only in the rustle of its satiric wings, in a whisper of wit ever and anon animating the speech of its creatures; never in the head-on collision of two actors trying to pass through one doorway in opposite directions, never in the capers of a cross-eyed comedian dogged to his undoing by a pack of wild pies. So that Nolan felt it devolved upon him to save the picture by distorting situations integral in its plot and by devising others for interpolation, to the end that Comedy, the Comedy of the cinema, of physical mishaps and deformities, might mow and bow upon the screen its bid for guffaws. If the results he gained were often lamentable, Lucinda ceased to offer comment when her first diffident strictures had been ungraciously overruled. It would be time enough to fight for a decision, she reflected, when the picture was ultimately cut to length and assembled; in which process much of this deplorable stuff would be sure to go by the board, for very lack of space. Piqued to find her so unresponsive, Nolan issued secret orders that his most ambitious comic flights were not to be shown Lucinda with the other rushes, and confined further efforts in the vein to scenes in which she took no part. And it was thus that the Comedy Feet crept up on her unawares. Some time subsequent to the Battle of the Supper Club Set, when his equanimity seemed to have been completely restored, Nolan acquainted Lucinda with the details of an utterly unique method of screen introduction which he had invented, all out of his own head, with a view to lending distinction to her début. By this device the public was first to make her acquaintance through the medium of a close-up framing two pair of dancing feet, _Nelly's_ (that is to say, Lucinda's) and her professional partner's. Then, as these rested, the partner's feet were to be eliminated, and the close-up, after lingering one fond, reluctant moment on Lucinda's ankles, was to travel up her person until it hovered upon her head and shoulders. If not strikingly novel, the business seemed simple and innocuous enough to Lucinda, and she posed for it according to instructions and without misgiving. But when, the next day, she sat with Nolan in the projection-room, reviewing the rushes, this is what the screen revealed to her astounded eyes: She saw first a stripling fashionable, an admirer of hers in the story, stroll down a section of sidewalk in the Los Angeles shopping district (which Nolan asserted was "Fifth Avenue to a T") enter a florist's shop, select roses, and scribble a card to accompany them, while the florist summoned an errand boy, a repulsive white slug of a child, eight or nine years of age, heavy with unwholesome fat and wearing an habitual look of hopeless vacuity, whom Lucinda had several times noticed, not without wonder, as he loitered drearily about the stage. As she now saw him, the boy had been heartlessly shoe-horned into the brass-bound livery of a page, and wore upon his feet a brace of leathern wrecks which even the broad charity of a Charlie Chaplin would have hesitated to call shoes. Waiting for the card to be written, this bleached sausage of a child restlessly shuffled his tragic feet, and again and again wiped them on each other. To make sure that nothing of the fine Comedy of the business would be overlooked, the feet were isolated in an heroic close-up. She saw the boy take the box of roses and leave the shop to deliver them. As he emerged to the street the fiendish camera pounced upon his feet and again held them up to derision in a close-up wherein they resembled more than anything else abnormal vegetable growths uncannily animate. Nor was this enough. With the savage elemental humour of a Yahoo the camera hounded those fungoid feet as they clumped and dragged and faltered along the sidewalk, their monstrosity painfully stressed by contrast with the trim legs and dainty feet of feminine passers-by, the decently shod feet of men. When unstinted quantities of film had been squandered in this delectable pursuit, the Comedy Feet were shown performing a side-splitting stumble over the threshold to the supper club establishment. The close-up of Lucinda's feet with her dancing partner's was then disclosed; and the camera shifted its intimate attentions to another pair of feet disgracefully clad, which were discovered in the act of pressing the pedals of a piano and appeared to belong to a low comedy stage mother whom Nolan had foisted upon Lucinda in his version of the continuity. These last the camera followed as they left the piano and shuffled across the floor to meet the feet of the errand-boy, then as they crossed to halt near the feet of Lucinda. Followed the ascent of the close-up to frame on Lucinda's face as she smiled down at her armful of roses. The film ran out then, darkness fell, the ceiling light came on, and Nolan, who had the chair immediately in front of Lucinda's, twisted round with a bright, expectant grin to study her face for the glow of glad appreciation which he felt his ingenuity had earned. She managed a wan little smile for him, but her eyes held still a look of bewilderment too deep to be readily erased, too despairing to be misread. Nolan flushed, but wasn't ready to admit defeat. "I'll tell the world," he declared defiantly, "the screen never seen an introduction like that before!" Anxious to avoid a repetition of their former squabble, Lucinda sought vainly for some equivocal phrase that would content the man's stupendous vanity. But, inconceivably inane as it sounds, the business of the Comedy Feet has been here set forth without the faintest colour of exaggeration; and her wits were numb from the impact of its wanton stupidity. "Well!" Nolan sneered in an effort to reassert his authority--"I can see it didn't make a whale of a hit with you, Miss Lee, but believe me, the audiences will eat that stuff up, simply eat it up!" "Don't you think," Lucinda ventured--"perhaps it's a little long, Mr. Nolan?" "Oh, maybe a little trimming here and there won't do any harm. But it can't come down a whole lot without hurting the Comedy effect." "But--I don't like to seem hypercritical--but that's what's troubling me. You see, it doesn't seem terribly amusing to me." Nolan's eyes snapped, but as yet he had his temper under fair control. "I'd like to know why not," he replied with more civility than the bare words as quoted can convey. "If you'll be patient with me, I'll try to explain. It seems to me in a story of this sort, about real people struggling with real emotions, whatever comedy is introduced ought to be in character or consistent with the general tone of the picture." "Well?" Nolan drawled wearily. "Well--assuming there's really something funny about that child's pitiful feet--it's utterly at odds with probability to place him, dressed as he is, in the shop of a Fifth avenue florist. No such establishment would dream of employing such a caricature of an errand boy.... Don't you see?" "No," Nolan replied with an offensive echo of her inflection--"no, I don't _see_. It's Comedy, audiences are always howling for Comedy, and if anything on God's green earth can save this rotten picture it'll be the Comedy I'm sticking into it." "Then I'm afraid it's hopeless." "But I'll tell you what I do see." Nolan leaned over the back of his chair and grinned mirthlessly into Lucinda's face. "I see what I've seen all along, and that is there's no pleasing you, Miss Lee! Ever since I started on this picture you've had the old harpoon out for everything I did, and this, what you're saying today about this introduction I invented for you, is all of a piece with the way you've been acting all along." "But, please, Mr. Nolan!"--Lucinda was trying her best to be temperate--"surely this isn't a reasonable attitude to take, surely you can make allowances for honest difference of opinion." "Ah, it ain't your fault!" Nolan jerked angrily out of his chair and turned to the door, but delayed long enough to deliver a valedictory: "And I'm a sap to let anybody that knows as little about pictures get my goat like you do. Have it your own way--chuck the whole sequence out, if you don't like this introduction I framed special for you. It's your picture, I should worry what the piece of junk looks like when you're through with it. But I tell you one thing: If that introduction don't stand, my name can't go on the picture as its director. And that's flat, my lady!" And before Lucinda could take advantage of this wide invitation to a withering retort, the door slammed on Nolan's impassioned exit. XXXV The day of the Last Stand in the Living-Room Doorway began auspiciously enough with receipt of a night-letter from Harford Willis stating that money matters had been arranged in conformance with Lucinda's wishes, and adding that Willis hoped before long to give himself the pleasure of calling on her in person; the business of another client was requiring his supervision in San Francisco, on the way out he could readily stop over in Los Angeles for a day or two, he was leaving New York the day he telegraphed. Not a little to her own wonder, Lucinda found herself pleasantly excited by the thought that she was to see this old friend so soon again. Had his telegram come a week or so earlier, she must have been quite as much annoyed, have deemed its implicit promise of meddling in her affairs an inexcusable impertinence. But a week or so ago, at least up to the time of Bellamy's reappearance, she had been comparatively serene, smug with self-contentment because of the semblance of success which had thus far attended the rather off-hand measures she had adopted in dealing with the larger issues of her life. Now, however, she knew no more peace of mind, in the last fortnight the pressure of perplexities had grown so heavy that she found herself eagerly looking forward to the arrival of one in whom she could confide, of whom she could ask counsel, without fearing to hear self-interest sound in his responses. Harford Willis might disapprove the roads she chose to go, but so long as she kept within certain bounds, which she herself would never dream of overstepping, he wouldn't censure; and if she found the going rough in the ways of wilfulness, his sympathy would none the less be constant, he'd never say, "I told you so;" and never would he be guilty of advising any course of action to the end that he himself might profit. Take him for what he was, there was nobody like him, nobody else whom she could so trust ... not even Lynn.... Not even Lynn! A bitter thought to have to think, but a true, and one it were not the part of wisdom to ignore, that she couldn't look to the man she loved with all her heart, and who loved her well in his way, she knew, for sympathy in her trials and for unselfish advice, as she could to another in whose consideration she was merely a pretty, headstrong girl whom he had known since she was little, the daughter of an old friend. For the truth was (idle to deny it longer or hope against hope that one might be mistaken) Lynn was changed, had ceased to be the light-hearted and irresponsible but tender lover of the days before Bellamy had come back to play skeleton at their feast, of late had grown irritable in a fashion new to Lucinda's knowledge of him, somewhat sulky and suspicious of temper, impatient of Lucinda's troubles when she wanted condolence and soothing, and over-ready to remind her he had troubles of his own. She wasn't disposed to quarrel with him on that account, she was too fair-minded to deny him his grievances or the right to nurse them. Surely the situation in which Lynn now newly found himself was one to play the deuce with the sunniest of dispositions--to be an accepted lover and have a husband continually if with pretended playfulness snapping at one's heels, or else circling watchfully in the not too remote distance and showing his teeth, every time one looked his way, in a grin as malicious as it was brilliant. Then there was that trouble with Lynn's foot, something that had turned out, rather to Lucinda's astonishment, to be a real injury, no make-believe feigned for an occasion. At the studio second-hand accounts came to her, of how Summerlad's foot had slipped, while he was doing "river stuff," and had been severely pinched between two logs. It hadn't seemed much of a hurt at the time, and Summerlad had made light of it, just as today he made light of it; but it had been slow to mend, and even now, though he usually managed to get through his work for the camera without registering the injury, there were days when he walked with a noticeable limp, when inability to get about with comfort interfered seriously with the amusements he had been accustomed to share with Lucinda. So she wasn't seeing so much of him as aforetime, and when she did, what with natural preoccupation in their respective afflictions, to say nothing of the greater annoyance that afflicted them in common, the old unconstraint was grievously missed. But nothing in this life lasts (Lucinda insisted on iterating, in a temper doggedly philosophic) and even as that earlier time of ecstasies had passed, this time of trial would pass, the day would come when, her picture finished, she would be free to leave the studio and forget Bellamy's existence, go on to Reno and get her freedom, when Lynn would be hers alone and they two could look back at this time and laugh to think how it had galled them. Busy with such reflections, and with the pleasing prospect of soon having a willing audience for her complaints, Lucinda made nothing of the fact that Lontaine showed the whites of his eyes and shied back like a skittish cob from the telegram which she submitted to his inspection, and was even not much tranquillized by the cheque which, at the same time, she gave him for the replenishment of the company's coffers. And in her most amiable temper she hurried from his office to her dressing-room, into the newest, prettiest and most becoming dance frock she had ever owned, who had owned so many, and then out to the stage. The company was waiting, the cameras were waiting, Nolan with an air of noblest patience was waiting. All of which was quite needless, for there was other work in abundance that could have been attended to, there were scenes in the same sequence in which she didn't appear and which might easily have been rehearsed if not photographed even though Lucinda was a bit tardy. But that wouldn't have suited Nolan's little book: having told Lucinda when he would want her at a fixed hour, he was determined that nothing should go forward till she showed up. That wasn't the Nolan method in dealing with women, to let them play fast and loose with his mandates and pretend it didn't matter. Was he not Barry Nolan, well-known for his success in taming temperamental actresses? A reputation honestly earned and of which he proposed that Lucinda should now be reminded in no uncertain accents. And if one had ventured to question his policy, he would have pointed out that company morale was bound to suffer if the director neglected to "go to the mat with" his star every so often. The success of every human undertaking depended on undisputed authority vesting in one and only one directing head--in moving-pictures, the director's. A lesson every star needed to be taught upon occasion. You had to keep hammering it into the poor dumb-bells, or they got the swelled head--and then where were you? In point of sober fact, Nolan was enjoying himself tremendously, though to have admitted as much, even to his private conscience, would have spoiled the fun entirely. He couldn't possibly have been having such a good time if he hadn't been in such a vile temper. Up to the moment of Lucinda's appearance, he had been whiling away the Wait by delivering a monologue of spontaneous generation, a discourse having for its subject the habits of stars in general and of self-made feminine stars in especial, studiously impersonal in phrasing but mordant of wit, and delivered with an air of gentle and melancholy detachment which took no perceptible account of the snickerings of his henchmen and the ill-hidden smiles of actors who, in the absence of Lucinda, were hazarding no guesses as to which side their bread was buttered on. As Lucinda drew near, Nolan hoisted himself out of the basket-chair in which he had been lounging, with something more than a suggestion of limbs cramped by prolonged inactivity, and bowed politely, too politely. But Lucinda was feeling much too kindly minded toward all the world, that morning, to resent his nonsense, though by no means unaware of its cause and aim. And with every intention of keeping the peace she returned a brief but good-natured nod and smile. "Sorry if I've kept you waiting, Mr. Nolan, but I had some business with Mr. Lontaine we couldn't put off." "No matter at all, Miss Lee, I assure you--no matter a-tall! My time is yours, the company's time is yours, all the time there _is_ is yours, to use or waste, just as you think best." Lucinda couldn't very well let offensiveness so pointed pass without comment. She stopped, turned squarely to face Nolan, with a keen smile, looked him deliberately up and down, a movement of shoulders summing up clearly enough the substance of her impressions. "Thank you for telling me," she said sweetly. "And now _that_ is understood, suppose we try to make up for the time I've wasted, if possible, by getting to work at once...." The only retort that occurred to Nolan as at all appropriate he felt instinctively to be inadequate in point of elegance; so he judiciously refrained from uttering it. And anyhow, the day was young yet, his hour would come. "Fair enough," he agreed with a passable display of good spirit. "Le's go to it, then." He approached the set on which two cameras stood trained at close range, with Klieg lights focussed. "Now, Miss Lee, I'll just line in what I want of you this scene." The set was a simple angle, where two walls met in an apartment hallway, with a door that opened inward from a living-room set beyond. In this last the big dramatic moment of the play was to be staged, a scene involving Lucinda and her two leading-men, the heavy father and the juvenile, his son, both of whom were understood to be in love with _Nelly_. Here, in his bachelor apartment, _Nelly_ was to call at midnight on the father, seeking him without care for appearances in an hour of desperation, to beg him to intervene with the villain of the piece and save her wayward brother from imprisonment on a charge of theft. The madly infatuated father was to take this opportunity to propose marriage, and _Nelly_ was to accept him, momentarily carried off her feet by the sincerity of his passion as much as by the glamour of his wealth and social position. While this was going on, _Dick_, the son, passing in the street, was to catch a glimpse of _Nelly's_ shadow on the window-shade and, wild with jealousy, demand admittance. The father, divining his son's suspicions and desiring to allay them, furthermore at a loss for a fair excuse for refusing to see the boy, was to conduct _Nelly_ to the private hallway and leave here there with the understanding that, while he was letting _Dick_ in at the front door, she was to slip away by the back. Instead of doing so, _Nelly_ was to linger behind the door and overhear the quarrel between father and son, in the course of which it was to transpire that the former had once offered to wager the latter that he could make the girl his mistress within a given period of time. Whereupon, in revulsion of feeling, _Nelly_ was to confront the two and, while confessing she had planned deliberately to marry either one or the other of them for his money, assert herself to be too good to be the wife of either. It is illustrative of the topsy-turvey methods of cinema production that no part of this sequence had as yet been photographed except the scenes in the street when _Dick_, passing on the way home to his own bachelor quarters, looked up and espied Lucinda's shadow; and that Lucinda was now to enact the scene at the doorway before taking part in the living-room scenes which in the photoplay would precede and follow it. The angle had been set up directly adjoining the living-room set, in order that the door, when _Nelly_ opened it to denounce father and son, might reveal a glimpse of that interior with the two men standing thunderstruck. Nolan proceeded now to act out in his own person the business which he conceived to be in character for a girl of _Nelly's_ quality in circumstances so contrived as to make voluntary eavesdropping on her part seem constructively defensible. And Lucinda looked on with earnest attention and puckered brows, eager to catch every hint that would help her become a better actress. Her distrust of Nolan extended only to his abilities as a constructive builder of story-telling pictures and a judge of pictorial values. For the very considerable amount of raw power as a pantomime which he indubitably possessed, she had much respect. Prior to invading the realm of motion-pictures, Nolan had served long and arduous apprenticeship as a general utility actor in stock companies of the Middle West and the Pacific Coast. He knew every trick of gesture and expression and how to communicate the secret of their most effective use in the delineation of theatrical as distinguished from real emotion. In this respect his greatest fault was a tendency to overdo things, to let enthusiasm for acting run away with discrimination. This enthusiasm was running away with him now, he was building the solo scene which Lucinda was to play on lines of broad emotional melodrama widely inconsistent with the situation. Forgetting that, while the conversation assumed to be going on beyond the door was one well calculated to annoy and disgust her whom it concerned, its revelations were after all hardly of a character to break her heart, who was in love with neither of the speakers--indifferent to these considerations, Nolan was, as _Nelly_, ranting and raving in the angle like one gone half-mad with shock and grief. Yet such was the fire he infused into the performance that for the time being he truly succeeded in perverting Lucinda's grasp of the scene, and won her admiration in spite of her latent dislike. So that when, having exhausted his repertoire of emotional artifice, he stepped out of the camera lines, consulting Lucinda with a glance and the stereotyped enquiry, "See what I want, dear?" she replied without thinking--"You make it most real. I'll do my best"--and stepped into character and the set as the lights blazed on, the cameras began to tick, and Nolan seized his baton of authority, the megaphone which he invariably used while directing, though he had as much need of it now as the cameras had of telescopic lenses. "Now, dear," he blared through this instrument--"go to it and show us all you've got. Don't be afraid of letting yourself go. Remember, this is your Big Scene, biggest you've got in this story, your one grand little chance to put it over that you're a sure-enough actress.... That's it"--the elderly leading-man ushered Lucinda into the set from the living-room side, laid a finger to his lips, and pointed down the hallway before disappearing--"that's it--nod to show you know what he means. Now you start for the back door. You haven't thought yet it would be a swell idea to stop and listen to all they're saying about you. But now you do, now you hesitate, turn, look back at the door, frowning. Pretty work. Now go back, but not all at once. Make us see you don't think you ought to do this sort of thing, make us see the big struggle with your better nature, and better nature losing out. Good. Now you put your ear to the crack in the door and hear your name. Give a big start and look horrified. You never dreamed men could talk about women like that, you know, you wouldn't have believed _Richards_ and _Dick_ could talk that way about you. Show us horror, dear, and make it strong, you can't make it too strong. Remember: you're just realizing the man you love is such a rotten cad he could make a bet about your virtue. It just makes you feel sick all over----! "Great snakes! what's _that_ for? What's the matter?" For of a sudden Lucinda laughed outright, suddenly the heart-rending tremolo of Nolan's voice as he detailed the awful offense Richards had committed against _Nelly_ in the play tickled irresistibly her sense of the absurd; and her laugh followed naturally, inevitably, uncontrollably. Now as Nolan with a frantic wave bade the cameraman cease cranking, she made a sign of helpless appeal and, inarticulate with mirth, rested weakly against the door and held her sides. