Movie Weekly, April 1, 1922

Herb Rgwlinson Brands
Stage as Co-respondent
in divorce Suit c*^-

cMore things ITou *
don't know about

the Stars ^^

1

Marie Treves tr

7 :

UUfredreheney-'
Johnston-

'.*>

THE EDITORS VIEWPOINT

This Will Cheer You

RECENTLY we read of an interesting situation which
seemed, in a way, to show motion pictures in the
light of Christian Science. The N. Y. Times pub-
lished a story crediting a movie comedy with effecting the
recovery of Katherine Hartwell, seven years old, of Pleas-
antville, an inmate of the Children's Seashore House in
Chelsea.

"The child," according to
this story, "had become weak
and emaciated ; she had scarcely
slept for a month and was re-
duced to a state of helplessness
where she could only with diffi-
culty make any voluntary mo-
tion. Today she is reported on
the rapid road to completely re-
gaining her health.

"Henry Winik, of London,
England, a wealthy picture
magnate, who believes a happy
frame of mind does much to
help along patients and plans
the inauguration of a hospital
service, staged a picture show
at the institution in Pleasant-
ville, where this unfortunate
girl lived.

" 'Too bad this little one
can't go, too,' commented the
child's nurse, as the other chil-
dren filed out to see the movie.

". . . Just then Katherine's
eyes opened and a most wistful
smile lighted up her counte-
nance. Mr. Winik's heart was
touched.

"'Well, if this poor little
creature has only a few hours
to live, what harm can be done
if we try to brighten one of
them ?'

"She was made as comfort-
able as possible in the auditor-
ium. There was a comic pic-
ture on the screen as the child
opened her eyes at the sugges-
tion of the nurse. At first
Katherine watched the film list-
lessly. Then she began to take
an interest. That night she
slept, the first full night's slum-
ber in a month. On the follow-
ing day she could move. Now
they look for her recovery."
Three cheers for motion pictures ! j; _ : i

AN APPROPRIATE ERROR (?)

We have before us a copy of the Courier Journal, Louis-
ville, Kentucky, opened to an editorial that is made con-
spicuous because of a glaring typographical error which may,
after all, be strangely appropriate.

phikted nr u. s. A.

MOVIE WEEKLY

1 April 1, 1922 1

Vol. II No. 8

CONTENTS

INSIDE STORIES OF THE MOVIES

PACE

Marie Prevost Cover Design

Herbert Rawlinson Brands Stage as Co-respondent - 3
More Things You Don't Know About the Stars - 4
William D. Taylor's Life Story (Part III) - - 5
The Life Story of Dorothy and Lillian Gish

(Concluded) 6 and 7

Norma Talmadge — Fortune Teller .... 9
Hard Times — Popular Stars Are Going Into Business 9
How to Get Into the Movies (VII) ... -11

Secrets of the Movies (X) 11

Rpmbling Through the Studios in the East • • 15
Bucking Into the Movies (Our Weekly Letter From

Sophie Potts) 18

"Movie Weekly's" Screen Dictionary 18

Under the Orange Pekoe Tree .... 19
The Colonel's Page — Queries and Answers 20

Film-Flam - 21

Hints to Scenario Writers (Frederick Palmer) • 22

STORIES IN PICTURES

Bernarr Macfadden's Beauty Pages - - - 12 and 13

April Fool-ing With the Stars 14

Bebe Daniels (Centre Spread) • • • -16 and 17

THRILLING ACTION STORIES

The Triumph of Love (Robert W. Chambers) - 10
The Philanthropic Bank Burglar (John W. Grey) - 23
A Fiery Romance of Love (Montanye Perry) - - 25

Published weekly by the PHYSICAL CULTURE CORPO-
RATION, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Bernarr
Macfadden, President; Harold A. Wise, Secretary. Entered
as second-class matter Jan. 20, 1921, at the postoffice at
New York, N. Y., under the Act of Mar. 3, 1879. Sub-
scription, $5.00 a year. In Canada — single copy, 15 cents.

The editorial refers to the Brock bill for a Kentucky State
censorship of moving pictures, but instead of reading: "The
Brock Bill," the headline shrieks: "The Brock Pill."

THE CRITICS ARE "CRIKETIXG"

Play the shrill and raucous music for the entrance of
Morley's ghost, for the critics are "criketing" and their chirps

demand propagation throughout
the country. We therefore take
pleasure in re-printing a para-
graph or so from an editorial
written by Mr. Irving J. Auer-
bach, editor of a review for a
theatre in Butte, Montana.

The writer prognosticates
that "the microscope of public
sentiment is going to eradicate
the weeds from the (motion
picture) field or, like the poorly-
kept ''arm, it will be ruined by
its own carelessness."

Then there follows a certain
amount of ranting against the
morals both on stage and screen,
following which comes the
paragraph :

"That a conscientious person
does not need to lose modesty
and self-respect to become fam-
ous is best attested by the emi-
nent success of Miss Alice
Calhoun, the Yitagraph star.
This is really Miss Calhoun's
editorial," frankly confesses
the writer, "for it was
prompted by her splendid per-
sonality, her beauty, her versa-
tility, and her clean pictures.

"Miss Calhoun is a finished
artist . . . She is constantly
\mder the careful everyday
home guidance of her plain,
sweet American mother and
her "Uncle Joe" Curl, and she
represents the type of artist
which will bring the moving
picture industry to a newer and
better standard."

The Editor quite agrees with
everything the above quoted
writer has to say about Alice
Calhoun. Alice is all that he
' I has said. But in behalf of
other artists in the film industry
whose lives are just as quiet and hard-working and home-
like we rise to the defensive.