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nolan," she gasped. "Forgive me, I--I didn't know I was going to laugh till--till--till it struck me as so funny----!" Her voice rose and broke in another peal of hysterical merriment, her words became unintelligible, while Nolan literally ground his teeth. "_What_ struck you as so funny?" he exploded. "Show me anything funny about this scene and I--I'll eat my megaphone. What's so damn' funny?" "Oh, I am sorry!" Lucinda was doing her utmost to sober herself, but still her voice shook and her body rocked with recurrent spasms of idiotic mirth. "You see--when you said that--what you said about _Richards_ being a rotter--all at once it struck me--I'm sure I don't know why--as funny, too awfully funny for words!" "Well, why?" Nolan insisted, all but dancing with rage. "Hell! Give me a reason. Why's it funny?" "Because--well, you see--I don't like to criticize, you resent my suggestions so--but really, you know, this is a ridiculous way to expect _Nelly_ to carry on when she hears what she hears. She isn't in love with _Richards_, she isn't even in love with _Dick_; and surely"--Lucinda was now rapidly growing serious in her anxiety to justify herself to Nolan's face of a thunderhead--"surely she oughtn't to go all to pieces just because she hears _Richards_ confess, what she's known all along, that he's the sort of a man he is." "Listen here: who's directing this scene, you'r me? Who wrote the continuity, you'r me? Who knows best what this story's all about, heh, you'r me?" "But, Mr. Nolan, I'm sure, if you'll just think a moment you'll see it isn't natural for a girl like _Nelly_ to rant like a tragedy queen over this situation. She'd be hurt, I grant you, and she'd be angry, angry with herself as much as with _Richards_, but she wouldn't tear around in this corner like a--like Lillian Gish in _Broken Blossoms_ when's she's trapped in the scullery and her father's breaking in to murder her. Don't you see?" "Sure I see." Nolan spoke with an unwonted evenness of tone, for him; but the tone was ugly. "I see a lot of things. I see you've made up your mind to try to make a fool of me, arguing about my visualization of this scene like you have. I see you're dead-set on making me so mad I'll give up my job rather than go on trying to make an actress out of screen-struck near-society dame. Well, all right, you _win_. I resign. I'm out. You've got your wish. And this time I don't come back, not if you was to go down on your knees to beg me to finish this fool picture!" In an abrupt break of fury, oddly out of keeping with the level tone he had used, Nolan raised the megaphone above his head and with all his might cast it upon the floor at Lucinda's feet. "And that ends that," he announced quietly, and walked off, leaving Lucinda in a temper curiously divided between relief and regret. For this time, she was sure, Nolan meant it. XXXVI At a late hour that afternoon the war council of the incorporators of Linda Lee Inc. stalled on dead centre. Prolonged discussion had failed to suggest any means of salvaging the argosy of their fortunes from speedy foundering. No sort of success had rewarded the quest of a navigator at once competent and free to take command of the venture which Nolan had bungled and abandoned; so far as could be determined, there was none such at liberty. And when Lucinda had once more iterated her unshakable refusal to countenance overtures looking toward the reinstatement of Nolan, silence spellbound the four gathered together in that tiny, ill-furnished room which served Lontaine as an office, the silence of spiritual discouragement and mental enervation. Fanny alone seemed quick with an elfin fire which enabled her to skim lightly the surface of that slough of despond in which the others were one and all so sadly bogged. Perched on the writing-bed of Lontaine's war-worn desk, she sat swinging pretty legs in the space between the pedestals, and smoking a cigarette, her abstracted but amused gaze roving out through the single window, the most elusive and illegible of smiles flickering about her paint-smeared lips. Against an end of the desk leaned Iturbide--bidden to the conference because of his wide and intimate knowledge of directors--with hands plunged deep into trouser pockets, his oval face of olive tint wearing that sullen cast which in the Latin is so often indicative of nothing worse than simple thoughtfulness. In a common chair tilted back against the opposite wall Lontaine sat absently worrying his scrubby moustache with an exquisitely manicured thumb and forefinger. His look, too, was sullen, but with the sullenness of fears aggravated by patience worn thin and threadbare. He had not said or suggested as much by syllable or glance, yet Lucinda felt that he held her solely responsible for the break with Nolan, and was weary of the whole business to boot, and heartily wished himself out of it. But she regarded him without sympathy if with little resentment: his suggestion and his insistence had first wrung from her a reluctant consent to try her luck in pictures, his mismanagement alone (who had plighted such brave work of his superior intelligence!) had been responsible for the engagement of Nolan; now it was for him to find some way out for them all. But the most curious of her impressions concerning Lontaine was one that seemed absurdly unfair, yet one from which she could by no means divorce her imagination, a feeling at once unfixable and insistent, that at heart Lontaine didn't really care, that he was contemplating quite callously the threatened wreck of his fair hopes and fine promises, was more concerned with enigmatic premonitions of a nature wholly personal and selfish. Lucinda herself occupied the desk-chair of the president. Profound weariness temporarily held her faculties in suspense. Her least formless thoughts were of the evening to come, when she and the Lontaines were to dine with Summerlad in Beverly Hills. She was deciding to be beforehand with Harry and Fanny, that she might have a little time alone with Lynn. Relentless association of ideas stirred up thoughts of Bel, speculations as to whether he had heard as yet, and what he had said, or what he would say and think when he did hear. Nothing would please him more than to see her pretensions collapse like a house of cards. Well ... her temper grew hard with defiance ... he would be disappointed if he counted on her heart faltering at this juncture. No matter how black the present outlook, she would go through to the end, be it sweet or as gall, and bow to the verdict of the public only, never to the blind bludgeonings of mischance. For a little she pondered in mild puzzlement the riddle of Bel's relations with Nelly Marquis, recalling a scene that recently had been enacted by those two without their knowledge that she was near. A few nights since (last Tuesday, in fact; easy to date, because Lynn had attended the boxing-matches at Vernon, as he did every Tuesday, leaving Lucinda with an evening empty) she had been sitting alone on the veranda of the Hollywood, in a chair near the entrance but at the same time well back in the shadows, when Bel brought Nelly home at an hour indicating a late and leisurely dinner. His car had swung up the drive to stop at the main entrance to the hotel, but neither Bel nor the girl made any move to alight. Unconscious of or else indifferent to observation, they had remained in the rear seat, pursuing a tense discussion, its nature unknown since only the confused rumour of their voices reached the ears of the onlooker; Bel forcing the argument, advocating Heaven-knew-what with a great deal of intensity, not much like his insouciance of everyday, while the girl, on her part, treated all his recommendations and prayers with an air of trifling, semi-coquettish, faintly derisive. But Bel's attitude wasn't in the least loverlike, more that of a man discharging a duty which he found distasteful but still couldn't bring himself to neglect, something that had to be attended to no matter how thankless.... The dispute continued for several minutes without appearing to get anywhere; and presently Bel leaned forward and spoke to his chauffeur round the side of the tonneau wind-shield, whereupon the car rolled out into the street and stopped again at the curb. Then Bel got down and helped Nelly out, and the two of them sauntered up and down the sidewalk, now visible, now hidden by the fretted screen of subtropical growths, but always with their heads close together, always with Bel maintaining his air of almost passionate seriousness, and always with the girl lightly obstinate and teasing. In odd contradiction to this impression of her, Lucinda set the memory of Nelly's face viewed at close quarters when, having parted with Bellamy, she hurried up the drive and into the hotel, passing without noticing Lucinda. Then the illumination from the lobby, escaping through the front door, had shown her countenance printed with the look of a damned soul hunted to its last gasp, a look to haunt one's dream with a sense of terror abject and unabated, of savage passions unappeased and unappeasable. What all this had meant, Lucinda couldn't guess. Of one thing only she felt fairly confident: it hadn't been a lover's quarrel. Curious that one's mind should revert to that memory, at a time when it ought by rights to be exclusively occupied with one's own, peculiar, and never more critical embarrassments.... Altogether without warning Lucinda found herself staring into the homely, greasy grin of Isadore Zinn. The owner of the studios, without troubling to knock, had opened the door far enough to permit the introduction of his head and nothing more of his person. For a moment or two he held this posture playfully, looking from one to another of the unhappy four with a leer at once inquisitive, knowing, and hideous. Then he thrust the door wide open, came in, and shut it behind him. "Hello, people!" he saluted affably. "How you making out?" "Ah, that good Mr. Zinn!" Fanny airily replied. "If you really must know, we're not." Iturbide stirred and shook his head, smiling gravely. "We talk and talk all day, Mr. Zinn," he said gently, "but we don't get some place. You want to know why? Because there is no place for us to get." "It's an impasse," Lontaine stated. Then remarking Zinn's nonplussed stare, he interpreted: "We're all in a blind alley, you know." "Bet your life I know you are," Zinn agreed vigorously. "That's what I butted in to see you about. If I ain't in the way...." The four made reassuring noises. "I was thinking maybe they was something I might do to help out." "I'm afraid not, Mr. Zinn, thank you," Lucinda replied with regretful gratitude. "That is, unless you can find us a director." "Funny. That's just what I was going to suggest." The instant stir of animation encouraged him to grin more abominably than ever. "Lay my hands on the very man you want inside five minutes; only they's one catch to it--he's under contract to somebody else." "Then I don't quite see--" Lucinda began. But Lontaine interrupted: "You mean we can buy the fellow's contract, what?" Zinn wagged his head. "Not a chanst," he uttered in lugubrious accents--"not a chanst. I wouldn't sell that boy's contract for no amount of money you'd want to name. Best little comer't ever breathed hard into a megaphone, and I got him so's he'll eat out of my hand right now, and I'm going to get at least two good pictures out of him before I let him loose to get all ruined up by kind treatment. Wally Day's the lad I'm talking about. Got everything a guy ought to have to make a loud splash in pictures except the big-head, and he'll get that, too--all you got to do's give him time. Just now he's the only man I know could pull you out of the hole you've got yourselves into." "But what's the use of tantalizing us?" Lucinda demanded fretfully--"if Mr. Day's services can't be begged, bought, or borrowed----" "Well, I just got an idea maybe we could come to some sort of agreement about letting Wally finish up your picture. Like this, now: I been watching you people, the way you work, the way you been doing things, and seen a lot of your rushes, and I got an idea maybe I know how to make your picture right, maybe I and Wally could fix it up between us. Now listen: you've spent a bale of green money, I don't know how much, but a lot, maybe a couple hundred thousand dollars, maybe more. That's all right. We don't have to worry about that till I come to look at your books----" "Look at our books!" Lontaine expostulated. Zinn pacified him with a gross hand that patted the air. "Sure I got to look at your books, ain't I, if I sit in on this production? What I mean is like this: You sell me the production as is, story, continuity, Miss Lee's contract, all your properties 'n' everything, and I'll pay you fifty per cent what it cost you to date, cash money. Then I and Wally and Miss Lee here'll go ahead and finish up, and it won't cost you anything more, Miss Lee, and I'll give you ten per cent. the net profits. Meanwhile you"--he nodded to Lontaine--"can be fussing around and taking your time about finding a studio all your own and getting all set to use Miss Lee again when I and Wally are done with her. If that ain't a sporting offer, I don't know. What you say?" Lucinda looked dubiously to Lontaine. His eyes had suddenly grown more stony and staring than she had ever seen them, and she fancied that he had lost a shade of colour; but he met her glance with a quick nod and said in a husky voice: "I agree with Mr. Zinn, Linda." "You advise----!" "I think he's made a very handsome offer. It--it's a clear and easy way out for us. You can't lose as much as you stand to under our present arrangements, assuming things shouldn't turn out as well as we've been hoping, and you may make some money. And, as he points out, it will give us time to look around and make up our minds just what we want to do next. If I were you, I'd accept." Lucinda delayed another moment, then turned to Zinn with a smile. "Very well, Mr. Zinn. If Mr. Lontaine's agreeable, I don't mind...." "Fine business!" Zinn held out a mottled, hairy paw. "I and you don't need any writing between us, do we, Miss Lee? Your word's good enough for me, all right...." His hand was warm and moist and strong.... XXXVII Harry Lontaine got home at a late hour for one who had it in mind to bathe, dress, and put in appearance for an eight o'clock dinner several miles away. So was the tempo of his gait unhurried as he left the blue-and-white car waiting at the curb and passed up the straight-ruled sidewalk of cement between the tutelary orange trees of the bungalow he rented furnished. And on its miniature veranda he delayed for several minutes, motionless, with his face lifted thoughtfully, even a shade wistfully to the sky in which the afterglow of sunset pulsed like dreams of youth reviewed across the desert years of middle-age.... Other than this shy colour of regret, however, nothing of the trend of his thoughts, nothing of their nature, escaped the eyes, steel-blue and dense, in that lean, hard mould of features, never more self-contained, never more British than in this moment. And presently he roused, but without change of countenance, and went on into the combination living and dining-room to which the best part of the dwelling was given over. Here, where the dusk held close and still, Lontaine, when he had made a light, wasted no more time than was required for a stop at the buffet to treat himself to a considerably stiffer drink of pseudo-Scotch than the law allowed, or--seeing that the law allowed none at all--his superficial necessities seemed to call for. Before the door which gave upon the more private quarters of the house, however, he hung for some time in seeming reluctance to proceed, a suspicion of strained attentiveness in his deliberation. From beyond came never a sound. Eventually he pushed the door open. Immediately he saw Fanny. Bathed in a great glare, she sat in her dressing-room facing a long mirror of three panels; decked out en grande toilette, wearing every jewel she possessed, groomed to the finest nuance of perfection; a brilliant and strangely immobile figurine of modern femininity, with bobbed hair like burnished brass, milk-white bosom and arms rising out of a calyx of peach-blow taffeta, jewels stung to iridescent life by that fierce wash of light. As if hypnotized by so much bright loveliness, she continued steadfastly to gaze upon her reflected self; even when she heard Lontaine at the door and the mirror placed him behind her in the doorway, she did not move by so much as a trembling eyelash. Only when he spoke, her lips parted in answer, though still she neither turned nor ceased to contemplate the vision in the glass; as if this last were something precious but tricksy, something that might incontinently vanish forever from her ken did she but for a single instant turn her eyes away. In a voice that strained without success to sound easy and natural, Lontaine said: "Ah, Fanny! dressed already, eh? Must be later than I thought." "It's past half-past," Fanny replied without expression. Lontaine glanced nervously at the back of his wrist. "Right you are. Never dreamed time was getting away from me like that." "You have been ... busy, yes?" his wife enquired with a distinctly satiric accent. "Rather. Gassing with Zinn, you know----" "To be sure." The satiric inflexion was now more marked. "The life-saver." "Not a bad name for him, that." Lontaine chuckled with, however, an unconvincing brevity. "Daresay Linda looks on the little beast in that light, at all events. Had a thousand details to discuss with him ... ah ... naturally." "Naturally." Fanny's tone had become again illegible. "That's what--ah--delayed me. Have to rush for it now--what?--or Summerlad'll be vexed." "You really think so? With Cindy there to console him?" "Something in that, no doubt. Still"--Lontaine made as if to go to his own room, but lingered--"it's hardly the thing to be so much behind time. See here, old girl: you're all dressed.... I say! but you've laid it on a bit thick tonight, haven't you?" "Don't you like the way I look, Harry?" "Never more ravishing in all your life----" "That's good." "Good? Afraid I don't follow. What's got into you tonight, Fanny? You've rigged yourself out for the opera instead of a simple little dinner...." "I wanted something to remember myself by," Fanny mysteriously informed the mirror to which her attention continued constant. "What do you mean by that?" Lontaine paused for answer, but Fanny was dumb. He essayed another short, confused laugh. "You know, Fan, sometimes you think of the damnedest things to say." "Yes: don't I?" He recognized one of her mulishly enigmatic moods. "Mean to say," he harked back--"since you're quite ready--what's the matter with your cutting along and explaining I'll be delayed a bit? Tell them not to wait dinner for me...." "And you?" The movement of enameled lips was imperceptible. "I'll be along later, of course, as soon as I've dressed. You can send the car back for me. Why not?" "Why not?" But Lontaine took this inscrutable echo for assent, and with a grunt of relief disappeared into his dressing-room. A series of clicks sounded as he turned on lights. Still the woman seated before the mirror didn't move. But her interest centered no longer upon what she saw; though she did not avert her eyes from the glowing figure painted in those still, shallow depths, all her attention now was concentrated in another faculty: she was listening. She heard Lontaine moving about, chair-legs scrape a hardwood floor, the snap of the bathroom light. A pause followed, then a clashing noise of bottles and toilet articles impatiently shifted upon their glass shelf. After that, Lontaine's returning footsteps. Then he reappeared in the doorway. "Hello! Thought you were going on ahead." "Presently," Fanny replied in brittle accents. "Plenty of time. Something the matter?" "Can't find my razors." "No." At last the woman broke her pose: her counterfeit in the glass nodded gravely to the man behind her. "No," she iterated--and he had the flying thought that her voice had never vibrated so sweetly--"and you won't find them, either, Harry. They're in a safe place, it's no good your hunting for them." "What!" Lontaine advanced one single, sudden stride. "What's that for?" "I thought it might save trouble. You see, Harry, I haven't forgotten that hideous scene we had in London, last time you decided it was all up with you, there wasn't anything to do but cut your throat. I didn't see any sense in going through all that again." After a full minute of silence Lontaine uttered heavily: "I see you've guessed...." "There have been so many of these crises in our life together, Harry, I ought to know the signs--don't you think?" The man stumbled to a chair, and bent a louring countenance over hands savagely laced. "What else can I do?" he muttered. "I'm in a hole there's no other way out of...." "There are steamers every so often from San Francisco, for Honolulu, China, Japan, the South Seas...." "No use. They'd get me by wireless if they ever allowed me to go aboard. Zinn ... I'm sure that Jew devil suspects ... insists on getting at the books first thing tomorrow." "How much have you got into Cindy for?" Lontaine said stupidly: "Eh? What's that?" "How much have you ... borrowed, Harry?" "Fifty thou--perhaps a bit more." Following another little silence, Fanny gave a curt laugh, left her chair and, standing at the dressing-table, began slowly to strip off her jewels, her sunburst brooch, her flexible bracelets, the pearls that had been her mother's, all her rings, even that slender hoop of platinum and diamonds which she had never removed since the day of her marriage. "Stocks?" she enquired quietly. Lontaine replied with a dour nod and grunt. "Somebody's sure-fire tip, of course, some 'deal' that couldn't lose...." He grunted again. "Never learn anything from experience, do you, Harry? I've often wondered about the kink in your mind that makes you such a giddy come-on, eager to risk everything, even your honour, on the gossip of stock-market touts no better than yourself.... Ah, well! it can't be helped, I suppose. You are what you are--and in my way, God knows, I'm no better. It's all been a ghastly failure, hasn't it, Harry? If I'd been a stronger woman, I might have made it another story for you; if you'd been more of a man, you might even have saved me...." Lontaine lifted his hand sharply, but his eyes wavered and fell under her level, ironic stare. "But it's no good crying now, nothing can change our natures at this late day." She crossed to him and paused, looking down not unkindly at his bowed head and shoulders. "I don't love you, Harry, and you don't love me. It's funny to think we ever did--isn't it? All the same, we've been through the rough together so often, I presume it's only natural I should be fond of you in this funny, twisted fashion. I don't want you to go away thinking I blame you...." "Go away?" Lontaine groaned. "Where can I go, they wouldn't find me? I'd rather be dead than a convict!" "Don't worry: I'll soon talk Cindy round, persuade her not to be too hard on you. She's fond of me, poor dear! and won't find out I'm as rotten as you are till you're at a safe distance. Here...." She bent over and poured that coruscating wealth of jewelry into the cup of Lontaine's hands. "These ought to see you a long way...." "What!" Lontaine jumped up, staring in daze at the treasure in the hands that instinctively reached out to Fanny, offering to give back her gift. But she stepped away and stood with hands behind her, shaking her head so vigorously that the glistening short locks stood out like a brazen nimbus. "But, you, Fanny--what will you--?" "Never fear for me, Harry." She fixed his puzzled eyes with a smile of profoundly ironical significance. "I'll get along...." "But these ... every blessed trinket you own!..." "I'll get others." His jaw dropped. She continued to posture lightly before him, an exquisitely fragile and pretty shape of youth deathless and audacious, a dainty spirit of mockery temptingly incarnate, diabolically sage, diabolically sure of the potency of her time-old lures.... What she had urged was true enough, too true; idle to let scruples on her account work his undoing. Let her alone and she'd get along, no fear, she'd get other jewels when she wanted them, just as she'd said, she'd go far.... At heart as wanton as he was weak.... He felt a creeping tide of blood begin to scorch his face, and avoided the cynical challenge of her eyes. "If you're content," he mumbled ... "daresay there's nothing more to be said." She nodded gayly, repeating the word "Nothing!" in a flute-like note of mirth. Hanging his head, he began wretchedly to stuff the plunder into his pockets, muttering half to himself: "What a pity! If only I could have had a bit of luck; if only we could have hit it off----!" "If you hurry," she reminded him, "you can catch the night train for San Francisco, you can just about make it." "Well...." He glanced uneasily at her, and again was conscious of the heat in his cheeks. "So it comes to this at last ... eh? ... good-bye!" "Good-bye," she repeated, amiably casual. "I daresay...." He gave a dubious chuckle. "Daresay it's stupid but, well, the usual thing, you know...." "Usual thing?" she parroted, with faintly knitted brows. "To kiss good-bye." "You'll miss your train." He developed a moment of desperately sincere emotion: "Fan! you've been a perfect brick to me, a perfect brick. I feel like a dog, leaving you like this." "Oh!" she said, as one indulges a persistent child--"if you really want to kiss me, Harry, go ahead." Nevertheless she turned her mouth aside, his lips brushed only her powdered cheek. Then she stepped back to her mirror and with a puff made good her imperceptible damage done by the caress. The glass showed Lontaine's shadow slinking out. She heard him blunder through the living-room, the slam of the screen-door. And her hand fumbled, the powder-puff dropped unheeded, mist drifted across her vision, she gasped a breathless "Damn!" Tears meant a wrecked make-up.... Though there was need enough for haste if he were to carry out the plan she had made for him, Lontaine dragged slowly down the walk, with a hang-dog air, the hands in his pockets fingering the price of the last sorry shreds of his self-respect. In the darkness the flesh of his face still burned with fire of shame.... Beside the car he halted and rested with a hand on the door for so long a time that the chauffeur grew inquisitive. "Where to, Mr. Lontaine?" "No, by God!" Lontaine blurted into the man's astonished face, and whirling about, strode hastily back to the bungalow. As he drew near he could hear Fanny's voice. She was at the telephone in the living-room, calling a number he didn't catch; Summerlad's no doubt. One had forgotten all about that wretched dinner. Then the connection was established, and he paused with foot lifted to the lower-most of the veranda steps. It couldn't be possible Fan was talking to Summerlad, in that voice whose tenderness called back old times.... "Hello? Is it you, dear? Fanny.... First chance I've had.... Poor darling! I've been aching to see you all day and tell you how I sympathized.... Yes, any time you please, as soon as you like.... No: he won't mind, he ... I mean, I'm all alone. Besides, we had a little talk tonight, came to an understanding. He won't be in our way after this, ever again, Barry dear...." Something amused her, peals of musical laughter hunted Lontaine down the walk. "Union Pacific Station!" he cried, throwing himself into the car. "Drive like hell!" XXXVIII That sunset whose reluctant waning Lontaine was presently to watch from the bungalow veranda was still a glory in the sky when Lucinda motored to Beverly Hills. The heavens in the west had opened out like a many-petalled rose of radiant promise, whose reflected glow deepened the warm carnation of her face and found response in the slow fire that burned in dreaming eyes. Those whose chance it was to view so much mortal loveliness in too fleeting glimpses all envied its possessor, women her lot, men her lover's. The soft air of evening, already tempered with an earnest of the coolth to come, was sweet to taste with parted lips. Upon the perfect highroad the car swung and swooped and swerved like a swallow, through a countryside lapped in perennial Spring. She thought: This blessed land! and thought herself thrice-blessed to be at once in it, in love, and in the fairest flower of her years. Odd, how completely that compact with Zinn, which the clasp of their hands had sealed so lately, had done away with every form of fear and discontent. Vanity had a deal to do with that, no doubt, self-esteem purring with conviction that Zinn would never have offered to invest one lonely dollar in the picture had not his appraisement of Lucinda's work on the screen approved the risk. Zinn smelt profits in the wind; that much was manifest; which meant that success was assured to Linda Lee. The loss of half the little fortune she had sunk in the production was a mean price to pay for knowledge that failure could now reward her hopes only through some frown of fortune unanticipated by one of the canniest of those sure-thing gamblers whom the American cinema acclaims its financial genii. Best of all, this new association spelled an end to all that meaningless and inexcusable procrastination from which the work had suffered whenever Nolan felt over-worked or harkened to the call of the continuous crap game, an institution of the studio that had its permanent habitat behind one of the stages. Zinn was notoriously scant of patience with delays that meant money thrown away; and, he had assured Lucinda (after striking his bargain) no reason existed within his knowledge why another fortnight shouldn't see the last scenes of her production shot. Much admittedly depended on how little or much of Nolan's work might seem to need retaking, when the three of them, Lucinda, Zinn and the new director, sat in judgment on the rushes in rough assemblage. But Zinn didn't believe they would find many instances of incompetent or indifferent direction so flagrant that they couldn't be cured in the cutting-room.... It's surprising what a cunning pair of shears and a neat subtitle or two can do for a scene that, as originally photographed, is good for nothing but insomnia or to bring on sclerosis of the sense of humour. Nolan had left to the direction of his successor only the sequences in two sets. Lucinda made out a mental timetable: a week for the supper club scenes, less time than that for the living-room; another week for possible retakes, one more in which to cut and assemble the finished picture. In a month at most she ought to be able to call herself once more a free woman and bid farewell to Hollywood till the courts had made that boast a statement of consummated fact. A single month! Such a little time when the journey's end was well in sight, a little time to wait for life to yield up all its riches. It was harder, truly, to be patient till this lesser journey should duly come to its appointed end in lovers' meeting. The car was a snail, minutes sluggards, the beauty of the land a bore to one bitterly jealous of every second which heed for speed laws stole from the half-hour she had schemed to have alone with Lynn before the Lontaines were to be expected. She had so much happiness to share with her beloved, so much to tell, everything that had happened since morning, a busy chapter of studio history of which he could know nothing, since he had not revisited the studio since leaving it for work on location that morning. It seemed a churlish chance indeed that ordained a reception for her exclusively at the hands and glistening teeth of a semi-intelligible Jap, who, when he had uttered assorted fragments of English to the general sense that Mister was having his foot treated by an osteopath at the moment but would soon be disengaged, smirked himself into an indeterminate background and left Lucinda to make the best of this minor disappointment. Resolutely denying this last, she put off her wrap, made herself at home, and sought but somehow failed to distill a compensating thrill from the reflection that she would ere long be called upon to make herself at home here for good and all. 'Ere long' meaning, of course, after Reno ... And why not? The house was excellently planned, amply big for two; no reason why Lynn need move unless he really wanted to. Only ... the eye of the prospective chatelaine took on a critical cast ... some details would want a bit of readjustment, the all too patent stamp of the interior decorator's damned good taste would require obliteration before one would care to call the premises one's very own. The present scheme, for example, lacked anything in the nature of a study, wherein one might lounge and read and accumulate quantities of books; according to Lucinda's notion, the real nucleus of a home for civilized people. Lynn, poor dear! worked so hard, he had little time to give to reading; a moan it was his wont to make whenever Lucinda gave their talks a literary turn. The few volumes of his collection stood in sadly broken ranks on a rack of shelves in an alcove that adjoined the living-room, a sort of glory-hole furnished with odds and ends of sham Oriental junk which Lynn called his "den" and Fanny had rechristened "the vamp room." Curiosity concerning Lynn's tastes, when he did find time to read, moved Lucinda to con the straggling squad of titles. Novels led in number, naturally, works of fiction old and new, in general such trash as furnishes the cinema with most of its plot material. In addition, a subscription set of De Maupassant with several volumes missing, another of O. Henry, Wells' _The Outline of History_ (uncut), the _Collected Verse_ of Rudyard Kipling, six copies of the same edition of "_Who's Who on the Screen_", Laurence Hope's _Indian Love Lyrics_ in an exceptionally beautiful binding.... With a chuckle Lucinda took possession of this last: Lynn _would_ have Laurence Hope!... Evidently a gift copy. When she opened the book at its fly-leaf, a slip of printed paper fluttered out. Without pausing to read the inscription, Lucinda retrieved the clipping: a half-tone from one of the motion-picture monthlies, a view of the bungalow grounds, with the house in the distance, and in the foreground Lynn and a young woman arm-in-arm, laughing at the camera.... The evening had grown quite dark when a crisp rattle of the telephone startled Lucinda into renewed contact with her surroundings. She found herself in the recess of one of the living-room windows that looked out over the lawn. The book was in her hand. Behind her a door opened, releasing upon the gloom a gush of golden light. Without moving she watched Summerlad, in a dressing-gown hastily thrown on over dress-shirt and trousers, hobble over to the telephone and conduct one end of a short conversation of which her wits made no sense whatever. He hung up, and peered blindly round the room. "Linda, darling?" he called. "What's the big idea, sitting all alone in the dark?" At the same time he switched on wall-sconces and, blinking, saw her. "Just our luck!" he grumbled, trying to sound disconsolate. "What do you think, sweetheart? Fanny says they can't come tonight; Harry's laid up, got a sick headache or something, and she doesn't think she ought to leave him. I wonder if you'd mind dining here with me alone, this once. I can't very well go out with this foot. Eh? What do you think?" Lucinda made no sound. His eyes narrowed as he perceived the abnormal absence of colour in her face, the dark dilation of her unwavering eyes. Limping, he approached. "What's the matter, Linda? Not cross with me, are you? Hadn't any idea you'd be so early; and today I gave my foot another nasty wrench, out on location, and had to call Cheney in to fix it up. He's just left, and I was starting to dress.... What?" An entreating hand silenced him. All in a breath Lucinda said: "Those things don't matter, Lynn. Why didn't you ever tell me you were married?" Summerlad said "Damnation!" half under his breath and moved nearer, till another flutter of her hand stopped him. "That wise husband of yours!" he exploded then, vindictively. "I suppose he's been spilling all he knows!" "Did Bel know? Yes: I presume he must have. But you're mistaken, he didn't tell me. It was this...." Summerlad frowned, at a loss to identify the volume in her extended hand. "I found it, Lynn, quite by accident, while I was waiting. Hope's _Indian Love Lyrics_. Don't you remember?... See, it's inscribed: '_To my Lynn, on the first anniversary of our marriage, with all my heart, Nelly._' And then this picture of you two, published just after you came here to live.... Oh, Lynn! _why_ did you lie to me about that poor girl?" For a moment Summerlad gnawed his underlip without attempting to reply. Then with a sign of despair he retreated to one end of the club-lounge, against which he rested, to ease his foot. He said something in an angry mumble, as Lucinda followed into the room. "You might have told me, Lynn...." "I didn't want you to know." "You must have known I'd find out, sooner or later." "I thought I could keep it from you until...." "Till when? Till what?" He growled, inarticulate with vexation. "To let me go on thinking ... making such a fool of myself!... Since you don't live together, why aren't you divorced?" "How do you know I'm not?" "Because you told me that lying story about her. But you've lied to me so much and so long, no doubt you think it unreasonable of me now to expect you to remember everything.... Anyway, if you'd been divorced, you wouldn't have hesitated to own it. Why aren't you?" "She refuses to divorce me." "Why?" "How do I know? I suppose she's still stuck on me, in her way--hopes to get me back some time." "But what prevents you----?" "Nelly said if I tried to divorce her she'd fight back, and she knows...." He didn't finish, but shut his teeth on a blundering tongue and looked more than ever guilty. But Lucinda was in a pitiless temper. "About you? You mean--about you and other women?" "Hang it all! I've never pretended to be a saint, have I, Linda?" "No wonder the poor thing hated the sight of me!... Oh, how could you have been so unkind!" "If you'd only give me a show to explain...." Her lip curled: "Explain!" "I've been doing my best," Summerlad argued resentfully. "When I saw how it was going to be with you and me, and found out Nelly'd come back to Hollywood, I went to her and had things out--gave her some money and promised her more, on the strength of her promise to go back home and get a divorce on the dead quiet." "And did you hope to keep that a secret from me?" "My name isn't Summerlad, anymore than hers is Marquis--or yours Lee. I thought I'd.... I thought everything was going to be all right till she turned up again with your officious husband." "You think Bel had something to do----" "I think he hunted Nelly up, if you want to know, and induced her to come back here, in violation of her agreement." "But Bel.... I don't quite see...." "He wanted Nelly on the spot as a sort of club over my head. He hasn't given you up yet"--Summerlad laughed shortly--"not by a long sight." "A club over your head? I don't understand." "Not meaning to use it as long as we behaved ourselves." "Behaved ourselves! Lynn!" "Oh, forgive me! I didn't mean to say that." Summerlad's look mirrored a real and poignant contrition as he saw her colouring with affronted sensibility, drawing back from him, momentarily slipping farther beyond his reach. "Linda!" he implored--"don't look at me that way. I can't help what your husband thinks, can I? I didn't ask him to come out here and be the pest he is, did I? After all, what have I done? I lied about Nelly--yes--but only to spare your feelings. I didn't want you to think people might be talking about you, stepping out with a married man. If you'd thought that, you'd have given me my walking papers and ... and I couldn't do without you, dear--I can't! The others never mattered much, they sort of came and went, mostly I didn't care which they did. But you're so different, you're so wonderful, everything a fellow dreams about. I've never known anybody like you, never will again. If I lost you I'd--I'd--I think I'd go out of my mind!" And suddenly, before she could stir to escape, he caught her to him and held her fast. "Linda, sweetheart; don't be angry with me. I've tried so hard to be good enough for you. And you--you've loved me, too! Don't let this rotten accident spoil everything for us. If you love me--and you know I love you--what does anything matter? What if we are both married? What difference need that make? Love can still be sweet...." She made no show of opposition, only drew back her head to cheat his lips; but when she tried to brave his eyes, thinking to read therein his heart and mind, she winced from recognition of the hunger that informed them, hunger that she wittingly had whetted, hunger such as she herself had too often known of late, like warm wine running in one's veins.... But always ere now she had fortified and shriven her conscience with the belief that they were of one mind, it must and would be Reno first.... Now Reno no longer held forth any promise of salvation, of the law's sanction, the church's countenance. Even though she were to find there her own freedom, Lynn would still be bound. It wasn't in reason to hope that the woman who had rejected his money would listen to other arguments. Today and henceforward it must be all for love or ... nothing ... a break final and irreparable.... And for all the shock she had suffered, for all the wrong Lynn had done and the pain of which his ill-faith had been the cause, the love she had given the man still was dear, dangerously sweet and disarming. Already she was aware of anxiety to grasp at excuses for him, to comfort the ache in her heart with the thought that she was according charity to a dear transgressor, already she felt her strength to resist being sapped, flesh and spirit succumbing anew to the spell he knew too well how to weave. She wrestled with a weakness stronger than all her strength. They couldn't go on like this.... Lynn hadn't said it, but they both knew it ... without going farther.... Even Reno couldn't save her now, only the instinct of self-preservation latent in her, not even that if she failed to find in herself the will to hear and be guided by its admonishments. It was make or break.... The scales hung long in trembling. They turned only when Summerlad unwisely, losing patience, sought to take by storm the lips she had not yet made up her mind to surrender, and thus aroused resistance till then dormant. With an ease that in a queer, detached way she found surprising, she managed to break his embrace. Nevertheless the effort left her faint. She faltered to the fireplace and rested a hand on the mantel, her forehead upon the hand. Lynn followed, stood by her side, not touching her but keeping her enveloped in the lethargizing knowledge of his nearness, his strength, his passion. Over and over he murmured gently: "Linda, Linda, Linda...." Shaking from head to feet, she made a feeble sign of appeal. He disregarded this entirely, his arms again stole round her and would have drawn her to him but that, of a sudden, her mind caught at a straw of memory, she drew away, with a hand upon his bosom put him firmly from her, eyes that were melting none the less denying him, lips that were a-quiver with "Yes" resolutely pronouncing "No!" "You are