It is a mistake, in our opinion, to draw conclusions about
any individual or a collective group of individuals connected
with the motion picture industry or any other industry. It is
not fair to ingloriously dump everyone into the ash heap to
the glorification of a single one.

^ I

*

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Three

HerbRawlinson Brands Stage

as co-respondent; in divorce / "^ r

Lure of footlights woos Roberta Arnold Rawlinson from her
film star husband and leads to suit for divorce

AGAIN, the stage has destroyed a romance.
Herbert Rawlinson, film star, has filed a
i suit for divorce against his actress wife,
Roberta Arnold, who has been playing the
lead in the extremely successful comedy, "The
First Year,"- for the last two seasons.

Rawlinson, in his complaint, charges virtually
that his wife deserted him for the lure of the
footlights. At the time he married her, on New
Year's Day, 1914, she was an actress, playing in
the Morosco Theatre, Los Angeles.

At that time, he did not foresee that she would
ever become a successful actress in her own name.
He continued his career, attaining stardom under
the Universal banner, while she lived with him,
in Los Angeles, until 1919.

Then the desire to become a star in her own
name resulted in the first conflict between the

Roberta Arnold, who plays in one of Broad-
way's latest successes, ft is this interest in
the stage and a career that led Herb to sue
for a divorce.

couple, it is said, a conflict which sur-
prised their friends, for the Rawlinsons
had always been considered ideal mates and
happily married. Miss Arnold obtained an
engagement in "Upstairs and Down," a Mor-
osco comedy. She went from the Coast to
New York, where she was cast for the lead
in Frank Craven's comedy of married life,
"The First Year."

"The First Year" was a hit. Its run,
critics declared, would continue for over two
seasons. Rawlinson. on the Coast, fretted,
it is said, at his wife's absence. He urged
her to return to him, runs the gossip, but
she could not be convinced that she ought to
neglect her own career.

Miss Arnold was successful as an actress
before she met Rawlinson. She had played
in the first "Peg o' My Heart" company, and
was highly praised for her ability as a com-
edienne.

Rawlinson came East somewhat over a
year ago and played in pictures in New
York, while his wife was, at the same time,
playing opposite Mr. Craven. Her part is
that of the daughter of a small town mer-
chant who marries a blundering and appar-
ently inefficient young man, and who fights
with him continually throughout the first
year of their marriage until, despite a quarrel
which separates them for a time, they are
finally reunited by the husband's success.

The parallel to the play in Miss Arnold's own
life has apparently ended with the abrupt efforts
of Rawlinson to get a divorce. As the run of
"The First Year" was extended, and as critics
applauded Miss Arnold's interpretation of the
role of the young wife, Rawlinson returned" to
the West, convinced that it would be impossible
for him to induce his wife to accompany him.
He joined Universal, made numerous pic-
tures in which he was starred, and with the
curtailment of activity in the Universal stu-
dios began to make personal, appearance^
throughout the West. He was in Denver,
appearing with his most recent film, "The
Scrapper,". when the news of the divorce action
became known.

Secrecy shrouded the suit. The papers filed
gave few details as to the incidents which led

Herbert Rawlinson, popular
star, who reverses the usual
divorce situation and is su-
ing his wife.

FKEULICH fHOTO

Judging from a scene in one of

Herb's new Universal pictures, he

really Jtnows something of 'Love's

frailty."

MHIM«M«weftffw

Roberta Arnold Rawlinson, a new photograph.

up to the action, and did not mention the
names of the parties involved. Finally, about
two weeks ago, an affidavit was filed, stating
that the plaintiff was Rawlinson and that
Mrs. Rawlinson is an actress living in New
York, under the name of Roberta Arnold.
She has preserved a policy of making no
comment, on the report of her husband's
action, and efforts to obtain any idea of her
personal point of view in the matter met
with failure because of 'her policy of main-
taining silence.

Herbert Rawlinson, the plaintiff in the suit,
is an Englishman, having been born In
Brighton, England, thirty-seven years ago.
He was educated in England and France and
played on both sides of the water in stock and
repertoire companies. He engaged upon a
screen career early in the history of the dra-
matic development of motion pictures.

Most of Rawlinson's work has been on the
Coast. He has been infrequently in New
York of late years, although he played in the
last production made by Commodore Black-
ton in Brooklyn, "Passers-by."

Miss Arnold, on the other hand, has been
more successful in New York than on the
Coast. Her work in "The First Year" placed
her in the leading ranks of the younger stars.

No evidence of any other element in the
disruption of the Rawlinson menage Tras thus
far come to light and it is safe to say that
the stage has once again stepped in to part
husband and wife as it has done in (the past.

Page Four

MOVIE WEEKLY

More things you dont know

— about the stars

Take Harold Lloyd. He's a regular wis at solving
pussies. This is a closcup of his "puszle face."

I WONDER if, after all, you ever think of
them as real human beings — your stars. Or,
despite all the publicity they get about every-
thing from their chewing gum to their chari-
ties, do they still remain just mere hand-painted
leading ladies and men to you?

But there are certain facts about the stars,
concerning things they are interested in besides
their work — little human interest touches that
I'm sure will make them all more real to you,
but which have been withheld.

Take Harold Lloyd, for instance, and his love
of puzzles and parlor magic. He's a regular wiz
at this sort of thing, and will never let go, when
he gets hold of a new puzzle or trick, until he
has studied it out.

He had a trick key-ring out at the studio the
other day when I called on him, which he had
just studied out. He was as gleeful over it as
a small boy with a new toy.

"See if you can open this ring!" he demanded.

I tried with all my might, but couldn't do it.

"Now put it behind you," he said, "and youM
find you can open it."