cruel...." "No, Lynn. Wait. Tell me something.... You say she--your wife agreed to divorce you?" "I made her promise," Summerlad asserted grimly. "When was that? The day she disappeared? The day I found her lying senseless in her room?" "I suppose so. Does it matter? Well, then--yes." "You'd just left her when I found her?" "I daresay--approximately." "Tell me what you said to persuade her." "See here: what is all this? What are you driving at?" "I want to know.... Did you have much of a scene?" "I'll say it was some stormy young session." "Is that why you found it necessary to strike her?" Summerlad started. "What! Strike her! What do you mean?" But his eyes winced from hers. "She--Nelly had a bruise on her cheek, that afternoon; and it wasn't an old bruise. Lynn: you struck her!" "Perhaps. Maybe I did forget myself, I don't remember. What if I did? She asked for it, didn't she? Do you think I've got the patience of Job, to let her get away with insisting on standing between you and me? I'd have half-killed her if she'd stuck to her refusal to go back East!" Realizing that his tongue was again running away with his discretion, he curbed it sharply, on the verge, perhaps, of admissions yet more damaging, and in panic essayed to win back lost ground. "But what of that? It's ancient history, Linda." She started back in repulsion, but he overtook her in the middle of the room and again crushed her to him. "Linda, Linda! what do these things matter? I love you, dearest, you love me, nothing else matters, nothing can possibly matter but our need for each other. For God's sake be kind to me! forget----" The fury of her antagonism found him unprepared. Once more his arms were empty. And this time when he started in pursuit, something he couldn't see struck him brutally in the chest and bodily threw him back. In the same instant he heard a heavy, crashing noise he couldn't account for. An inhuman sound. It shook the room, beat deafeningly upon one's ears. As if someone had overturned a heavy piece of furniture. Only, no one had. Certainly he hadn't, certainly Lucinda hadn't. She was flattened against the farther wall, watching him with a face of horror, blanched and gaping. Enraged, he put forth all his strength to recover from that inexplicable blow. And instantly it was repeated. And again. Each time accompanied by that savage, crashing noise. Like thunder cut off short. And each time he reeled under the impact, and sickening pains shot through him, like knives white-hot. He felt himself sinking.... In expiring flashes of consciousness he saw Lucinda, still flat against the wall, staring not at him but at a French window nearby. Between its curtains a woman's arm was thrust, the hand grasping an automatic pistol with muzzle faintly fuming. There was a face of shadowed pallor dimly visible beyond the curtains, a face with wild, exultant eyes ... Nelly's.... XXXIX To the woman pinned to the wall by shock--the shimmering frivolity of her evening gown, a flimsy, fluttery affair of silver tissue, lilac and blue, lending form and colour to the illusion of a bright butterfly impaled--the moments immediately following that murderous fusillade were a raving welter of horrors. Between two heartbeats she saw Lynn, with a face as blank as paper, spinning, toppling, beating the air with aimless arms, pitching to the floor like something blasted, resting there in a sickening, inert crumple; and was keenly aware of the acrid reek of smokeless powder cutting, as acid cuts oil, the sensuous scent of the roses that dressed the room in her honour; and all the while was conscious of the pistol nosing in between the draperies like an animate thing of infinite malice, and the pallid oval of the face behind it, that seemed to float in the dark as might the mask of some mad ghost. As the din of those three shots, beating from wall to wall, lost weight and volume, a thin shouting became audible from some point outside the house, and Nelly Marquis with the sweep of a fury broke through the hangings at the window, and pulled up with pistol levelled point-blank at Lucinda's breast. Through the least of pauses, the merest fragment of a second, a time measureless in its lapse to one whose every function was frozen in paralysis of fear, a single thought persisted: _Another instant and I shall be as Lynn_.... Nelly's eyes were burning like black malignant opals in a countenance at once luminous and wan. Death's icy grin glimpsed in the play of light along that blunt blue barrel. Lucinda felt as one caught fast in the pitiless jaws of some tremendous vice whose pinch stilled the beating of her heart and arrested her labouring lungs. Then abruptly through the window a dark body hurled and fastening upon the woman's back, swinging her aside, the pistol detonated with a bellow, the bullet plumped into the wall close by Lucinda's head. She heard a voice crying out again and again: "Bel! Bel! Bel! ..." Her own voice.... For an indeterminable time she hung in dread upon the issue of that swaying combat: while Bel clung to the woman's arm, muttering and panting in futile efforts to wrest her weapon away; while Nelly clawed, bit, kicked, pounded her free fist repeatedly into Bel's face, and wrenched madly at her captive wrist. Of a sudden, from her hand a spiteful tongue of fire licked out at Bel, his right arm flailed back and fell useless, agony convulsed his features; and free, the woman bounded away and with the laugh of a maniac swung the pistol to bear upon his head. Lucinda's faculties clicked together then as gears mesh when the motor has been idling; the call of the emergency met with response in the form of instant and direct action. Without knowing what she did, she flung herself upon Nelly's arm and bore it down. With deflected muzzle the pistol exploded for the last time. Dropping it, Nelly turned on Lucinda and dealt with her as might a madwoman. Impressions grew confused beyond assortment, of flopping wildly this way and that, of hot breath beating into her face, of her bare flesh suffering a rain of cruel blows; of elemental lusts to maim and kill awakening from lifelong slumber, in this moment of close grips with a warm, living, hating and hateful human body.... Thrown off without warning, how she couldn't guess, she felt herself reeling back, tripping, falling. Something struck the back of her head a stunning blow, and she knew flickering nausea while dense night like a moving cloud on every hand closed in upon her, and the world, in the likeness of a rainbow swirl streaked with fiery paths of sparks, guttered into blank nullity.... Nothingness absolute and still received her, harboured her for a space, spewed her back into life again. Cold rain spattering cheeks and brows ... once more the heart-rending perfume of roses ... anguish incomparable racking her temples ... her heart a wild thing caged ... ammonia in strangling whiffs.... Choking and coughing she unclosed her eyes upon the vision of Bel's face. A hand holding a bottle of smelling salts dropped away from her nose. Bel saluted her reviving intelligence with an even growl: "Coming round, eh? About time. You'll do now, I guess. Try to pull yourself together. No time to lose." She was on the floor, the bulk of the lounge between her and the spot where Summerlad had fallen; her shoulders propped against Bel's knee, her head resting in the crook of his arm. Summerlad's Jap boy was standing by with water in a silver vessel. At a nod from Bel he filled a glass and, bending over, set it to Lucinda's lips. While she was gulping thirstily, Bel said something she didn't catch; but as soon as she turned her head from the glass, the Japanese took it away and himself as well. The living-room, with its softly lighted walls and draped black rectangles of windows open to the night, presented itself in a guise inexplicably unfamiliar. She felt as if she had been a long time away. In mystification, looking back to Bel, she asked: "I fainted, didn't I?" He grunted: "You struck your head, when that hell-cat threw you--went out for ten minutes by the clock. How do you feel now?" "My head aches...." She discovered that Bel was in his shirt-sleeves, with the cuff turned back above his right elbow, the forearm rudely bandaged with torn linen on which a deep stain was spreading. "But Bel--your arm----?" "Hurts like hell, but that's the worst of it, thank God. Bullet ploughed through the underside from wrist to elbow, nearly. I'd be dead if you hadn't jumped for her." "And I, if you hadn't come through the window when you did." "If you're grateful for that--try to get up." "But ... Lynn?" Bel laughed shortly. "The excellent Mr. Summerlad's all right--I mean to say, still breathing. That's all we can tell till the surgeon gets here. I've telephoned. The fellow ought to show up any minute now. If you can manage to get a grip on yourself, I'd be glad to get you out of here first." "I don't understand.... What became of--her?" "Got away clean, worse luck!--ducked past me and through the window like a shot. I tried to follow but she gave me the slip in the dark. _That's_ all right: she won't trouble us again. She left her pistol behind--anyway, it was empty--and the police will pick her up before morning.... Now: how about getting up?" "I'll try," Lucinda said meekly. "Please help me." But then, appreciating that she was in no way incapacitated, she got up unaided, and steadied herself with a hand on the back of the lounge. Summerlad lay where he had fallen, on the far side of that piece of furniture. His face, upturned to the staring light, was like a thing of sculptured ivory, expressionless and bleached; the lips ajar, the whites of his eyes alone visible under the half-shut lids with their effeminate lashes. The shirt beneath the flowered dressing-gown was hideously blotted. He was so deathly still that terror took hold on Lucinda's heart and mind. "You think.... O Bel! do you really think he will live?" "No fear," Bel sneered. "He'll make a fool of many another woman before he's finished. Here: put this on, will you?" He was proffering her wrap. Like an automaton Lucinda accepted it, but seemed to forget that the thing was meant for wear. "Where's your car?" "I told my driver to call up about ten----" "I'll attend to that, then. My chauffeur will run you down to the hotel. I think he's to be trusted. Wish I felt as sure of that Jap." "Sure of him?" "Why do you suppose I'm hurrying you away? Do you want the papers to get hold of the fact you were keeping an assignation with this actor when his wife caught you and shot him?" Lucinda flinched, faintly remonstrated: "Bel!" "Well?" he demanded--"got anything to say to that?" "You don't think ... nobody would dare...." "What's the reason I don't think? Why wouldn't anybody dare? I presume you expect the world--this good, kind, charitable world we live in--to believe 'appearances are against you'!" Affronted, she held her answer, seeing her husband as with eyes from which scales had newly dropped, as a man she barely knew, whose fleshy husk alone was familiar in her sight, but whose spirit was altogether strange: a man self-reliant and resolute, skeptical, cold and hard of temper, estranged and unforgiving; witness the contemptuous incredulity that animated his regard. Smouldering indignation blazed, she threw back her head with eyes as cold as his, a mouth as hard. "You are insolent," she pronounced slowly. "If you think--if you dare think what you hint--what is it to you whether I go or stay?" "You forget you neglected to get rid of a husband before taking on with this busy lover ... who got precisely what was coming to him, if you want the truth for once!" "Do I hear you setting yourself up to judge him, Bel?" "Do you know anybody better qualified?" "By what right----" "The husband's right! Do you think I want every paper in the country linking your name--my wife's--with Lynn Summerlad's as his latest mistress, the woman who made his deserted wife so jealous she tried to murder him?" Lucinda let her wrap fall. "If my relationship to Lynn is what you imply--then my place is here with him." "Please yourself. But remember, the papers are going to make big capital out of this scandal in the movie colony. They've been itching for it for years, licking their chops with impatience, knowing it was bound to break some day.... Good God! what's got into you, Linda? How long do you imagine it'll be, after this affair gets into print, before the reporters will ferret out the fact that 'Linda Lee' is Mrs. Bellamy Druce? Do you want to go into a witness-box and testify against that demented creature when she's tried for murder? Do you want everybody who knows you--all your friends back home--to think what everybody in his sane mind has every right to think?" "What you think...." "What the devil do you care what _I_ think? But if it comes to that, tell me this: If you aren't what people are going to say you are, what are you doing here, alone with Summerlad, in his own home, at night?" "The Lontaines were coming to dinner, but----" "'But'!" Bel snorted. "Oh, all right! I'll be a high-minded ass, if that'll satisfy you; I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, if that'll induce you to clear out of this before it's too late. But don't forget I'm the only one who will. His wife wouldn't--didn't. Neither will another living soul who knows you were here when this thing happened. Your only salvation now is to get back to the hotel and lie low; if you hear any rumours, be as much surprised as anybody; if you're asked any questions, know absolutely nothing. If you'll do that, and leave the rest to me, perhaps I can save you." "You are too kind----" "I'm not. Don't fool yourself. I'm thinking of nobody but Bellamy Druce. All I'm after is to save my name from being linked up with this rotten business. Think of yourself, as I'm thinking of myself, then. Think whether it's going to be worth the name you'll get, to have the satisfaction of this heroic gesture, this theatrical effect of sticking bravely by the side of your actor lover--so nobly wounded!--this man whose promiscuous amours have made his name a by-word even here, even in Hollywood!... But for the love of God, think quickly!" He ceased upon a note of impatient admonishment, then, when Lucinda remained silent, changed his tone. "I treated you badly enough, God knows! but you paid me out properly, you can afford to be magnanimous now. I've done nothing to deserve your active ill-will since you left me. And it isn't as if you could do Summerlad any good by staying. His fate's all up to the surgeons. And you can trust me to see that everything possible is done for him. I'll keep you posted, I'll come to the hotel tonight and tell you what the surgeon says." He bent with painful effort and lifted her wrap. She took it without a word, swung it round her shoulders, turned and left the room. Bellamy followed as far as the front door. His car was waiting on the drive, its motor running. The chauffeur, already instructed, held the tonneau door for Lucinda, closed it smartly, smartly climbed into place at the wheel. She looked back as they drew away. Bellamy stood en silhouette against the light, nursing his bandaged arm. A turn in the drive blocked out that picture, the car wheeled sharply into the public street, gathered speed. And Lucinda crouched down in her corner, chilled to her marrow by realization of the loneliness of her lot, from whom Life had stripped away even the forlorn company of her last, most dear illusion.... XL Amazing to learn, upon authority as sound as that of the clock in the hotel lobby, that the age of the evening was still something short of nine ... preposterous to credit that lapse of time so little could have wrought the transformation of life's kindly countenance at close of day to its present cast, so bleak, forbidding, and implacable.... Yet neither circumstance was a whit less certain or more disputable than the other. And that the hour was what it was, no earlier, no later, gave one good reason for thanksgiving. For now the miscellaneous dinner mob with its components of envious sharp eyes and ungenerous tongues had scattered on its various ways; while the cinemaniacs were not yet due to come trooping home from the neighbouring halls of their addiction. Only the elderlies remained in evidence, that element of the clientele which Fanny had styled the Grumpies in discrimination from the Gaddies; staid, smug bodies in black taffeta, old lace fichus and rocking-chairs, or stiff collars, shapeless trousers and blunt-nosed boots, devoted to solitaire, fancy-work, and gossip of the home-brewed brand that cheers but not inebriates; a species of migratory perennials to whom the cotton-wool climate of Southern California is a sort of gracious prelude to the grave; at once avidly intrigued by and as honestly innocent of that other Hollywood with whose lively denizens they rubbed shoulders daily, as of the other world and its press of equally unquiet souls. Dotting the public rooms with little groups, engrossed in cards, knitting, and placid prattle, these took only casual account of the flying transit of that vision of elegance and youthful charm with evening wrap caught high about the pretty face. Such sightly shapes were too much a commonplace of their deliberate and self-sufficient days, and always passed in haste; as young blood does ever, irrationally enough, having so much time before it, so little patience.... So, though she knew them for a pack of greedy scandal scavengers, and conceived every eye among them to be regardful of her and all her shifts to deceive them spent for naught, not one who observed her guessed with what agitation she was a-quake, what unrelenting urgency whipped on her feet till they all but stumbled in their eagerness to find her sanctuary behind locked doors, where she might ease off at last the tension of self-control, pillow her sore and aching head, and give range to the pent tempest of emotions brewed by love thwarted and chagrined, faith confounded, dreams done shamefully to death.... Fleeting free of that gauntlet, she gave a sigh to find herself in the quiet corridor leading to her apartment. How good it was to think she would in another minute be alone, what an inspiration had been hers when, looking forward to an evening long drawn out, she had given her maid liberty till morning! She passed the door through which she once had ventured to discover Nelly Marquis lying in a faint brought about by Lynn's cruelty.... And now what would become of that one? Whither had she turned in her flight? with what hope of asylum or immunity? A hapless creature beating blindly through the night, a land-bird swept to sea by an off-shore gale, questing what it might never hope to find.... Lucinda slipped into her sitting-room, turned the key, found the switchbox near the door, and in an abrupt blaze of illumination stood, startled beyond speech, face to face with the woman the riddle of whose fate had been riding her imagination. One of Nelly's hands was planted flat against the wall; but this support helped not at all to abate the vicious racking of her body by nerves deranged. The other, a begrimed fist, was fumbling at her mouth. Those eyes whose haunted beauty had first laid claim to one's humanity were now--their blazing madness of a short hour since dispelled--black pools of pathos in a face whose chalkiness was runneled by tears and framed in hair like tarred rope unravelled. Her dress of hackneyed smartness was bedraggled, the skirt marked by knees that in some fall had ground into loam. The black satin slippers were pale with dust, and the openwork stockings, which boasted two great tears as well. In that first flash of affrighted recognition, Lucinda started back to the door and fumbled for the key, but had yet to find it when the woman plunged down to grovel at her feet, catching at her knees, lifting up a face of torment, supplicating against teeth that chattered as if with an acute ague. "O Mrs. Druce, Mrs. Druce! I'm all right now, I am, I swear I am! Forgive me, and for God's sake don't turn me out, don't call the police!" Still frightened and mistrustful, Lucinda yet held her hand on the knob. "What do you want?" she asked in a voice that shook. "Just to talk to you a minute.... Don't be afraid...." "I'm not afraid," Lucinda lied. Nevertheless, in compassion and dawning reassurance, she stooped, freed her skirts from the clutching hands, and stepped back. "Get up," she said, watchful. "Tell me plainly what you want...." The woman scrambled to her feet again, cringing and fawning. "I had to come," she protested. "I didn't know where else to go, I had to know. Mrs. Druce: please tell me, is he.... Did I hurt him bad?" "Desperately," Lucinda replied, wondering at the reserve of fortitude which enabled her to speak with such composure. "Whether he'll live or not we don't know yet. He was unconscious when I left, before the doctor came." "You left him that way? You didn't wait to find out! O my God!" "Are you reproaching me?" Lucinda retorted in amazement--"as if it were I who shot your husband!" "_My_ husband!" Nelly shrilled. "It's yours I'm talking about, it's Mr. Druce. It's not knowing how bad I hurt him that's driving me crazy ... not meaning to harm even his little finger, I hope to die! I didn't hardly know who he was, that time while we was fighting...." She drove her knuckles against her mouth again and sunk teeth into them till pain helped her reassert self-control. "I didn't know what I was doing!" she mumbled between sobs----"I didn't know." "Do you know now?" "Oh, I do, I do! I'm all right now, honestly I am. I know what I've done and what--what I've got to pay for doing it. But I don't care!" She jerked up her chin, bravado fighting with fear in her eyes. "Lynn only got what was coming to him. I warned him often enough, time after time I told him how it was all bound to end if he kept on like he was doing; but he wouldn't listen, he'd just laugh and tell me what I could do if I didn't like his ways.... I don't mean I threatened him, Mrs. Druce. It wasn't like that. I don't believe I ever dreamed of striking back at him before today. I always thought it would be some other woman would do it, somebody that didn't love him like I did, and couldn't stand being treated like a dog, just because he got tired--I always thought somebody like that would make Lynn pay, I never thought I'd have the nerve. But today, all at once, I couldn't seem to stand it any longer.... And when I looked in at that window and saw you alone with him, and him holding you in his arms, even if you did try to make him quit.... But I'm not sorry! Lynn never treated any woman so mean, and I guess it was right his punishment should come from me. I ain't a bit sorry, I hope he dies.... Do you--do you think he