I did as I was told— put my hands behind my
back and pulled on the ring — behold it flew open !

I couldn't guess myself how it was done. But
Lloyd had figured it out It was because in put-
ting the ring behind your back, you turned it
upside down. If you had held it that way before
you, it would have opened just as easily.

Lloyd spends hours at night figuring out new
puzzles when he ought to be asleep, his fami'y
say.

WALLY REID STUDIED MEDICINE

Who knows that Wallace Reid once studied
medicine for a year at a medical college in the
Middle West, and that he would now prefer
talking about medical discoveries and laboratory
experiments to discussing his acting? Also, that
it is Wally Reid who often comes to the rescue
with the first-aid kit which he always carries
about with him, when a player or a workman is
injured while working on location?

Nevertheless all this is true. Wallace Reid has
an uncle who is a physician, and it was through
him that Wally, as a very young man, just out
of Princeton preparatory school, attended medical
college. Then his father, Hal Reid, insisted that
ne go into the acting profession, and so Wallace
ended up his medical career.

Reid has a large laboratory fitted up at his home
in Beverly Hills, and here he conducts all sorts
of chemical experiments. He hasn't made any
big discoveries yet. but expects to.

It was Wallace Reid who rendered first aid in
a railroad wreck which occurred just outside of
St Louis, when he was going to that city, about
three years ago. to make personal appearances.

"I was not injured, so I grabbed my kit and
went out among the victims of the disaster," sa'd
Wallace the other night in course of conversation.
"I worked for several hours among the injured,
until the relief train came. I remember
one funny thing among those hours of horror :
the colored porter kept following me around with
my bags, inquiring ir. a dazed sort of way, every
few minutes: *What shall I do with youah ba^s,
Mistah Reed?' We got a ride to St. Louis on a
garbage wagon, by the way I"

CHARLES RAY. STENOGRAPHER

_ Charles Ray started out in life with the inten-
tion of becoming a bookkeeper and stenographer.
He still keeps up his typewriting ond stenog-
raphy to a certain extent. There is a room in
his beautiful, big Beverely Hills residence
which is fitted up as an office. Here, until just
lately, he has answered all his own mail. But
since becoming his own producer and director, he
finds himself too busy to attend to these things
himself, so he has a secretary to do it.

But he says he finds his stenography very handy
in making notes on his picture work. When he
gets home at night, for instance, and begins to
plan his next day's work, he likes to sit down by
himself in his den, make shorthand notes of his
ideas, and then strike them off on his typewriter.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Pape Five

i Hhe Cblorful and Romantic
Story of lPm!I) Jay lors 3&

Editor's Note: This is the third instalment of
William D. Taylor's fascinating life story. The
previous one ended with young Taylor's arrival
in Kansas to take up ranch life. He left his
Londdn home at his father's suggestion and prom-
ised him not to go on the stage again.

PART III

RANCH life in Kansas — eighteen months of
it in an Englishmen's remittance colony —
. however alluring to native-born sons of the
* soil, singularly failed to appeal to the
more sophisticated sensibilities of William D.
Taylor.

He was not anxious to play again in theatricals,
yet there was that inherent histrionic instinct in
him that made life away from the footlights mis-
erable for him. Perhaps it was the lack of
adventure, of romance, that the prosaic farm-
life in Kansas afforded, but ...

Fanny Davenport, the famous American ac-
tress of more than a decade ago, was on tour
with her repertoire company. Perchance she
ventured into the mists of Harper, the small
town of which Taylor and his English associates
were residents. Her advent there was
like a light in the clearing, for first-class
theatrical attractions were almost un-
known in the Middle West a few years
ago.

And Taylor was enthralled. On
her first night appearance he
viewed her from a first-row seat
as she played "La Tosca." Even
though her stage scenery was
somewhat worn by time and
travel ; even though Taylor could
clearly see the makeup on the ac-
tors' faces; even though he knew
that, in reality, the play
was merely a play — he
felt himself gripped by yj

a strange, unconquer- /£ / -^H>- J i&-^

able longing — the same (a J t/j>ii

desire to express ' '

"Thanks," he answered. He was too dumb-
founded to say more.

The star, then wrote something on a card and
handed it to him. This would assure him of her
sincerity. And would he kindly come to rehearsal
the next morning? For it would be necessary for
him to play that night in "Gismonda."

When he arrived, more or less excited, at the
theatre, he found that Fanny Davenport herself
had attended to the matter of his stage costumes.
However, Taylor's predecessor was a man of
medium stature, portly and altogether in physical
contradistinction to him, for Taylor was tall,
robust and inclined to be thin.

And the "Gismonda" costumes, originally tail-
ored to the lines of their former wearer, reached
not quite to his knees! The farther the
rehearsal progressed, the more ridiculous
Taylor looked in his skin-tight wardrobe.
Something would have to be done — and yet
Taylor would have to take the entire time
f or the remainder of the day to study his
. role even though it was not a
vastly important one. _ _•■;.'
Their sojourn in America, in a
portion of the country where con-
veniences were considered as lux-
uries, had taught a number of the
English residents of Harper to
perform innumerable useful tasks
that formerly would have
seemed ambiguous. One of
Taylor's friends, in addition
(Continued on page 8)

s

Jack Pickford, one of the stars
directed by Taylor

A himself that he had felt a few montns
Jf'-p before when he stood in the wings

$r * and asked Sir Charles Hawtrey for

a chance to play on the stage.

After the performance a reception was held in
Miss Davenport's honor, and Taylor, being one
I of Harper's more prominent citizens, was, of
course, invited. He met the lovely star face-to-
face and talked with her. And, of course, ex-
pressed his appreciation of her performance.

"It was terrible!" she replied, looking a bit
troubled. "We've just lost one of our actors, and, •
as you know, it's hard to find another out here in
Kansas."

Taylor was electrified. Again the hand of
Fate ! Here was a chance for him, perhaps, to
get back into theatricals.

Yet, could he openly defy his father's wishes?
Could he rightfully re-enter a profession upon
which his entire family looked with such utter
condemnation ?

For the moment he kept turning the question
over and over in his mind. He was perplexed —
because he wanted to ask Miss Davenport to give
him a trial. Precisely what he did.

"I felt at the time," he told some Los Angeles
friends shortly before his death, "that Fate de-
creed I should re-enter the show business. I
knew my family would be displeased — but, after
all, was I not separated from them by an ocean
and several thousand miles? And hadn't they
wished for that separation ?"

It was this process of reasoning that prompted
him to apply to Miss Davenport in the hopes of
filling the missing actor's place.

"Can you play Mario in my 'Tosca ?' " she in-
quired sweetly, and added, '"I believe you can.
I believe you could do anything you really wanted
to do!"

Jl

MELBOURNE SPURR

Betty Compson, the last star

directed by the. murdered

director.

Page Six

MOVIE WEEKLY

An Intimate Story of
tf?iump han '~

carpenters wanted to know how high the

walls should be, how deep the moulding; the

electricians wanted to know where each light

should be placed. I didn't know what to say.

but I just plunged in. The first set was

lighted badly because the back wall was too

high, but otherwise I went through the job

successfully. Of course I made mistakes and

I suppose I hesitated and was

slow, for the cameraman, who

had just come back from

France, and who was very

nervous, used to pace about and

make remarks about my way

A final closcup with Dick Barthelmess in
"Way Down East"

■ Editor's Note : This is the third and final instal-
ment of the Cish girls' story. If you have missed
the' other two instalments through any mischance,
send on for copies. "Movie Weekly" has, for the
first time given a concisive account of Dorothy's
and Lillian's interesting careers. This third and
final instalment gives you more inside light on
how various pictures in which the two girls
starred were made.

PART III

YOU have been chatting now with the Gish
sisters for several hours. Night is falling.
They have an engagement at the theatre.
Jim Rennie is coming to call for Dorothy.
You leave them, and promise to return to hear
the rest of their fascinating tale on some other
day.

When you visit them again, you find that Dor-
othy has gone to Louisville to attend the premiere
showing in that city of "Orphans of the Storm."
Lillian comes to greet you. She is in the midst
of packing for the journey to join her sister.
Her drab, wavy hair hangs about her shoulders.

"Please don't mind my appearance," she apolo-
gizes, "but with so many girls wearing their hair
bobbed these days, you'll hardly notice the differ-
ence."

But you do notice the difference, for Lillian's
hair is dull gold, and the sun shines through it
as she sits beside the window.

"Now, let's see," she resumes. "I suppose I
ought to take up the story from the days when
we were making 'Hearts of the World ' in Eng-
land and France. We came back to America and
we were all ready for a long vacation, but Mr.
Griffith had bought the studio at Mamaroneck.
He looked it over, found it in a mix-up, and de-
cided to go south for a time. He told me I could
start the first of Dorothy's series of comedies
for Famous Players there, so I undertook to
direct Dorothy in the picture that was later
known as 'Remodeling a Husba'nd.' "

Lillian laughed as she recalled her first efforts
at directing. "I thought I knew a great deal
about directing, the camera and. acting, but when
I got on my first set and the cameraman, the elec-
tricians and the carpenters all came to me for
instructions, I was hard up for ideas. The

A closeup of Lillian as Anna Moore being

put out of the house. Another "Way

Down East" scene.

of directing a picture. The lights crew
didn't know me from Adam, and I had
my hands full, but -we managed to get
the picture out in good shape, at any rate.

"Then began the production of a half dozen
program pictures by Mr. Griffith. During this
period Dorothy was busy with her comedies.
Among the pictures Mr. Griffith made were two
in which some of the war scenes we took in
France were used, and they also included 'The
Romance of Happy Valley,' which Mr. Griffith
has called his last vacation. He took his time
with this film, filming many of the scenes over,
just for the sake of making them. The char-
acters were drawn from life from Mr. Griffith's
home town, and the picture, which was a pas-
toral story, was beautiful, but was not particu-
larly liked by the critics because it was not in
Mr. Griffith's spectacular vein.

"Then came 'Broken Blossoms.' The actual
shooting of 'Broken Blossoms' took just eighteen
days, principally because Donald Crisp, Richard
Barthelmess and myself, who played the three
leading roles, knew, by the time the actual taking
began, just what to do, and we went through the
scenes with little correction. When Mr. Griffith
completed the picture, he knew he had something,
but he was not certain exactly what it was. The
picture fascinated him. He finally decided to

D. W. Griffith directing

Lillian in a scene from

"Way Down East."

I

A closeup of Lillian shot in one of the
thrilling ice scenes in "Way Down East."

give it a private showing in Los Angeles. Those
who saw it were enthusiastic about it, but Mr.
Griffith was not yet sure they were right, so he
took it to New York and showed it again pri-
vately. Again it was hailed as the perfect motion
picture. He then decided to release it as a special
and he put it into the George M. Cohan Theatre
in New York.

"It was the means of establishing his fame in
Europe. Joseph Conrad saw it and wrote to
Joseph Hergesheimer : 'Who is this man Griffith?
How is it I have never heard of him before?'
It was the most popular picture of the year in
France, and in all of the other European coun-
tries it was very successful. The Dowager Queen
of England wrote to Mr. Griffith congratulating
him.