will?" To the implicit hope that thus gave vaunted impenitence the lie, Lucinda returned, in a low tone and against her wish, the one word, "Probably...." and saw the woman quail and writhe away, twisting her thin, graceful hands into each other till their knuckles shone dead white through the tortured skin. "I don't care," she wailed--"I don't! And anyway, it wasn't about him, it was Mr. Druce I came here to find out about. I couldn't go away without knowing.... He's been such a prince to me, a regular prince, and I never meant him any harm. It just makes me sick to think...." She swung passionately back to Lucinda. "Won't you please, _please_ tell me how bad he's hurt?" "Not much--a flesh wound in the arm----" "Thank God it wasn't worse!" Nelly drooped heavily against the wall, with a pathetic smile testifying to her relief of mind. "I'd never have forgiven myself, never...." Profound fatigue seemed to be overcoming her. The quavering murmurs failed upon her lips, her eyes closed, her head sagged toward one shoulder. "Are you in love with him, then?" Lucinda demanded inexorably. "Is Bel in love with you?" Startled, Nelly stood away from the wall, with a hysterical note in the laugh that scorned this notion. "No, no, no, no!" she cried. "He isn't that sort. You ought to know he isn't. I don't know what the trouble was between you two, but I'll tell the world it wasn't on account of any other woman.... It wasn't as if Mr. Druce didn't have his chance, either; any time he'd wanted it he could have had it with me, anytime!" "Yet you tell me you're not in love with him!" "You don't have to be in love in the picture business...." The fugitive, twisted smile vanished away, the lustreless eyes stared into space. "Mostly it's better if you aren't. If you are, it's likely to turn out like it did with me and Lynn. If a girl wants to get on, she can't afford to care for anybody, only herself. It hasn't mattered much to me what happened, since Lynn.... But Mr. Druce never as much as held my hand." "Wouldn't you tell me that anyway?" "It's God's honest truth." The statement was made without spirit, as one of simple, provable fact. And for all her memories of Bel's misconduct, Lucinda believed. Wearily the woman began to pull about her shoulders a wrinkled, sleazy wrap. "Guess I'd better be going," she said with eyes averted. "Thank you for being so kind. I'm glad Mr. Druce wasn't much hurt, and I wish you'd tell him I'm sorry for everything. I didn't mean to do it, but I just went crazy when I saw you and Lynn together, and him making love to you. I don't remember much about what happened, but I guess it must've been pretty awful for you, and I'm sorry." Continuing to avoid Lucinda's eyes, she plucked at her cloak once more and moved toward the door; but faltered on finding that Lucinda stood in her way and didn't offer to budge. "I'd better go," she iterated uneasily. "Where?" "I don't know." Nelly wagged a head of desolate uncertainty. "There isn't any place I can think of now, they wouldn't find me. Only ... I'm sorry about Lynn, and I'm not going to suffer any more on his account unless I have to. So it's up to me to be on my way." "Wait a minute, please." Remaining between the girl and the door, Lucinda pursued: "I want to know how you got in here. How did you get back to the hotel so quickly?" "From Beverly Hills, you mean? Oh, I had luck and caught a trolley without having to wait. They make pretty good time, you know. And then, when I got here ... I wanted to go up to my room and get some money.... I was afraid to come in the front way, I thought maybe they'd telephoned or something, so I tried the side door. They don't lock that till about nine o'clock. And just as I came in, I noticed the chambermaid unlocking this door, and it come over me like a flash you'd probably be coming home pretty soon, and I was worried about Mr. Druce; so I slipped in while she was in your bedroom, and hid behind that chair there till she went out again." "But what if they've locked the side door since? It must be after nine now. You won't be able to leave except by way of the office." "I guess I'll have to take my chances...." She bent upon Lucinda a look of flickering defiance. "Anyhow, what do you care?" "I don't like to think of your being caught." "Why?" "I don't know, unless it's because I think you've been punished enough already. You'd better wait and rest for a while, at least till the house quiets down. And perhaps we can think of some way.... Don't you think you'd better trust me?" For another instant suspicious eyes searched Lucinda's, then with a half-nod the girl wilted into a chair. "All right," she acquiesced with the passivity of a child chastened by terror--"just's you say, Mrs. Druce. Only, I don't see why you're being so good to me." Lucinda had no answer to that. Her motive was not more obscure to that muddled mind than to her own. Unless, of course, it had to do with that enduring image of the bird storm-beaten, weary of wing and bewildered by the dark, risking the debatable mercy of mankind in its stark necessity.... She stood pitiful, contemplating the creature who huddled in the chair, shivering, whimpering a little, gnawing her knuckles, with the dazed eyes of an animal hunted to its last gasp seeking to probe the fearful ambiguity of the future. A murderess by intention, whom the word of any moment might prove a murderess in fact.... And one couldn't condemn or reproach her, one couldn't shrink from her because of the crime that stained her hands, one couldn't even win one's own consent to send her out to chance the retribution she had invited. Incomprehensible the alchemy of the human heart! Lucinda was making up her mind to help a sinner circumvent justice.... "Tell me something," she said, with no more preface: "You've been calling me Mrs. Druce. How did you learn that was my name? Did Mr. Druce tell you?" Only the hand of the girl moved in a sign of dissent, and her lips to shape the words: "It was Lynn told me." "Lynn!" "Mr. Druce never said as much as a word about you. I don't believe he knows I know now. I thought he didn't want me to know, so I never let on; but of course I did know, all along." "Lynn told you when----?" "That time you found me on the floor, you know. I guess I ought to apologize for the way I treated you, but I was all upset, I hated you on account of what Lynn had told you about me and all." "I don't think I blame you--now." "You wouldn't 've, then, if you'd been through what I'd been through that afternoon.... Lynn didn't let me know he was coming, or send his name in or anything, he just walked in through the window while I was getting dressed to go out. He said I'd got to clear out, go back home, where I come from in the East. He said if I didn't I'd spoil everything for him, if you ever found out about me you wouldn't have any more to do with him, and then where'd be his chance of getting in with New York society people like you trained with. He took out a hundred dollars and put it on the bureau and said I'd got to take it and go home and he'd send me fifty dollars every week. I said I wouldn't, and he said I would if he had to ship me East on a stretcher. I forget what I said then, but I was pretty wild, I guess, and he hit me, and I don't remember anything after that, except waking up to find Lynn gone and you taking care of me." She jumped in the chair, cried out shrilly, and clapped a hand over her heart when the telephone sounded a peremptory call. Lucinda, answering, heard the voice of her chauffeur: he had called up Mr. Summerlad's, somebody there had told him Miss Lee had gone home already and wouldn't want him again that night, and he wanted to make sure that was all right. "Yes, Ben," Lucinda assented, "it's quite all right. I left that word for you, but ... just a minute ... I may change my mind." "It'll be all right with me, Miss Lee, if you want to go out again." "Yes, Ben, I know; and thank you. But if I decide to use the car again tonight, I'll drive it myself--alone, you understand. If you wouldn't mind bringing it to the side door of the hotel in about an hour and leaving it there.... No; don't wait for me, I may be delayed; just leave the car and go home. I'll take it to the garage when I'm through with it." When Lucinda hung up she found Nelly slewed round in the chair and watching with darkly doubting eyes, to which she responded, with a slight smile: "That was inspiration. While Ben was talking, it occurred to me, the only possible way for you to escape would be in somebody's car. So I've arranged to let you steal mine. You can leave it wherever you think it safe to get aboard a train. You can drive, of course?" Nelly nodded. "Then if you'll come into my bedroom, you can lie down and rest while I find you a change of clothes. I'm afraid, if the police get a description of you dressed as you are, you wouldn't have much chance...." Before she could surmise or move to defeat the girl's intention, Nelly had caught one of her hands and was weeping and slavering over it. "You're so sweet and good to me!" she sobbed. "I can't make out what makes you so kind!" "I think," Lucinda said, with gaze remote--"I think _I_ am beginning to understand...." XLI In an interlude of difficulty to beggar all believing, response to Lucinda's forbearance all at once swept like a great wind over those treacherous emotional shallows, kicking up their still unsettled dregs of hysteria, storming in wild squalls of gratitude, remorse and shame, driving shoreward that frail, crank pleasure-craft which was the soul of Nelly Marquis, leaving it at the last stranded in a slough of self-pity and abasement, where it rested in maudlin wreckage, weeping, lamenting, calling out upon its shabby gods for that they had forsaken it. Early in this scene Lucinda made shift to get the woman, half-leading, half-dragging her, into the bedchamber where the seizure might spend itself unheard by passers in the public corridor. But for a tedious while after she had persuaded her to lie down she made no headway toward stemming her transports; and sitting on the side of the bed, suffering Nelly to cling to her hands, seeking to pacify her whenever in a lull she could make words tell, learned enough from her maunderings to sicken one with the very thought of love. As if what had been had left her in need of this last disenchantment!... Sheer persistence in the end proved tranquillizing, the woman ceased to toss and writhe continually, her communications became more lucid. But she wouldn't hear of being left alone for a nap, she wouldn't release Lucinda's hands, she wouldn't heed suggestions that it might perhaps be well for her to get up and change to the clothing which Lucinda had provided. Time enough for that, she argued, when Mr. Druce had been and gone. Maybe Lynn hadn't been as much hurt as Lucinda believed. If he hadn't, he could be depended upon to move heaven and earth to save his fair name in the esteem of picture fans from the odium that must attach to it should the news get out that he had been shot up by a discarded wife. Anyway, they couldn't tell anything for certain till Mr. Druce had kept his promise to report the surgeon's verdict. Besides, if it came to the worst, if it turned out that Nelly would have to cut and run for it, the later the hour at which she left the hotel the better, the fewer people there would be about to see her go.... It had been agreed that it would never do for Lucinda to ask for the key to the side door. But if she chose to stroll out through the lobby, accompanied by a young woman well cloaked, the chances were that the latter would pass unquestioned as some friend who had dropped in to spend the evening with her. "But are you quite sure you feel strong and well enough to drive the car yourself?" Lucinda misdoubted for perhaps the hundredth time, though for the first openly. The woman on the bed gave her hand a small jerk of petulance. "Don't you worry your head about me, Mrs. Druce," she insisted. "I'll be all right. I can drive any make of car there is, and I know all the roads out of Los Angeles like a book. Why, when me and Lynn was living together, we didn't hardly ever have any use for a chauffeur." "Where will you go, then?" "Up North, I guess, by the Coastal Highway. I can make Santa Barbara by morning easy. But I don't know, maybe I might go right through to Frisco. That's where I want to get, you know. It ought to be easy to lie low in a town like Frisco. Anyhow, wherever I decide, I'll shoot you a wire first thing, telling you where I left the car. I only wish I didn't have to take it, somehow it don't seem right. But there! maybe I won't have to.... And unless I do, there wouldn't be any sense in my leaving all my clothes here and everything, would there? What time is it now? A person would think Mr. Druce wouldn't be much longer, wouldn't they? I suppose you wouldn't want to call up Lynn's house and ask...." "I'd rather not." "I kind of thought you'd feel like that about it. It would look too much like worrying about Lynn, wouldn't it?" Lucinda made no reply, and after a moment of dumb staring at the ceiling a shadow of complacency modified Nelly's fretful look. "I guess it's all over with Lynn now, as far as you're concerned, isn't it?" "Yes," Lucinda said with the slowness that spells restraint--"as far as I'm concerned, it's all over." "I'm awfully sorry," the girl asserted, her voice in turn carrying the colour of complacency--"I mean, sorry for you. You must've been awfully stuck on Lynn." "Yes...." To offset a choke in her voice Lucinda added with a hard laugh: "Awfully!" "It's terrible to have to give up a man like Lynn.... Don't _I_ know!" Lucinda bluntly changed the subject. "What will you do now?" she asked--"I mean, after this blows over. Will you go on with your picture work in the East?" "I don't know.... I guess not.... Nobody's likely to give me another chance.... Lynn isn't going to be able to keep the truth from leaking out inside the business, of course; and he's terribly popular, his friends will take good care I don't get another job. I guess I've gone and fixed it for myself in the picture business, all right, no matter what.... Unless, of course, I might maybe change my name or something." "But this picture my husband is making: he won't be able to go on with it with you out of the cast, I presume." Nelly laughed outright. "I guess that won't worry Mr. Druce a terrible lot. You don't suppose he cares two whoops what happens to that picture now, do you?" "Why not? Why did he start making it, unless?..." "Why don't you know, Mrs. Druce? I'd 've thought you'd 've been wise to that dodge all along. All Mr. Druce went into the film business for was to be near you."' "You believe that?" "Why!"--the girl laughed again--"it's just as plain as paint to anybody in the know; I mean, anybody that knows you two are married but living separate on account of some row or something. All Mr. Druce cares about pictures a person could put in their eye and never know it. He just wanted a good excuse to be near you and take care of you in case anything ... like tonight ... or if he thought you was beginning to take Lynn too seriously or anything.... Anyway, that's how I figured it from the very first. He had it doped it would cramp Lynn's style to see me around the studio all the time, and maybe make him break it off with you. And so did I. Only I guess neither of us guessed how hard Lynn had fallen for you." "You haven't told me how my husband happened to engage you." "Well, he just went after me and wouldn't take no for an answer. He's like that, you know. Of course, I don't know what the trouble was between you two, but I don't see how you ever stood out against a man like him, Mrs. Druce." "Where were you when he found you?" "Back home. You see, after Lynn gave me that hundred ... and what happened ... I was afraid to stay in Hollywood, I didn't know what else he might do to me. And besides, I simply couldn't stand seeing you stepping out with him all the time, it made me simply wild. So I went right back to Findlay." "Findlay?" "The place in Ohio where my people live." "And that's where Mr. Druce found you?" "I'd only just got back when a man came to town, Mr. Roberts he said his name was, and said he'd got me a swell offer to go back to the Coast and act for a new company just starting. I kind of thought there was something fishy about it, because I never was much in pictures; and why should they send somebody all the way to Findlay to get me when they could 've got plenty just as good right here in Hollywood? Anyhow, I was afraid of Lynn, so I said nothing doing. Next I knew, Mr. Druce himself come to see me and said I'd got to go back to Hollywood with him and make pictures and I could write my own contract. Of course, as soon's I heard his name, I tumbled to what it was all about; and I thought if you got to seeing a lot of your husband you'd give Lynn the air ... chuck him, I mean ... and maybe ... Ah! _I_ don't know...." She was quiet for a moment, in wide-eyed, wondering abstraction. "Somehow I never got over being crazy about Lynn, you know," she said in a quieter tone than she had yet used--"not even when he treated me meanest." In this pensive mood she mused on: "You know, sometimes I think it's all wrong the way women, like you and me, take everything a man wants to hand out to us, just to hold him. They keep telling you it's the only way; but the way it looks to me, it hardly ever works ... I mean, unless the man's crazy about you, like Mr. Druce.... "Of course, I know it isn't any of my business, Mrs. Druce, but I haven't got any hard feelings towards you on account of Lynn and all, not any more, and I'm perfectly sincere when I say _I_ think you'll be making one big mistake if you don't make it up with Mr. Druce as soon's ever you can now...." The house telephone came to Lucinda's rescue: Mr. Druce was calling, if Miss Lee would be kind enough to overlook the lateness of the hour.... Lucinda promised to get rid of Bel as soon as she could, and in return exacted the girl's promise to rest quietly and not worry. Then she shut herself out into the sitting-room, and had almost immediately to answer the door. Bel's light motor-coat hung from his shoulders with empty sleeves, by which device he was able to make no parade of the fact that his right arm was in a sling. His features were drawn and grey, his speech slow with weariness, but his eyes keen, steady and (Lucinda made sure, looking sharply) wholly unsentimental; while his greeting, characteristically abrupt--"Still up, eh?"--was accompanied by ironical recognition of her unchanged evening costume. "I waited up for you," Lucinda replied sufficiently to both words and look. "How's your arm?" "Nothing to brag about, but no worse than I thought. A bit stiff and sore, that's all." "You look fearfully tired, Bel. Won't you sit down?" Irony again tinged his flying smile. "No, thanks. Won't stay but a minute. I promised, so here I am. But I'm dog-tired, and as soon as I've turned in my report, I'll cut along." "Well?..." "He's got one chance in a thousand to pull through. Say what you like about that young woman--she can shoot. Only one shot went wrong, merely smashed his shoulder. One of the others just missed his heart, the third drilled through his lungs. Wouldn't give a great deal for all the show he's got." Grim watchfulness was rewarded by her slight start, a swift darkening of Lucinda's eyes, but no flinching, after an instant a slow nod, nothing more. "Nothing to say?" Bellamy demanded in pitiless humour. "Thank you for letting me know." "And that's all?" "Was there something you expected me to say, Bel? Sorry to disappoint you...." "Well: you knew the fellow better than I----" "If it interests you, you may as well know now what I didn't--not before tonight." "You didn't know Summerlad was married----?" "If another man dared ask me that question, I think even you would resent it." "Perhaps. Daresay it's the husband's astigmatic point of view. However, I didn't mean to be offensive." "Do you seriously ask me to believe that, Bel?" "Damn it, Linda! you always did have the faculty of putting me in the wrong." "Isn't it more true that you haven't yet mastered the faculty of always putting yourself in the right?" "Perhaps we'd better let it go at that. One thing's certain, I'm none too happy in my efforts to express myself tonight. Daresay I'd better clear out before I make things worse...." Nevertheless he delayed. "That girl ... she got away. Not a trace...." "Are they--is anybody looking----?" "The police have got that job in hand. I had rather a time with them, you know. They didn't fancy my story at all, at first, couldn't see why the devil I had let Nelly escape. The circumstance that she'd shot me in the arm didn't seem to carry any weight; in fact, I gathered they didn't put it beyond me to shoot myself in the right arm to divert suspicion. Only one thing saved me: Nelly had thoughtfully lost her handbag outside the window, with an extra clip of cartridges in it." "She must have meant to make sure.... I mean, it wasn't an affair of impulse, then?" "Oh, she'd had in mind what she meant to do for a long time. I don't know how long, but she let a hint fall the other night, when she'd had a bit more drink than she needed, and I spent the best part of the evening trying to talk her out of it. She fobbed me off with a half-promise in the end; but I wasn't satisfied. And tonight, when she wasn't on hand to keep a dinner appointment, and one of the bellhops told me he'd seen her boarding a trolley for Beverly Hills.... Well: my chauffeur says we broke all existing records, getting out to Summerlad's. Why we weren't arrested neither of us knows. Lucky...." Bel's words trailed off into a thoughtful mumble, he seemed momentarily lost in study of the rug on which he stood, then roused and put his hand to the door-knob. "If it matters," he announced--"possibly you'd care to know--we've telegraphed Summerlad's people in his home town, Terre Haute----his mother and sister. The family name appears to be Slade. We thought he ought to have them with him...." "'We'?" "Zinn and I." "You told Mr. Zinn?" "Called him up first thing. Naturally. Nobody had a better right to know what had happened, holding Summerlad under contract as he does. He came right out, calling himself bad names for being in the picture business, and took charge. It was mostly thanks to him I was able to get away as soon as I did." "Does he know the full story, Bel?" "All that matters. But your part's still a dead secret between the four of us--including my chauffeur and Summerlad's Jap. I think those two have been well enough paid.... It remains to get hold of your man and make him forget he drove you out there for dinner and didn't bring you