"The next episode was that of "Way Down
East.' We had been in the south when we heard

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Seven

the Gish Girti
QciTeers

Lillian plods her weary way down the snow-coh-
ered street, as Anna Moore in "Way Down East."

that Mr. Griffith had paid $175,000
for the story alone. When he of-
fered the leading role to me, he gave
me the choice of accepting or declin-
ing it. I felt like declining it at
first, for according to the story, the
burden of the success of the film
rested on me, and I felt a'l the time
that the whole $175,000 was on my
shoulders. And of course we did
not know at that time that we
would be able to get the thrill-
ing ice scenes."

Lillian paused in
recollection of the
difficulties of taking
that memorable film.
"We went to Ver-
mont for the ice

Dorothy tells the world all about it

in a dramatic (?) scene from one

of her comedies.

scenes, and we spent eight weeks in
that part of the country. We
sleighed to farmers' homes, to ac-
quaint ourselves with the types wtf
were supposed to portray, and we
found that everyone knew about
'Way Down East,' but there were
some _ who had never heard of
Charlie Chaplin, and many, many
who had never heard of us. It was
a new sensation and a pleasant one, too, to be
unknown for a time."

The two scenes which caused the greatest com-
ment in "Way Down East" are, first of all, the
ice thrillers and secondly, Lillian's remarkable
acting in the episode during which Anna Moore,
played by Lillian, loses her little baby. Lillian,
however, didn't quite see what all the fuss was
about, so far as her acting was concerned.

"Those were real tears I shed in the scene
during which I portray the grief of Anna Moore
over her loss. Anyone who says that glycerine

Kenneth Alexander

Dorothy in one of her lovable, dreamy
moods.

tears are as good as the real thing doesn't know
anything about it," she said emphatically. "And
it is equally untrue that you can act as forcefully
and bring tears just as easily if you think about
some sorrow of your own. The camera catches
the thoughts as well as the expression of those
thoughts. You have to get under the skin and
into the mind of the character you are playing
in order to realize for the camera the emotion
you are endeavoring to express. A western critic
who was present when we were taking that scene
with the baby said that it lost 75 per cent in
effectiveness on the screen because the voice was
lost to screen audiences. He said that as he saw
the scene in the studio it was the most realistic
grief he had ever seen portrayed. That was due
to the fact that I really felt that bad about Anna
Moore's loss.

"As for the weeks during which we shot the
ice scenes, they were among the most unusual of
my career. AH we did during those weeks was
to get up in the morning, go out on the ice and
wait for events. The machinery behind those
events consisted of a charge of dynamite up the
river, which blew up the ice and released the floes
downstream. We would go out on the ice, wait
for the charge, I would lie down on one of the
cakes, which were each day cut out in various
shapes bv ice-cutting machines, and downstream
we would go, a half dozen cameramen chasing us.

"One cameraman was especially active. His
name was Allen, and we would see him iumpin?
from cake to cake, always trying to get as close
as oossible to me, to show that no one was
doubling for me. Once or twice he fell in,
camera and all. but he was safely fished out.

"Then I made a suggestion which has caused
me considerable suffering since. I thought it
would be more realistic if I_ dipped my hand in
the icy water and let it lie there, while ihe
camera took a closeup and a long shot of my
hand. If you have ever put your hand in ice
water — well, don't! Ice water feels just like a
burning flame. When I took my hand out of
the water, I found it was cramped and stiff, and
ever since I have suffered from painful rheu-
matism in the palm of my hand and the fingers."

As for "Orphans of the Storm," the incidents
of its production were few. Lillian Gish believes
it is the greatest of Mr. Griffith's productions,
and in her trips about the country, during which
she and Dorothy are appearing personally with
the picture, she has found similar response on
the part of the public. In the course of these
{Continued on page 31)

Page Eight

jheCblorful aTdfigmantic Story

/ ^^^"' (Continued from page 5)

to iarming, had learned the art of tailoring as an
avocation. It was to him that Taylor went —
and while the man lengthened here, padded there,
and shortened another portion of the costumes,
Taylor studied his part for the night's perform-
ance. Half the time he was standing, modeling,
for his costume fitting while, at the same time
his script in hand, he learned his lines and cues.

When other members of the company, tired
by travel, became discouraged, Taylor invariably
cheered them or sympathized with them. When
the character woman had trouble with her hus-
band — a stage hand with the company — and
threatened to divorce him, it was Taylor who
played the role of mediator and got the couple
to settle their differences.

But, at the same time, there were various in-
stances of levity experienced as well as of gravity.
For instance, in a small Pacific Coast town where
the company were presenting "Fedora," "Cleo-
patra" and ' Joan of Arc" in one-night succession,
three hotel associates of Taylor's invited him to
sit in with them on a card game. They had
hardly commenced to play, the money pot had
hardly commenced to boil, when visitor rapped
on the door.

The person proved to be a middle-aged, nervous
woman whose appearance was disheveled.

"I came," she faltered, "to borrow your drink-
ing-water glass." _

"Certainly!" said Taylor, postponing the game
for a moment to get it for her.

A few moments later she rapped again and was
admitted. She wanted more water. A third and
a fourth time she came and went, and finally
knocked a fifth time. By this time the men's
curiosity was thoroughly aroused.

"What," inquired Taylor, "did you want all
those glassfuls of water for ?"

For a moment she seemed reluctant to tell.

"Well, you see, I'm living up on the fourth floor
where we. ain't got no water, and. bein' as my
lace curtains took fire, I thought I'd just borry
you gentlemen's water glass to put it out with !"

The tour was a long one, from one end of the
continent to the other. Taylor's acting experi-
ences were always progressive and he became a
popular favorite with both his audiences and his
public: In the theatre he was a diplomat and
a statesman. Outside of it, however, he indulged
in none of the customary pastimes of the average
traveling actor, but, instead, he occupied himself
with a serious study of books and of art.

While in Portland, Oregon, he heard a grouo
of men discussing the newly-opened Alaskan gold
fields. Here was a new type of adventure ! New
worlds to conquer! New riches! And, after
all, romance ! The men, it seemed, were making
up an expedition into the Klondike. Taylor
watched their preparations, listened to their con-
versations: — heard them tell of wonderful, ice-
covered bonanzas — and longed to be with them.
One of the men offered him a berth, but his the-
atrical contract withheld him.

In Boston Taylor closed his engagement with
the Davenport company, having been with the
organization some three years. He was offered
an engagement with a stock company in Chicago,
and started for there. But, however, his finances
were low. and when he arrived in St. Paul in com-
pany with a man who was desirous of opening a
lunch counter, he accepted the proposition and
stepped into a new character.

The restaurant venture proved a bugbear. Just
at a time when it commenced to be a paying
proposition, his partner decamped with the profits
and, again, he was thrown out of funds. His
spirit now seemed almost broken, and St. Paul,
to him, was a nightmare. Whereupon he departed
from the twin city and arrived, practically penni-
less, in Chicago.

A'.riend there noted his plight, but this man,
too, was in straits. Together they secured a
position canvassing in country towns — selling one
of those pneumatic "household necessities" that
-every housewife wants. The Chicago agent was
a kindly soul and gave them four dollars advance.

Xt happened that both Taylor and his com-
panion were good gamblers. Not that that time-

honored profession had been anything more to
Taylor hitherto than a mere pastime. Yet, how-
ever, its ancient mesmerism has helped many a
man out of the gravest debt.

And so, with their four dollars in their pockets,
Taylor and his friend went into one of Chicago's
Loop gambling halls. A crap game was in prog-
ress and both entered themselves and their money.
When the stakes were counted it was discovered
that each had won considerable — enough to buy
them the necessities they both needed. Again
the hand of Fate!

Both Taylor and his friend had pawned their
overcoats. It was bitter cold, an incentive for the
men to awaken the pawnbrokers. This they did,
and with overcoats again on their backs, they set
out to feed themselves.

"Taylor's partner decamped with the profits and,
again, he was thrown out of funds."

Just as he was not destined to be a farmer,
Taylor found that canvassing small towns for
"household necessities" was not his forte.

He had been born with a bent for sketching
and drawing, and, before in his life, he had made
crayon portraits of his friends. It occurred to
him to try to capitalize on this talent, when he
found that it was impossible for Km to locate
successfully with a theatrical company in Chicago.

He rented a studio, bought a few dollars' worth
of drawing material and started out to make his
fortune. One of his ordinary drawings cost him
forty-five cents to produce. On its completion,
he would set out to sell it. Some days he made
large sums of money, and, inside of two months,
he h£d made enough to go to Milwaukee and
there to become the owner of an art store.

In Milwaukee the dapper, continental-looking
young man soon became a town personality, for
he dressed like a Beau Brommel and had all the
mannerisms of a European courtier. But the art
business in Milwaukee was not good, and he left
once again for New York to open his shop on
fashionable Fifth Avenue.

There was one song which expresses Taylor's
philosophy, and, as follows, it is one which he
customarily sang whenever he felt particularly
ebullient. During his days in the New York art
colony he sang it often, for his sojourn in Gotham
was a happy one. It reads:

MOVIE WEEKLY

Oh, my name is Pat O'Leary.

From a spot called Tipperary;

The heart of all the girls I am a thorn : n

But before the break of morn faith 'tis they will be all

forlorn.
For I am off for Philadelphia in the morning. '

CHORUS
With me bundle on me shoulder.
Faith there's no man could be boulder.
For I am leaving dear old Ireland, without warning;
For I have lately took the notion.
For to cross the briny ocean.
And I'm off for Philadelphia in the morning.
There's a girl called Kate Malone,
Whom I hope to call my own,
And to see one little cabin place adorning;
But me heart is sad and weary,
How can she be "Mrs." Leary.
If I start for Philadelphia in the morning.

CHORUS
When they tould me I should lave the place,
I tried to have a cheerful face.

For to show me hearts deep sorrow I was scorning.
But the tears will surely blind me
For the friends I lave behind me,
When I start for Philadelphia in the morning.

CHORUS
For though me bundle's on me shoulder,
And though no one could be boulder,
I am leaving now the spot that I was born in.
Yet some day I'll take the notion
To come back across the ocean
To me home in dear old Ireland, in the morning.

— Words and music by Robert Martin.
His art shop netted him sufficient royalties for
him to indulge in society and sportsmanship. He
became a member of the yacht club at Larchmont,
and his week-ends would be spent there and on
cruises. A number of New York's wealthiest men
were there, and, at one time, a party, including
Taylor, planned a cruise around the world.

Once, F. Augustus Heinze, the copper magnate,
hurried into the club announcing that he had
bought a new ocean-going yacht, and inviting
various of his friends, among them Taylor, to
accompany him on a cruise to the Mediterranean.
His invitation was accepted, and his guests began
making plans, but, at the last minute, Mr. Heinze
was informed by his chief steward that the ves-
sel's bunkers would hold only coal enough for
a trip of 300 miles ! This was an experience that
Taylor would traditionally recite — and in several
instances he applied it to film personages whom
he was directing, when they would affect the
so-called actorial "temperament."