home. If you'll give me his address...." "Perhaps I can attend to that better than you, Bel; without making it necessary to explain how you happen to be interested, I mean." "You won't forget? This affair will be all over town before morning." "I'll call Ben up at his home as soon as you've gone." "Very well, then. I presume that brings us to good-night." "But Bel...." Bellamy reclosed the door and turned back with weary patience. "About that poor girl...." He looked startled. "That sounds like pity." "Can one think of her in any other spirit? Have you any notion what will happen to her?" "Nothing's going to happen to her--if I can find her before the police do." "You don't mean you'd help her get away, Bel?" "If it takes every dollar I've got in the world. Do you realize what it means if she's caught and put on trial--either for murder or attempted murder, as it turns out--in a case that's going to get the publicity this is bound to? Do you imagine it will be possible then to keep your name out of it? She's bound to tell her story in self-defense; and inasmuch as she's good-looking enough to be acquitted on one pretext or another, in all probability, the chances are in another six months she'll be starring in a film based on a re-hash of this pretty little affair." "Then you will help me? I can count on you, Bel?" "Help you?" "Help get her away." Bellamy started excitedly. "Mean to say you know where Nelly is?" "She's here, Bel. She came straight to me, half-mad with anxiety on your account. It seems she's grateful to you for kindness----" "And you didn't throw her out?" Bel interrupted, staring. "She made me understand.... And she was so bewildered, so terrified.... I couldn't blame her, Bel; and I couldn't have put her out in any event." "In there?" Bellamy nodded toward the bedchamber and, receiving a nod in reply, strode quickly to the door and threw it open. The room was a pocket of darkness and, when the lights had been turned on, proved to be tenantless. The nightly breeze from the hills was bellying the curtains at one of the windows that opened on the street. Lucinda ran to it and leaned out. No sign of the car that by her order had been left standing before the side door, nearly an hour since.... XLII Lucinda slept that night--and that she slept at all crossed her presentiment--but fitfully, in spells of profound and wasting lethargy broken by wretched watches of half-waking dread under the dominion of the incubus that agonized her dreams, that phantasm of the land-bird lost, spending its slender strength against the cruel vasts of night and sea and storm.... Toward morning exhaustion claimed her absolutely, sponging out every care, and for some hours her slumbers were unbroken. But she woke up as it were against her will, heavy of heart and without sense of having rested. Sluggish resentment crawled in her mind, that she should feel so worn and old whose first moments after sleep were as a rule her happiest, when she would lie serene, luxuriating in whole refreshment and with normal optimism very like a child's looking forward to the day, making plans to fill in with small pleasures every hour that wasn't to be devoted to her work. There was still the feel of immaturity in the day, the chilly souvenir of night which so frequently renders the mornings of Southern California sickly, before the sun finds strength enough to burn away the high fog that, like a thief in the dark, is wont to steal in after sundown from the sea. What, then, had awakened her so far in advance of the customary hour? Something hideous and hateful skulking like a torpid snake in the shadows beyond the threshold of consciousness, some foul shape that she instinctively shrank from calling up.... The bedside clock struck nine, and Lucinda started up in a flutter excited by the thought that she would yet another time be late and so afford fresh reason for dissension with her director ... then sank back to her pillow, cringing from memories that came trooping in the wake of the reminder that she was to know no more of Barry Nolan in her life.... No more of Nolan, no more of Nelly, no more of Lynn ... no more of Love.... With a convulsive movement she flung over in the bed and lay almost prone, her face snuggled into bare arms whose pure lustre lent fire to the crimson that glowed in a lunette of cheek, the one ear visible, even in her neck's sleek loveliness. Things that Nelly had told her, resting on that very bed, plain tales of the life that Lynn by preference had led, related in the flat and toneless accents of emotional prostration, therefore the more likely to be free from overstatement; things Lynn himself had owned inadvertently or injudiciously at the urge of vanity craving greater prestige in her sight; things that she knew of her own experience with the man, little circumstances of their association that had threatened its harmony, things she hadn't liked and wilfully had been blind to, denied, or disbelieved: all swam up from the deeps of memory to float like scum upon the surface of her consciousness. Lonely and restless, starving for affection and all too eager to snatch at shadow and proclaim it substance, self-dedicated victim of a ready-made infatuation.... And she had called that Love! What dishonor, what humiliation, what reproach! What an escape! and at what cost!... a cost not yet all paid, and which if she would she might not pay alone, but must see others pay in part for her, Nelly and Lynn perhaps with their lives, Bel too in his way, in another way Zinn ... all called upon to lay down things they held dear that she might have her lesson, that she might learn Love is never lightly to be won, no, nor put by, either.... In the room adjoining she could hear her maid quietly moving about, tidying up, with presently a chirrup of the telephone, then a guarded mumble as the woman answered. She was hanging up when Lucinda, dragging on a négligé, flung open the communicating door. The maid said Mr. Zinn had called up, and gaped to see Lucinda's glance grow dull and the spirit of her entrance pass abruptly into apathy. Sinking wearily against the door-frame, she desired to know what Zinn had wanted. "He asked if you was up yet, ma'm, and when I told him no, he said it didn't matter, would I kindly take the message, he couldn't keep his date with you to look at the rushes today, and maybe not tomorrow, he'd give you a ring 'safternoon and let you know." "Very well," Lucinda said without interest.... "I'll have my bath, please." Waiting for the water to be drawn, she wandered to a window. The high fog still held the day against the sun, a dense, cold pall of grey, as flat as a metal plate, closing out the blue, closing in an atmosphere lifeless and bleak. She thought of Lynn fighting for his life, perhaps losing, perhaps already still in defeat. And Nelly ... at whose fate one could only guess.... She recalled that bright hour of sunset, so clear and warm, through which she had motored in gladness toward his arms whom she had called her beloved, that hour in the dread light of this so weirdly unreal, so inconceivably remote; and the old, embittered plaint of Abdu-el-Yezdi found a melancholy echo in her heart: "Strange that Life's Registrar should call That day a day, this day a day." ... Bel came in about ten, by that many sleepless, active, anxious hours more jaded than when she had seen him last. Road-dust powdered his face and hands and lay caked in the folds of his coat, and he carried the arm in the sling with more open confession of acute distress. Lucinda herself opened for him, and he met her eyes with a short nod. "You've found her, Bel? Where?" He glanced round the room, caught sight of the maid through the open door to the bedchamber, and indicated her with a brusque jerk of his head. Lucinda called the woman. "You've had no breakfast?" she added. "No time. Been on the road all night. Just got in." "Let me order you something...." "Well ... I would be glad of a cup of coffee--nothing else, thanks." Lucinda sent the maid on the errand, and as soon as they were alone gave intuition voice: "Bel: something has happened to her? she's dead?" With a weary nod, Bel dropped into a chair. "We got as far as Santa Barbara without picking up a sign," he said. "It was getting daylight then, and I made up my mind we'd taken the wrong road, that Nelly had lied or changed her mind about the way she meant to go. But she hadn't. When we turned back we found her ... what had been her...." He bent forward with his sound elbow on his knee, covering his eyes as if to hide their reminiscent horror. "There had been an accident?" "She ran your car off the road at a turn and over a low cliff to a rocky beach. Must have been killed instantly. If so, it was a mercy, for nobody had noticed the wreck till a few minutes before we turned up. I happened to catch sight of the crowd on the beach and made my chauffeur stop...." He didn't look up, and neither spoke again till the maid returned. Then Lucinda made another pretext to get rid of her for another while, apparently to her considerable annoyance. "How much does she know?" Bellamy asked, as the woman took herself off with an aggrieved flounce. "There's been nothing for her to know, Bel," Lucinda returned without resentment. "I didn't mean ... I was merely wondering if she knew where you were expecting to dine last night. She must have helped you dress." "I don't recall saying...." "Better give her a good present and make her understand a tight mouth pays." "Very well." Bel sipped his coffee, frowning. "Heard anything from your friends the Lontaines this morning?" "Not yet. Fanny will call up, of course, or come round to see me as soon as she hears." "Risky to wait. Better get hold of her at once, let her hear about this business first of all from you, and tell her she's got to protect you if she has to lie like Sapphira." "But surely we can count on Fanny's discretion!" "Can we?" Bel's grin was skeptical. "I'm not so sure. Nolan knew last night you'd been due at Summerlad's for dinner. Told Zinn he had his information from Mrs. Lontaine." "Barry Nolan! I don't understand...." "Only know what Nolan told Zinn. Stopped in at the studio just now, saw Zinn for a few minutes.... By the way"--Bel's manner was studiously casual--"it may interest you to know, the latest reports say Summerlad's holding his own." "I am glad," Lucinda said simply. And Bel's eyes wavered under her level regard, lightly charged as it was with contempt. "You were telling me about Nolan...." "Zinn says he telephoned all over Los Angeles last night trying to locate Nolan--because he and Summerlad had always been so close--but had no luck till about three this morning, when Nolan got home and found Zinn's message waiting for him. Then he hurried over to the bungalow--with at least three sheets in the wind, according to Zinn--and the first question he asked was where you'd been when the shooting took place. Zinn swore you hadn't been there, and the Jap backed him up nobly.... But there you are, if you're asking for proof that your friend Fanny tells everything she knows." Lucinda coloured resentfully. "I am sure," she insisted, "Fanny never dreamed of hurting me when she told Mr. Nolan--whatever it was she did tell him. But it's easy enough to find out...." She took up the telephone, but had to wait, receiver at ear, several minutes before the Lontaine's number answered. Then a voice with a drowsy sound, like a tired and husky imitation of Fanny's: "Yes? Hello! who is it?" And when Lucinda made herself known a brief stammer prefaced a shift to honeyed accents: "Oh! is it you, Cindy darling? Heavens! what time is it?" Lucinda named the hour, heard Fanny give a smothered exclamation, and added: "Did I wake you up?" "I was simply dead to the world when the telephone rang," Fanny declared with an equivocal giggle. "The poor dear eyes are hardly open even now." "I'm so sorry, dear. I supposed of course.... Is Harry there?" The reply came readily and without suggestion of uncertainty: "Why, no, darling: he isn't." "Are you sure?" "Quite----" "I mean," Lucinda persisted, in some perplexity, "if you've just waked up, you've hardly had time to find out." "Oh!" Fanny interrupted herself with an uneasy laugh. "Oh, but I know he isn't! I ... he ... I mean to say, darling, Harry must have gone out quite early. I mean ... O dear!" An audible yawn and then an apologetic noise. "I'm simply drugged with sleepiness, Cindy. What I'm trying to say is, I was awake when Harry left the house, but went to sleep again. Have you tried the studio? If he isn't there, I'm sure I haven't the remotest notion where he can be." Then with a quite unmistakable accent of apprehension: "Why, darling? is something the matter?" "I'll explain when I see you," Lucinda temporized--"if you wouldn't mind running round to the hotel when you've had your breakfast." "Mind, darling! I'll simply fly into my clothes, be there in no time at all." The meditative expression with which Lucinda put the telephone aside drew from Bellamy the direct question: What had Fanny said? "It wasn't what she said, it was the funny, embarrassed way she said it. As a general thing, Fanny's as transparently candid as--as a plate of glass." Bellamy made a doubting mouth. "You're pretty thick, you two," he supposed--"you tell her everything?" Irritation in a gust shook Lucinda till her voice shook in sympathy. "Really, Bel! you seem fairly possessed by desire to believe my life out here full of things an honest woman would want to hide." "No," Bellamy dissented slowly. "But I do seriously believe--in fact, know--you haven't always been altogether discreet, you've done things here, without a moment's thought, you'd have hesitated a long time before committing yourself to at home." "You forget this is now my home. What Fifth Avenue holds inconvenable isn't anything to bother about on Sunset Boulevard." "Well ... if life has taught me anything, Linda, it is that it never does to trust too much to the good will of one's friends. We're all too exclusively creatures of selfishness: self always comes before the claims others may have or impose on us. It pleases us no end to believe our friends so devoted that they'd put our interests before their own; but when the test comes, as a general thing, we find out we've been self-deluded." "How funny, Bel: _you_ philosophizing!" "That isn't philosophy, it's common sense based on observation of the underside of human nature.... I'm not blaming you for clinging to your friends, or standing up for them, I'm only anxious you shan't suffer from finding them out." "I fancy I know Fanny, at least," Lucinda retorted severely. "You think you do. And I don't dispute your superior knowledge of every side of her but one, the side she shows only to the men she picks out to flirt with." "For example, yourself." "Exactly." Lucinda openly enjoyed an instant of malicious amusement. "Do you really believe you're learning to see through women at last, Bel?" "You'll admit I've served a long apprenticeship"--Bellamy gave a deprecating grunt--"enough to have learned something." "And now you're warning me against the wiles of my best friend!" "I'm warning you against all such adventurers.... Oh, yes! the Lontaines are just that, both of them. Chances are they haven't got a dollar between them they didn't get from you. Neither did Mrs. Fanny set her cap for me just to keep in practice, she gets enough of that in other quarters. No: she had another motive, and it wasn't any way altruistic." "What was it, then?" "Think I can leave that to your intelligence. I've never noticed you were--one might say--dense concerning the psychology of your sex, Linda." Indignation threatened to find expression in a rush of tears, but Lucinda winked them back. "I do wish you wouldn't try to make me angry with you----" "I'm only trying to tell you, one can't afford to trust anybody in this world except those who have nothing to gain through cultivating one's friendship." "--Just now, when I've so much to be grateful to you for, when you're doing--have done so much to save me from the consequences of my folly----" "Ah! you realize that." "Both my folly"--Lucinda nodded gravely--"and all you're doing to repair it. So this once I won't resent your calling my friends adventurers." Bel chuckled as he got up. "Because you know in your heart that's what they are, neither more nor less.... Think I'll be getting along now. I want sleep badly, and I must stop in at the studio first and have a word with Lontaine, if he's there. And then I need Nolan's address." "You're going to see him. Do you think that wise?" "I won't permit him to spread gossip about your being with Summerlad last night." "Do you think he'll admit your right to dictate?" "I don't imagine it will be news to him that you're my wife, if that's what you mean. Your friend the actor seems to have been tolerably busy crowing about his conquest of Mrs. Bellamy Druce--always, of course, in strictest confidence. Zinn knew all about you before I appeared on the scene. And Nolan was Summerlad's bosom pal...." The thrust told shrewdly, rewarding Bel with a fugitive moment of sardonic satisfaction. Then the courage with which Lucinda took punishment exacted his admiration. "But I'm afraid," she said quietly, "you won't have much success with Nolan, even if he does recognize your right to interfere." "How so?" "He has too little reason to feel well-disposed toward me." "On account of your quarrel with him yesterday...." "I didn't know you knew." "Who in Hollywood doesn't, do you suppose?" Bel snorted. "Gossip travels like grass fire, out here. I heard five different versions yesterday, myself, before your cameraman told mine what I imagine was the approximate truth." "Then I presume you know, as well, about my new arrangement, with Mr. Zinn taking over the production?" "Yes?" The single syllable of assent carried the rising inflexion of enquiry as well. Lucinda mildly curious, replied that she had merely been wondering.... "Well, I'm wondering, too," Bel countered, eyeing her intently. "Of course you understand that arrangement's not necessarily to be considered binding till you've signed up." "We shook hands on it," said Lucinda: "I gave Mr. Zinn my word. Why?" "Oh, nothing; unless what's happened since has had some effect on your attitude, I mean, made your bargain with Zinn seem less desirable. In that case, of course, I'll be glad to use whatever influence I may have with him...." The tensing of her body betrayed the temper in which Lucinda met his suggestion. "What you really mean is: Have I changed my mind about continuing in pictures, because of this dreadful accident to Lynn?" Bel's eyes and mouth tightened. "It's not an unnatural supposition, that you may have concluded you've had enough." "Enough, Bel?" "Of both...." "That can't be anything but calculated impertinence!" "Call it what you like. Nothing I could say would convince you to the contrary. Does it matter?" "Then your suggestion doesn't deserve my notice." "In that event"--Bel smiled in a knowing fashion difficult to tolerate--"I've got my answer, plain enough: you're bent on going on." "Have you any objection?" "If I thought my views had any weight with you I might be tempted to tell you." "You'd waste your time--if you think I don't know what you'd say." His brows circumflexed a mocking: "So?" "You want me to give it up." "Well"--he stressed a shrug--"one would think you'd seen enough of this sort of thing to satisfy even your curiosity." "You think I had no other motive?" "Plus gratification of your vanity--the inevitable factor in every human equation." "You don't believe my work means anything to me for its own sake?" "Are you asking me to believe _you_ consider this a life worth while? Or that any success it may purchase is worth the sacrifice?" "What sacrifice, pray?" "Of the woman you might yet be, if you'd give up this nonsense." "I think you must mean the woman I might have been before your conduct killed her in me!" Bel made a wry face as he stooped to pick up his motor-coat. "This conversation is degenerating into a wrangle in which I have the traditional chance a snowball has in the place where motion-pictures were spawned. A husband, even a deserted one, is always in the wrong.... Mind lending me a hand, Linda? Can't quite manage this with one arm." At once angrily and gently Lucinda draped the motor-coat over his shoulders. "Generalizing on the hardships of husbands," she suggested sweetly, "is hardly an excuse for making it your specialty to be always in the wrong." "I feel that, you know." Bel replied with lips that twitched--"feel it like everything.... I'm to understand, then, my wishes mean nothing to you?" Lucinda gave a little, silent laugh, and in silence for a moment gazed on Bellamy, her eyes unreadable. Nor was there the hostility he had expected in the tone in which she asked: "Have you any reason to advance, why your wishes should influence me?" "If you know of none, Linda--no." "I know of nothing that counterweighs the persecution you've been subjecting me to, ever since you found out where I was hiding from you--persecution that ended last night in a tragedy. I can't forget that, if you hadn't bribed that unfortunate girl to come back----" "If I hadn't!" Bel interrupted--"and God knows I regret what came of that as bitterly as anybody!