It was while he was a prominent luminary in
the New York art and sport circles that he be-
came acquainted with the girl who was later to
become his wife.

He had seen her in the original "Floradora"
company, met her and wooed her. For some
reason Taylor and the girl. Miss Ethel May Har-
rison, chose to be married secretly. No one
except the bride's mother was to be admitted into
confidence until they should have sailed on their
honeymoon trip to Dublin. But the news of the
marriage became known, and when its principals
were on the verge of departing they were sur-
prised by a ceremony..

His wife was known in New York as a very
p.ccomplished young woman who had been bril-
liantly educated by her father before her entrance
into theatricals. Taylor was handsome, gallant,
popular. Hence, the match was one of note.

The couple traveled to some extent, and finally
to them was born a daughter, Miss Ethel Da ; sy
Deane-Tanner, who now remains as her father's
heir and is a student in a fashionable young
ladies' finishing school on the Hudson.

For some reason, which Taylor carried untold
with him to his grave, his marriage was not a
success. A few months after the birth of his
daughter he commenced to drink heavily. Busi-
ness cares seemingly did not trouble him. He
was entertained lavishly in society and his promi-
nence in art and sport circles continued.

But, however, he became known as a "heavy
drinker," It was noted at one of the Vahderbilt
Cup Races which he attended that he was a bit
inebriated. For several days thereafter he dis-
appeared and nothing was heard from him until
he telephoned his office from a hotel asking that
$600 be sent to him immediately.

For what silent purpose he desired that money,
which was at once delivered to him, he never
divulged. But, having received it, he removed
his effects from the hotel, gave no further address,
and departed.

A search for him was instituted. Nowhere
could he be found — and some of his friends sus-
pected foul play. But the fact remained that he
had gone, and for many months there was no
word received from him.

(To be continued)

MOVIE WEEKLY

(^orma^almadge

FORTUNE

ABOUT THE WEDDING DRESS

THE bride who has made most of her wed-
ding garments will court good fortune so
long as she has not sewn the wedding gown
entirely by herself. The more new clothes
she wears at the ceremony, the luckier she will
be; but she should also take care to wear some old
thing that has been lent her with sincere good
wishes. Remember the old verse :
"Something old,
Something new;
Something borrowed,
And something blue."

DRESSING FOR THE WEDDING

When a girl is dressing for her wedding she
must be careful not to
look in the glass after
her toilet is complete,
for that is sure to bring
her bad luck. She should
have her last peep with
one of her gloves laid
aside, and she can put it
on after she turns away
from the glass.

It is very lucky for
the bride to strew salt in
her shoes before going
to church.

ON THE WAY TO
CHURCH

The best omen of all
is to start off on a bright
sunny day, for, as the old
proverb has it, "Happy
is the bride whom die
sun shines on." The
worst omen is for a
raven to' be seen over-
shadowing either the
•bride or bridegroom, for
it is a certain forerunner
of woe. To find a spider
on the wedding gown is
a sure token of future
happiness.

Married in grey, you will

go far away;
Married in black, you

will wish yourself

back.
Married in red, you will
■ wish yourself dead;
Married in green, ashamed to be seen.
Married in blue, he will always live true;
Married in pearl, you will live in a whirl.
Married in yellow, ashamed of your fellow;
Married in brown, you will live out of town.
Married in pink, your spirits will sink;
But married in white you have married all right.

AT THE WEDDING

It is unlucky for the wedding ring to fall to
the ground during the ceremony. If the bride-
groom puts the ring only halfway on' the finger,
and the bride pushes it the rest of the way, it
is a sign that she will rule in their married lives,
and will have her own way in everything.

To be married with a diamond ring, or to have
tried the ring on before the ceremony, is con-
sidered very unlucky.

AFTER THE CEREMONY

It is important that the bride should make the
first cut in the cake. When the bride- is removing
her wedding gown' slie_ must be careful to remove
each pin and throw it away, otherwise ill-luck
will follow her. But the pins will bring good-
luck to others, and a speedy marriage to all un-
wedded girls who secure them, therefore the
bridesmaids have a regular scramble to sle who
can secure the pins the bride throws away.

The bride's garter is said to have a charm
also, and if taken off and thrown among the

maids, whoever secures it will be the first to get
married. Afterwards it should be cut up into
small pieces and given to the bride's girl friends
as mascots to bring them good luck in their love
affairs.

THE BEST DAYS TO GET MARRIED

A very old almanac, written hundreds of years
ago, gives the following advice :

"If you wish to be happy in your marriage,
choose for your wedding one of these days :

January 2, 4, 19; 21.
February 1, 3, 10, 19, 21.
March 3, 5, 12,20, 23.
April 2, 4, 12, 20, 22.

May 2, 4, 12, 20, 23. .

June 1, 3, 11, 19, 21.

July 1, 3, 12, 19, 21.

August 2, 11, 19,20,30.

September 1, 9, 16, 18,

28.

25.

October 1, 8, IS, 17, 27.
November 5, 11, 13, 22,
5.
December 1, 8, 10, 19,

JL LOVELY PHOTO OF .NORMA

23.

BRIDESMAIDS,
BEWARE!

No girl should act as
bridesmaid to more than
two friends unless she
wishes to risk her own
chances of marrying, for
there is an old supersti-
tion which says: "Three
times a bridesmaid, never
a bride."

HAPPY OMENS

The sneezing of a cat
is a lucky omen to a
bride who is to be mar-
ried the following day.
Her casting eyes on a
strange cat is also a very
good sign. If the bride-
groom carries a minia-
ture horseshoe in his
pocket he will always in
his married life have
good luck.