--if I hadn't brought Nelly back here, you might still be playing fast and loose with Summerlad's ambition to make you his mistress. Got anything to say to that? You know now, at least, he never intended anything else. And yet, if looks could kill, you'd strike me dead where I stand for having presumed to be as wise in advance as you've been made by the event! And because I made the mistake of trying to stage-manage things so you would presently find out for yourself what a rotter you were throwing yourself away on, instead of chancing your deeper hatred by telling you outright what every other soul in Hollywood knew--running the risk of seeing you go straight to his arms to prove your indifference to me--because of that error of judgment you'll see me damned before you'll give up a mode of life for which you're about as well fitted as--as I am for that of the Kingdom of Heaven!" "You forget, what I don't, Bel," Lucinda said slowly, "that it was you who made the mode of life with which I was content impossible for me. If this life I've taken up here is in some sense a makeshift, it's all I've got to take the place of all I had. And now you'd rob me even of it! And one thing more you forget: If I should give in to your wishes and leave Hollywood today, I would only be doing what you say you want to prevent, confessing by flight that my only real interest in my picture work was my greater interest in Lynn Summerlad. For that reason alone--and not, as you believe, to spite you--I've got to and I'm going to go on to the end of this present production at least. After that ... I don't know...." Discountenanced, "I hadn't thought of that," Bel owned squarely. "You may be right...." "I am; but even if I weren't, it wouldn't be any use your trying to force me to forego my chance at a career in pictures just to get rid of you. Believe me, Bel, it's no good. Give it up, give up this producing blind--I know it's only a blind--and go back where you belong. And leave me to do my best with what I have--with what you've left of my happiness. And remember you have my faithful promise to set you free as soon as the courts will grant me a divorce." "That's your last word, Linda?" "My last word to you, Bel--I hope." He hesitated, the muscles of his face working beneath its day-old stubble; and for a moment, reading truly or mistakenly the look in his eyes, from which all anger had died out, Lucinda was in deadly fear lest he were on the verge of making one last appeal in another key, one which she was, in that time of emotions, ill-prepared to deal with. Then flinging out his hand in the salute of the vanquished, Bel bowed and, whirling on a heel, left her--left Lucinda for once at a loss, intuition inextricably hobbled by a mat of doubts. XLIII For how long she was never quite sure Lucinda remained rooted in that moment, unseeing gaze steadfast to that door whose closing had been synchronous with the opening of another upon her understanding, to let in light, a revelation blinding and arrestive, upon the mirk of her distraction--that failure of self-confidence and determination which had come with realization, for the first time in her history, of inability to read her own heart and mind and guide her steps by such self-knowledge. Thus posed she was found when Fanny, weary of knocking and getting no response, without more ceremony drifted in, a vision fair of impudent innocence in dainty organdie, the ravages of "oversleeping" perceptible in dim blue stains beneath eyes the more alluring for such underscoring; and with a start and a cry of solicitude perhaps a thought theatrical, convincing enough for all that, dropped parasol and handbag and ran to strain Lucinda tenderly to her bosom of an adolescent. "You poor, dear darling!" she cooed--"no wonder you sounded so troubled over the telephone--and so sad! I couldn't imagine ... Why didn't you tell me?" "How did you hear?" Lucinda evaded, gently extricating herself to disguise distaste for the sickly-sweet fragrance of Fanny's breath. "Who told you?" "The papers, dearest: haven't you seen them?" Lucinda fell back a step, clasping her hands in sharp dismay: she had never once thought of the newspapers. "Screaming headlines on every page: one would think Lynn, poor dear! was the President of the United States lying at point of death from an assassin's bullet.... But what a frightful experience for you!" "It was a shock," Lucinda assented in a murmur. Without conscious volition she found herself moving away to a window, as if to hide her emotion. "When I heard...." In private amazement she heard her voice break; and touching a handkerchief to her lips, said no more. "Heard! but you were there, weren't you, when it happened?" Still acting as if in deference to an authority outside herself, Lucinda, without withdrawing her gaze from the street--now basking in the calm gold of the belated sun--deliberately shook her head. "When I found you and Harry weren't coming," she said--"I mean, when Lynn told me what you had telephoned, I came away. I thought it best, everything considered." "Oh, how fortunate!" But there was in that exclamation an undertone of disbelief clear enough to untrusting ears. And of a sudden Lucinda, while continuing to view with astonishment her duplicity, all unpremeditated as it had been, no more regretted it. "Fortunate?" she breathed. "I don't know ... perhaps...." Now too thoroughly enmeshed in tissue of involuntary falsehoods to extricate herself without confession, she collected her wits to deal with Fanny's breathlessly vollied questions; and found curious gratification in matching the texture of fact with strand after strand of fabrication, till at length the stuff of lies was woven in with and not to be distinguished from that of the truth. Mixed with which feeling was a sort of dull and angry wonder at herself, that she should be doing something so foreign to her every instinct, lying with such shameless artistry to the one true friend she had saved from the shipwreck of her old life--and this at the behest of the man who alone had been responsible for that disaster. She had no more than reached home (she told Fanny) after refusing to stop at the bungalow for dinner alone with Summerlad, when Bel telephoned to tell her what had happened. Suspicious of Nelly's temper for days, Bel, upon her failure to keep a dinner engagement with him, had traced her to Beverly Hills, arriving just too late, if in time to be shot in the arm by Nelly when he tried to prevent her escape. Determined to see Summerlad--not as yet comprehending the whole truth concerning his relationship to Nelly--Lucinda had instructed her chauffeur to leave her car at the side door of the Hollywood; meaning to drive secretly to Beverly Hills. But this she couldn't do till Bel kept his promise to call and give her all details. It was while they were talking that the car had disappeared. Bel had promptly reported the theft to the police, and that morning had called to tell Lucinda how sharp work had trailed it north along the Coastal Highway to the scene of Nelly's death.... Accident or suicide, who could say?... At the same time Bel had begged her to make sure of Fanny's silence in respect of the aborted dinner party. It was unnecessary that Lucinda's name should be dragged into the case in any way, if it were she could hardly hope to come through with her incognita intact. She felt that she owed Bel that much consideration; it wasn't his fault she was still his wife. Not that she herself had any wish to court publicity in connection with the affair.... "But of course, darling! you know you can depend on me." "I know; but I had to be sure. You see, you told Mr. Nolan last night I was due at the bungalow for dinner." "But Cindy!" Fanny's wide eyes were a child's for candour--"that was before I knew there was any reason ... Mr. Nolan called up about nine, said he wanted to talk to Harry; and when I told him Harry was away on business (that was a lie--tell you presently) he guessed that Harry had come here to see you, and said he'd try to get in touch with him here. So I told him I believed you were dining out with Lynn; we'd all been invited, but Harry found he couldn't make it, at the last moment, so we begged off. That's how it happened." "I fancied it was something like that," Lucinda commented, unsuspiciously enough but in a thoughtful tone open to misconstruction by an inquiet conscience. "But surely you don't doubt my word, Cindy!" "Why should I, dear?" Lucinda asked, smiling; and pausing in her restless, aimless circling of the room she dropped an affectionate hand on Fanny's shoulder. "What a silly notion!" Fanny cuddled the hand to her cheek. "Forgive me, dear: I don't know why I said that. I suppose it's because I'm as much upset about my own affairs as you are about yours, Cindy--most of all about this shocking business, of course, and so sorry for you, dear----" "Don't be sorry for me." Lucinda's fingers tightened on Fanny's. "Be glad I've learned a good lesson and had a fortunate escape. I ought to be glad the hurt's no worse...." "Poor darling! you were fearfully fond of Lynn, weren't you?" "Was I? I've been wondering. In love with Lynn, or just in love with Love: which? I'm afraid the shock of it all is too new for me to be sure as yet, but.... Oh, I'm sorry for Lynn, of course! but only as one would be for any acquaintance who was in pain and at death's door. But in the light of what I know now, of how Lynn lied to me, and how shamefully he treated that poor creature he married, it seems impossible I could ever have been in love, actually in love with such a man.... In love with being loved, yes, I'm afraid I shall never get better of that weakness; and so absurdly conscious that Lynn Summerlad, the great lover, had chosen me, I never stopped to consider him in comparison with other men. But I don't think I was in love with Lynn.... Or am I sincere? is what I'm saying just sophistry to salve my poor, sore vanity?" She laughed consciously, then in swift variation of mood added a pensive, wistful note: "Fanny: Bel loves me...." The countenance turned up to hers was quick with mirth: Fanny started to speak, gurgled rapturously, and broke down in laughter so infectious that Lucinda could not but respond, if ruefully. "You great goose! if that's news to you, it's news to no one else." "It is to me." Lucinda sobered. "Daresay I might have guessed if I'd been a wiser woman, but I wasn't, not till just now, when Bel was going away, after a wretched little squabble. Then something, I'm sure I don't know what...." "I could have told you long ago, sweetest; in fact, I was only awaiting the right moment. I've been sounding Bel out, you may have noticed. There isn't anything one can teach him about flirting, Cindy, all the same there's only one woman in the world Bel can see." "I'm sure of that," Lucinda agreed ... "just now." "Cindy!" Fanny insisted, tugging at her hand--"tell me something--" "Very well, dear. No: I shan't give Bel another chance. I'm not in love with him at all, and I dare not run the risk of falling in love with him again, I daren't risk going mad with happiness, as I should if what once was could be again ... and then having to live through all the misery of breaking with him another time." "But surely--if he promised faithfully----" "The promises men make to win us, Fanny, are not the sort that they know how to keep. It's always what they can't have they want most. Give them all they ask today, and tonight they'll lie awake longing for the things they've forsworn. The only woman who could hold Bel to his good behaviour would be one who could keep him guessing. I'm not that woman, I can't pretend, with me it's all or nothing--always!" "Poor lamb!" Fanny drew her down to sit on the arm of the chair and nestled her frivolous, fair head upon Lucinda's bosom. "You have such desperate troubles, I'm ashamed to tell you my own...." "Your own, Fanny?" "We're both in the same boat, Cindy," Fanny lamented--"two lorn women this very day as ever was! Harry has left me ... flat!" "Fanny!" Lucinda caught the girl's face between tender hands and looked incredulously into its swimming eyes. "You're not joking?" "Divvle the joke's in me the day," Fanny declared between gulps, dabbling her tears with a handkerchief. "I didn't want to tell you, when you had so much else to worry you, but I'm afraid you've got to know. Because, you see, you're mixed up in it, too." "I! what do you mean?" "Well, Harry and I haven't been happy together for ever so long. Love with us you know, was rather a flash in the pan. Last night we had a scene, I mean another scene--forget the serial number. When I went home I found him trying to drink himself to death. He was half out of his head, and wouldn't tell me why. But I had a suspicion and wormed it out of him finally: he's been speculating with the company's money, your money, Cindy; and, now, with Zinn taking over the production, his shortage is sure to be found out. I couldn't make him say how much it was, but there's no question, it will run into a good sum. Well: I promised to intercede with you, and managed to quiet him down and get him to bed. Next thing I knew he was in the bathroom, trying to cut his throat. Then I hid his razors and let him go back to his whiskey, hoping he'd drink himself asleep. And presently he did. At least, he seemed to. So I went to bed--about three this morning, that was--worn out. When you called up, Cindy, I fibbed to you: I'd been awake about half an hour, howling like a lost child because I knew that Harry had deserted me at last." "But how did you know--? Did he leave a note?" "No, dear--that's how I knew. He didn't leave me a note or much of anything else except my clothes; everything that was portable and easy to turn into money he'd taken, all my jewels, everything. So you see, dear"--the face of an unworldly child quivered with a pitifully sad smile--"I'm not only an embezzler's wife, I'm a pauper--and a friendless pauper unless you keep on being my friend!" The woebegone voice died away in sobs, and with a broken cry of compassion Lucinda gathered that unhappy little body into her arms. XLIV The finding of Nelly's body crushed beneath the wreckage of a motor-car on the beach some fifty miles north of Los Angeles, gave the story of the Summerlad shooting an extended lease of twenty-four hours only on front-page space in the newspapers. In none of these was the ownership of the car called in question; in which circumstance Lucinda thought to detect the influential hand of "Mr. Bellamy Druce of New York," finding further support for this surmise in the fact that even Bel's name came in for astonishingly occasional mention, considering his active part in the aftermath of the affair, and especially considering the civic zeal ordinarily displayed by the local press in playing up the presence in "the Queen City of the Sunny Southland" of personages of social or financial consequence in the East. Then, since the death of the unhappy woman had defeated all hope of lurid court proceeding, and rendered piquant exploitation of "wild life inside the movie colony" an open invitation to actions for criminal libel as soon as Summerlad got well enough to reckon damages to his reputation, the cause célèbre went into quick eclipse. The newspapers of the third morning carried brief notices inconspicuously placed to the effect that Summerlad was reported out of danger, though his complete recovery promised to be a matter of many weeks, and that the body of his wife was being shipped East to her parents. And the affair was never mentioned more. Lucinda spent the best part of that day (and a good part of the next two as well) in the projection-room with Zinn and Wallace Day, her new director, sitting in judgment on thirty-six reels of film, the accumulated sum of Nolan's fumbling with about two-thirds of a picture. Not that such extravagance was anything extraordinary under prevailing methods of production. It remains to this day quite in order for a director to photograph between fifty and sixty-thousand feet of scenes on celluloid, only forty-five hundred feet of which will ever be revealed to the public. The ordinary photoplay, Lucinda learned, runs to not more than six reels, or six-thousand feet of film, approximately one-fourth of which is devoted to reading matter, leaving forty-five hundred feet or less to carry on the story in terms of pictorial action. The more than seven miles of photography which constituted Nolan's legacy to his successor would consequently require boiling down to about one-twelfth its length to make room for the third of the picture which he had left undirected. This monumental feat of waste had been achieved by means of photographing every scene, even the simplest, in inordinate length, over and over again, and from every conceivable angle, much of the time with three cameras in simultaneous operation, and by making provision to break up each scene with close-ups of the principal players heaving their chests and mugging intimately at audiences as yet undreaming of their treat in store. Thus it came to pass that Lucinda, who had at first welcomed the prospect of the seclusion which the projection-room was to afford her, the freedom which those blank black walls would insure from consciousness of fleering eyes and tongues over-ready to whisper evil concerning her relations with the wounded man--Lucinda, long before a fourth part of the rough footage had been unreeled for her inspection, began to find inexpressibly tiresome the sight of her shadow-self mincing and simpering through endless repetitions of business with which she was already conversant to satiety, and with all her heart wished herself back again in the uncompromising glare of the Kliegs, where at least, though onlookers might mock and mouth lies, she would have work to do that would help her to forget. As it was, though her eyes were constant to the screen, her attention was forever flagging, her thoughts harking back along old trails where heartaches haunted.... The lively disputes between Zinn and Day which from time to time interrupted the procession of the scenes, as those two debated ways and means to cut and eliminate and avoid retaking, contributed little to the relief of her afflicted spirit. Hourly its burden of boredom grew more nearly insufferable, toleration of it more seemingly insane. The business as a whole seemed so stupid, so puerile, so hopelessly inconsequential. Pictures! her very soul sickened at the sound of the word. As if motion-pictures mattered, or whether they were good or bad, inanely done or cleverly. People went to see them anyway, paid money to sit goggling at them, and incomprehensibly dispersed without tearing down the theatres which had taken such cheap advantage of their confidence! All this bickering about "saving" a production whose asininity one esteemed beyond repair as long as one lacked the moral courage to touch a match to its interminable footage of footless photography! If it hadn't been for that last quarrel with Bellamy, if it were not for seeming to give in to his wishes and thus giving him more encouragement to tamper with her concerns, Lucinda before the end of that first day in the projection-room would have cried off her agreement with Zinn, abandoned the production then and there, pocketed her loss without murmur, and let the looks of it go hang. But still the secret springs of vanity were subtly at work. For her own sake, she insisted, for the sake of her pride, false pride though it might prove in the end, she couldn't draw back at this juncture, she had to go on and, if it were in her so to do, make good her claims to consideration as one who had shown at least a certain promise of value to the screen. So though she shuddered to contemplate the weeks to come, she steeled heart and soul to see her picture through to the very end. Young Mr. Day on improved acquaintance appeared to be an amiable and modest person with a fair grasp of the rudiments of his calling; and presently surprised Lucinda by proving himself the "clever kid" that Zinn had asserted he was; immolating himself with the three-dozen reels in the cutting-room for forty-eight hours, at the end of which period he emerged with an eight-reel edition of Nolan's unfinished opus which, when still further abbreviated and publicly shown, ultimately drove its author half-mad with chagrin. Upon Zinn, however, the effect of this accomplishment was to dispel altogether the gloom in which he had been plunged ever since the attempted assassination of his most profitable star had halted for an indefinite term a costly production within a few days of its completion. Even Lucinda plucked up heart, began to cherish regenerated hopes.... To the weariness of those days wasted in waiting for camera-work to begin again, the visit of Harford Willis came as a welcome interlude, notwithstanding the effort required to show him an undiscouraged countenance and, at the same time, the tale of losses sustained through the mismanagement and knavery of Lontaine. On the other hand, the gentleman of early vintage knew nothing of the Summerlad chapters; and it did Lucinda good to hear him growl and scold about anything as relatively inconsiderable as the lunacy of throwing money away--"like water!"--and then refusing to set the machinery of the law in motion to apprehend and punish Lontaine. But nothing he found to say shook her determination not to make an example of the defaulter at the expense of his wife. "The poor child's been made miserable enough by her marriage," Lucinda declared. "And now Lontaine's deserted her she's got nobody left but her people, who were opposed to Harry from the first and were, I haven't the faintest doubt, to a considerable extent responsible for making her life with him the wretched muddle it turned out. If they'd treated Harry half-way decently, when treating him harshly couldn't change the fact that he was Fanny's husband, if they'd interested themselves to give him a chance to make a comfortable living for himself and her, it's more than likely he would never have dreamed of doing anything wrong. Now his troubles have driven him to it, I'm not going to add to Fanny's by bringing him back to the notice of her family branded a thief. Let things alone and they may make up their differences with her...." "Such magnanimity is costing you a pretty penny," Willis suggested mildly. "It isn't anything of the sort," Lucinda pointed out with some heat. "Putting Harry Lontaine in a penitentiary won't put back in my pocketbook one cent of the money he made away with. In fact, to do nothing about him is the only inexpensive way to deal with his affairs.... "Besides," she added with a shy, sly twinkle, "whatever this experience has cost me in money, it's taught me something I would never have learned in any other way, something I badly needed to be taught, too." "And that is----?" Willis prompted. "Shan't tell you. I'm not sure I'm quite ready to admit all it's taught me, even to myself." With this she left Willis to his vain surmises, confident that he would aim the shrewdest of them wide of the mark. Otherwise, she found irritating the open gratification with which Willis took note of Bellamy's neighbourhood and drew an easy inference. But he had the wisdom to refrain from mentioning the possibility he foresaw of such propinquity; and Lucinda was generous enough to imitate this reticence and spare Willis the pain of hopes disabused. He went his way at length not, everything considered, dissatisfied with the way events, as he read them, were shaping social salvation for the young woman in whom he took an interest so genially paternal. And Lucinda took leave of him with dewy eyes ... her one true friend.... Now she had nobody left but Fanny; and she was coming daily to repose less faith in Fanny's loyalty. She was feeling very sorry for herself, and very lonely, and when most in need of friendly companionship--that is to say, when she wasn't busy at the studio--Fanny was seldom at her call. Fanny had given up the bungalow and moved to a residential hotel on the outskirts of the Wiltshire district, whose accommodations she claimed were cheaper than the Hollywood's; pointing out that she hadn't anything now but the wage she earned by playing in Lucinda's picture, which wouldn't last much longer, and that she had to acquaint herself with the uses of economy. Furthermore she knew several picture players who made the Wiltshire hotel their home, and they were nice to her, always asking her out to dinner and the movies, or somewhere. It helped her hold her head up, she said, helped her to carry on. She employed the slang phrase in its late British sense. Lucinda wondered if the significance of its older American usage were not perhaps more applicable to this instance. The duration of Fanny's love-life with Lontaine had been too brief to keep her faithful to his memory. Deep in Lucinda's subconsciousness an incidental recollection turned in its sleep. Somewhere, sometime, she had heard that Barry Nolan had a bungalow down Wiltshire way. Or hadn't she? At all events, he had: the address listed opposite his name in the telephone directory proved that. After a time she ceased to suggest the little dinners and drives and minor distractions which would have interfered with Fanny's social commitments. And her loneliness grew more and more wearisome. Times were to come when she would almost have welcomed even the sight of Bel. But then he was away. A week from the night of their rencontre in Summerlad's bungalow, Bellamy called--first telephoning to ask if he might--to tell Lucinda he was leaving for New York the next morning. Zinn would take charge of his producing interests during his absence. He couldn't say just how long that might be. He had several matters on his mind that he wanted to arrange before returning. If he could be of any service to Lucinda in the East, he would be glad.... She thanked him quietly, said there was nothing she could think of. Bel was glad to state his belief that the Summerlad business had blown over without her name being even privately whispered as in any way involved. He fancied she would hear nothing more of it. If she did, if anything unpleasant happened or threatened, she knew where a telegram would reach him, and upon receipt of it he would drop everything and hurry back. Lucinda thanked him again, gravely, professing an entire lack of apprehensiveness. If anything did happen, however, she promised not to trouble him; she'd manage somehow to fight her own battles after this; it was high time she learned to do it, who had a lifetime of independent action to look forward to and was unconscious of holding any lien on Bellamy's time or consideration. "It isn't that," he stammered--"I mean to say, I wish you wouldn't look at it that way. You punished me more cruelly than you knew; but I deserved it all, and I've no complaint to make and hold no grudge. In fact--the truth is--I've got a lot to be grateful to you for, Linda; you cured me of my two greatest vices, and whatever the future may hold for me one thing is sure: I won't go to smash on account of either wine or women. And so, though I quite understand what your feeling toward me is, and how useless it would be to ask you to forget, I'll always be glad if anything I can do will serve in part payment of my debt. It would make me very happy now if I could go away believing that in any time of trouble you would turn to me as to, at least, a friend." "I understand, Bel, and I'm most appreciative, but"--Lucinda smiled with a shadow of sadness--"it wouldn't do, what you suggest. I hear what you say, I know what you have in mind, and--it would never do. After what has been, there could be no friendship in true sense between you and me; we're neither of us people whom half-measures would content. And since we are as we are, since with us it must be all or nothing...." She made an end by rising in a manner he couldn't misinterpret. "It must be nothing?" he implored, holding her hand. Behind the mask of her composure Lucinda was absurdly agitated and, on that account, a little angry. She refused to admit she had any excuse for feeling upset; she had the upper hand with Bel and meant to hold it, she had nothing imaginable to fear; yet she was horribly afraid he might see.... "Good-bye, Bel," she said, with not unkind decision but decision unmistakable for all that. "And good luck. But ... please never come back...." That night she sobbed herself awake from dreams of dear days dead, and lay for hours hating the cheerless comfort of hotel rooms, missing poignantly the intimacy of her home and the sense of security she had known nowhere else. Would she ever find such another haven for her drifting soul? It wasn't that she was in any way hindered from settling down wherever she liked and surrounding herself with possessions. But could any place where love was not be fairly termed a home? In the morning she rose with a heart as heavy as any she had ever known to address herself to the daily grind--to term which deadly were but to cheapen the detrition of morale resulting from its wear upon the soul. Yet she had to be fair, she couldn't pretend she had any right to whimper; she was having her own way, getting precisely what she had all along been asking for; and viewed at a purely material angle, her affairs were as prosperous as heart could wish. The new director was living up to and even beyond all Zinn's claims, his revision of the continuity for the sequences remaining to be taken had been as adept as his editing of those thirty-six reels of pictorial farrago, and he was handling the crowded scenes on the supper-club set and the more intimate dramatic passages staged in the living-room with equal competence and the ease of one conscious of but not self-conscious about thorough mastery of his craft. In this new association the low spirits lifted which latterly had oppressed the mercurial cameraman; Iturbide chirked up amazingly and made it plain that he looked upon Mr. Day as a man, a brother, and an artistic peer. Between Wallace Day and Lucinda there was no friction, and under his sympathetic guidance she felt she was doing better work than she had ever hoped to do. Only Zinn, though he observed with every indication of pleased approval the rapid strides the production was making, was known to wag a head weighted with foreboding and utter dismal croaks. "He's a wonder," he said one day to Lucinda, while they stood aside watching Day rehearse a scene in which she happened to have no part--"a holy wonder and no kidding. Every so often in the fillum business a miracle man happens like that. But they never last. It can't be done. Stands to reason. What chanst they got? If women don't get 'em the big-head does, and if they happen to get by with both them drags they run into studio jealousy waiting round the corner with a blackjack. What's that the feller says about self-preservation being the first law of nature? Well, if you don't believe he spoke a mouthful, you want to watch what he said work out in the picture business. Any time they see a bird coming along that's got something on the rest of the gang, they just naturally knock him on the head and save their jobs." But neither the promising status of the picture nor her growing confidence that, when it was put on public exhibition, her work would justify her pretensions, could revivify the old élan. The novelty had worn too thin, its excitation had lost all potency. Day after day Lucinda went to her work without enthusiasm, and if she left the studio of an evening with reluctance it was solely because of the desolation long drawn-out that she must somehow live through ere she could look for sleep to bestow a little, brief oblivion. And even the hours spent in make-up knew too many pauses, too long delays spaced her appearances before the camera, when Lucinda must needs stand idly by while Day drilled others in their business, or else sit solitary in her dressing-room, waiting to be called, with mind unemployed but for painful introspection and the ceaseless cark of longing for old delights forever forfeit; till discontent frayed out endurance and she learned to loathe every facet of this life whose whole had once seemed so enthralling: smell of grease-paint warmed by human flesh, smell of distemper drying on newly builded sets, the hot smell of dust that scurrying feet kicked up on the lot, the pungent smell of sensitized celluloid; moaning orchestras without whose strains no true artistic temperament could reasonably be expected to function at the peak of its capacity, sizzling of arcs, the magnified howls that issued from directorial megaphones, of argument and exposition, instruction and command, encouragement, expostulation, denunciation, rage; clock-work ticking of camera mechanisms, distant drumfire of automobile exhausts in the parking yard, the hammering and banging without which property men and carpenters never are known to materialize, the unending drone of babble, like the thick rumour of an off-stage mob, as actors strolled and schooled and talked about themselves; the restless phantasmagoria of painted faces, dusted with yellow powder, beaded with sweat, inhuman enough in God's sunlight and in the blue-green glare of the Cooper-Hewitts sicklied over with a livid cast of dissolution, as they were dead walking; suffocating heat of still air boxed in beneath the glass-roofed stages when the sun was strong, drifts of chill across the lot when evening shades closed in.... And as in the studio, so was it when her occupation took Lucinda abroad. Many of the scenes which had been adjudged to need retaking were those staged in natural settings--"location stuff." These Wallace Day put off till he had finished with the supper-club and living-room. Thereafter Lucinda had for some ten days to face the camera in the open air. Nor was she often able to arrive at the designated spots except by rising early and taking long motor rides alone, which she came to hold in an aversion scarcely second to that which she entertained for her nightly welcome by that emptiness which in her rooms made its abode. In her seeing the groomed beauties of the lowlands had lost all grace, she saw them trivial ... blurs of viridescent tarnish mottling a blasted waste ... cracked enamel on the face of a senile courtesan failing to cover its wrinkles and blotches.... From which her eyes, revolted, turned ever with a sense of terror to the inland ramparts of bare, seamed hills that, with haggard heads stencilled in raw ochre against the blue, looked down upon the pleasure-lands like a herd of couchant monsters bound by some old enchantment for a time to make no move, but biding their day, a day whose secret was hearsed in their rocky hearts, when the spell upon them would be lifted and, rising up, they would march shoulder to shoulder down to the sea, annihilating all things in their way, all puny things that lived and toiled and loved under that remote and hollow canopy of sky, in that fixed and brazen grin of sun.... They brimmed her moods with a disquietude formless and irrational, those everlasting hills, yet she could never keep from dwelling on them, whose heart was ever yearning over them and beyond, into the unknown and unguessable tomorrows they walled away, that occult destiny toward which she must turn her face as soon as her work here was done. She counted hourly the tale of the days between.... The hole left in her life by the casting out of Bel ached now incessantly and ever more intolerably, since she might no longer drug her mind with that infatuation whose strength had departed. And she knew times whose pain was such that almost she repented having lost capacity for surrender to the anodynous action of that strange phase of love which had so nearly delivered her to Lynn. Today she called it strange.... Twice she heard from Summerlad: on the day following Bellamy's departure, a pencilled scrawl, informing her that he was now permitted to receive callers and protesting his impatience for the visit which he knew her charity would not permit her to deny him; and four days later another letter and a longer, bringing proof of steady improvement in less infirm penmanship and phrases turned more carefully, repeating all the first had said and calling attention to the venerable saw about the ill wind; on the writer's side at least every impediment to their marriage had been abolished.... In the upshot Lucinda acknowledged receipt of neither, but for two mornings her waste-basket, with its deep drifts of note-paper minutely scrapped, bore witness to her endeavors to frame a reply at once final and not too cruel. Better (she decided) send no word at all than a letter which could only hurt his pride ... _if_ Lynn still believed he loved her ... if he had ever!... The talk of the studio kept her advised concerning the good progress of his convalescence. She knew no doubt at all but that he would as speedily get well of his disappointment in her. For her part, the thing was dead and done and finished and as something that had never been; the only wonder was, it ever had.... One evening, as she was leaving the studio, she met Wallace Day on the steps of the administration building, and learned from him that, making fair allowance for every imaginable delay, he counted on making an end to camera-work in two days more. Accordingly, instead of going directly home to the Hollywood, Lucinda motored to Los Angeles and booked reservations for Reno by the night train of the second day following, a slow train but the first that she could feel sure of catching. She had meant to keep her purpose secret, holding it of no consequence to anybody but herself what she might elect to do, once her work was finished, and bearing in mind the possibility that, if news of her intention should by any chance leak out at the studio, it would find its way to the ears of Summerlad. She understood that he was now far enough forward on the road to recovery to spend part of each day in an invalid chair, and thought it wise to run no risk of finding out that his improvement had been understated. Conscience nevertheless reproached her when she thought of Fanny, and on the way back to the Hollywood she instructed her chauffeur to make a détour and stop at Fanny's hotel. If Fanny had no prior engagement, they might have one last evening together. But she would hold back her news till the moment came to say good-bye.... Drawing near the hotel, she recognized the conspicuously ornamental car of Barry Nolan waiting at the carriage-block, and as she bent forward to tell her chauffeur not to stop, she had changed her mind, she saw Fanny come out of the entrance, Nolan ambling, with an air of contented habit, at her elbow. At the same time Fanny caught sight of Lucinda, pulled up short in confusion, then smiled brightly and waved a hand, while Nolan rather blankly fingered the visor of his cap. And Lucinda nodded, smiled in turn, and passed, wondering if the deep colour she had remarked in Fanny's cheek had been merely the sunset's mordant comment on an artful glow of pink. Well: that was that.... Yet it was long before the picture faded of that girlish figure, posed prettily in startlement, brief skirts whipped about it by the evening wind, with its gay look of mirth, half shame-faced, half-impudent, wholly charming ... sweet grist for the mills whose grinding knows no rest. The pity of it!... Or was it? Had one the right to say? The mills of Mammon grind ever but free will alone keeps the hoppers filled. The choice had been with Fanny, she had chosen in conformance with the dictates of predisposition. And who could say she hadn't chosen wisely, who had every gift that makes for swift and prosperous progress along the road she had preferred to go?--beauty and wit, ready adaptability, and that highly developed sense of self which often enables the worst of women to travel far and thriftily. Idle to waste time deploring that she had seen fit to throw herself away on Nolan: she hadn't, Nolan, though he might never know it, was but a stepping-stone, a single link in a chain that led to a far shore whose sands were dust of gold.... XLV When she had bribed her maid to observe discretion concerning her plans, and had herself attended to the business of checking her trunks through to Reno, thus keeping her destination secret even from the woman, Lucinda felt fairly confident of getting away unhindered and unpursued. In the middle of the afternoon, finding she was to be detained at the studio till the last moment, Lucinda telephoned the maid to take her hand-luggage to the station and have it put in her drawing-room. She caught the train with little to spare, and not until it was in motion did she discover the box of roses in the luggage-rack overhead. Her favorites, Hadleys, two dozen suavely moulded blooms of deepest crimson, exquisitely fresh and fragrant; roses such as Bel had been accustomed to send her daily, once upon a time ... how long ago!... Eyes cloudy with the dreams of yesterday their breath inspired, Lucinda sat a long time with the open box upon her lap. An age since any one had sent her flowers.... The box bore the name of a city florist, but was untagged and contained no card to identify the donor. From Summerlad, by any chance? Lucinda didn't think so. If Lynn had thought it worth his while to try to win her back with roses, he wouldn't have waited so long, and he would never have neglected to enclose a card or a note. No: that chapter was closed, and Lynn must surely know how wasted would be his every effort to reopen it. In the end Lucinda concluded that the maid had bought the flowers for her, as a gift of gratitude. Wildly fanciful as this hypothesis might appear, there had in this instance been unusual provocation, Lucinda in all her dealings with the woman had been more than generous. And, after all, flowers were plentiful in Los Angeles and among the few things reasonably priced. Arranged in the metal catch-alls in the corners of the drawing-room, stems bedded in wet tissue-paper, they made a brave show through the evening, and proved rare company, too, trembling with eagerness to salute Lucinda with lovely, friendly nods, and drenching the dead atmosphere with a witching sweetness that called up memories like gentle ghosts. Their rich yet subtle perfume saturated her mood and coloured every thought as she lay wakeful in the dark, watching the ghastly panorama of the Cajon Pass, basking in unearthly moonlight, unfold like a march upon the hitherside of Hell, and, later on, the vast, still ranges of the desert, where tortured cacti entreated Heaven with frozen gestures of torment and terror, while from afar the goblin hills looked on in dark, sphinxlike disdain. Here, linking widely spaced oases, where the pepper-tree and eucalyptus shadowed roofs of ribbed iron, and the pineapple palm posed its graceful fronds against the ungainly bulks of water-tanks on stilts, dim trails ran with the tracks, and ever and again panting and bouncing flivvers would spring up out of the night to race the train for a mile or so, or, less frequently, cars more powerful would overtake and distance it as it laboured up-grade; shapes of solid shadow hurtling through the night as if breaking their hearts in hopeless efforts to overtake the fugitive fans of light thrown out by their lamps ... as men pursue hope through life ... as women pursue love.... And Lucinda, watching, wondered at life's strangeness and its sadness, and marvelled at the mettle men are made of to sustain them through the race, though they know the end is ever failure, heart-break, death. The scent of roses numbed mind and senses: pain and opiate in one.... And it was as if she had slept not at all, save that she felt rested; as if she had closed her eyes on darkness and unclosed them an instant later to find the very scene she had been gazing on bathed in hot splendor of sunlight, warm with colour. Still the desert stretched its flats of sand and alkali, sage and cactus, to a far, notched rim of hills, still the train drudged stoutly on an up-grade, buffeting the hushed air with stentorian gasps; still upon the trail beside the tracks raced the motor-car Lucinda had been watching when sleep claimed her.... Another car, of course. Nevertheless the coincidence was surprising. She lay for a little lazily watching it; a powerful, spirited piece of machinery, well-driven, breasting gallantly that long ascent about which the train was making such great ado; drawing abeam, forging ahead, flirting derisively a tail of dust as it vanished from the field commanded by the window.... Bound whither? upon what urgency of life or death? that it must make such frantic haste in the heat of the desert sun!... Heat was already beginning to make the tiny drawing-room resemble a cubicle in Tophet. Lucinda rose, ransacked her luggage for her flimsiest garments, gave her flesh the sketchy sponging which was all that facilities permitted, dressed, and rang for the porter and a waiter from the dining-car. While her room was being tidied up she ordered breakfast. Before it could be served the porter turned the drawing-room over to her again. She waited by the window, looking out upon without seeing the few rude buildings that composed a tank town at which the train had made a halt for water. After that brief respite from the scent of roses she was finding reintroduction to its influence overpowering. It took her by the throat and subjugated her, reducing her to a most miserable estate of nostalgic longing.... The waiter was knocking. She started up, hastily dried her eyes, pronounced a tremulous "Come in!" Bel entered, shut the door, dropped upon the red plush seat a duster and cap caked with desert alkali, and stood apprehensive of his welcome, his heart in his eyes. She fell back to the partition, breathing his name, her whole body vibrating like a smitten lute-string. In a choking voice he cried: "Linda! for God's sake listen to me. I've been up all night, driving against time to overtake you and beg you to listen to this last appeal. I want you to promise me not to go to Reno. Not yet, at least. Give me a little more time, a little chance to prove to you that you're the only woman in the world for me, that I'm living the life you'd want your husband to live, and have been ever since you left me. Because I want you back, because I'm lost without you, because I want to make you happy ... as you were happy when you first loved me, long ago...." She lifted shaking hands to him, cried his name again, swayed blindly into his arms. "Take me back, Bel," she whispered. "Make me happy ... Be kind to me, Bel, be fair...." THE END BY THE SAME AUTHOR JOAN THURSDAY ALIAS THE LONE WOLF RED MASQUERADE THE DARK MIRROR THE FALSE FACES SHEEP'S CLOTHING THE LONE WOLF THE DAY OF DAYS NOBODY THE DESTROYING ANGEL THE BANDBOX CYNTHIA-OF-THE-MINUTE THE FORTUNE HUNTER NO MAN'S LAND THE POOL OF FLAME THE BRONZE BELL THE BLACK BAG THE BRASS BOWL TERENCE O'ROURKE