READ YOUR FORTUNE IN THE TEACUP

(Concluded from last week)

Star — A lucky sign ; if surounded by dots, fore-
tells great wealth and honor.

Strike Mob — Trouble, money difficulties.

Sword— Disputes, quarrels between lovers; a
broken sword ; victory of an enemy.

Trees — A lucky sign ; a sure indication of pros-
perity and happiness ; surrounded by dots, a
fortune in the country.

Umbrella — Annoyance and trouble.

Wagon — A sign of approaching poverty.

Wheel— An inheritance about to fall. ."

Windmill—Success in a venturesome enterprise.

Woman — Pleasure and happiness ; if accompanied
by dots, wealth or children. Several women
indicate scandal.

Wood — A speedy marriage.

Yacht — Pleasure and happiness.

Palp Nine

Hard

Times

Some of 'em Qoing Into Trade

Dear me ! It looks as though some of
our best little players were going into trade,
these hard times!

As for the extras, one can hardly ^nter a
taxicab, or sit down in a restaurant, or
apply at the ribbon counter, without being
greeted by somebody who used to wear the
■ greasepaint in the big mob scenes, but who
now inquire, "Where to?" or "What will
you have?"- or "What is it today, madam?"
Some of the picture players have side
line interests:

MAY ALLISON
May Allison, too, designed and
built an elegant home in Beverlv
Hill.s. She
has sold it,
and is plan-
ning, togeth-
er with her
husband.
Robert Ellis,
on the build-
i n g of an-
other home.
This she
makes no secret she will sell if a
good buyer comes along.
TOM MOORE
Tom Moore isn't in the real estate
business; but nevertheless, he has
built and-sold one house, and is now

building an-
other, in
which he will
live with his
wife and
mother only
until he can
get a chance
to sell it to
advantage.
He has a fine
taste in building, as has also his wife,
and it looks as though they were go-
ing to make a good deal of money
out of it.

HELEN FERGUSON
Helen Ferguson, looked upon as a
comer in the picture business, is
also a brilliant writer. At present
she has com-
missions to
write for the
Chicago Tri-
bune and the
Los Angeles
Record. And
she is. writ-
ing a story,
too. Not
only this —
she is booked up for a "Movi
Weekly" story on Hollywood, which
ought to be good, as she lives there,
and is in the midst of the picture
world. Grace Kingsley.

Page Ten

MOVIE WEEKLY

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE

"The Business of Life"

"A lady to see you sir,"
said Farris.

Desboro, lying on the
sofa, glanced up over his
book.
"A ladyf"
"Yes, sir."

"Well, who is she, Farris?"
"She refused her name,
Mr. James."

Desboro swung his legs to the carpet and sat up.
"What kind of a lady is she?" he asked; a per-
fect one, or the real thing?"

"I don't know, sir. It's hard to tell these days ,
one dresses like t'other."

Desboro laid aside his book and arose leisurely.

"Where is she?" .

"In the reception room, sir.

"Did you evr before see her?"

"I don't know, Mr. James— what with her veil
and furs "

"How did she come?"

"In one of Ransom's hacks from the station.
There's a trunk outside, too."

"What the devil " M .

"Yes, sir. That's what made me go to the
door. Nobody rang. I heard the stompin and
the noise; and I went out, and she just kind ot
walked in. Yes, sir."

"Is tne hack out there yet?"

"No, sir. Ransom's man he left the trunk and
drove off. I heard her tell him he could go.

Desboro remained silent for a few moments,
looking hard at the fireplace; then he tossed his
cigarette onto the embers, dropped the amber
mouthpiece into the pocket of his dinner jacket,
dismissed Farris with a pleasant nod, and walked
very slowly along the hall, as though in no haste
to meet his visitor before he could come to some
conclusion concerning her identity. For among
all the women he had known, intimately, or other-
wise, he could remember very few reckless
enough, or brainless enough, or sufficiently self-
assured, to pay him an impromptu visit in the
country at such an hour of the night.

The reception room, with its early Victorian
furniture, appeared to be empty, at first glance;
but the next instant he saw somebody in the cur-
tained embrasure of z window— a shadowy figure
which did not seem inclined to leave obscurity—
the figure of a woman in veil and furs, her face
half hidden in her muff.

He hesitated a second, then walked toward her ;
and she lifted her head.

"Elena!" he said, astonished.

"Are you angry, Jim?"

"What are you doing here?'

"I didn't know what to do," said Mrs. Clydes-
dale, wearily, "and it came over me all at once
that I couldn't stand him any longer."

"What has he done?"

"Nothing. He's just the same— never quite
sober— always following me about, always under
foot, always grinning— and buying sixteenth cen-
tury enamels— and— I can't stand it ! I " Her

voice broke.

"Come into the library," he said curtly.

She found her handkerchief, held it tightly
against her eyes, and reached out toward him
to be guided.

In the library fireplace a few embers were still
alive. He laid a log across the coals and used
the bellows until the flames started. After that
he dusted his hands, lighted a cigarette, and stood
for a moment watching the mounting blaze.

She had cast aside her furs and was resting on
one elbow, twisting her handkerchief to rags be-
tween her gloved hands, and staring at the fire.
One or two tears gathered and fell.

"He'll divorce me now, won't he?" she asked
unsteadily.

"Why?"

"Because nobody would believe the truth —
after this."

She rested her pretty cheek against the cushion

Copyright b? Robert W. Chamber!

By Robert W. Chambers

FIRST INSTALMENT

and gazed at the fire with wide eyes still tear-
fully brilliant.

"You have me on your hands," she said. "What
are you going to do with me?"

"Send you home."

"You can't. I've disgraced myself. Won't you
stand by me, Jim?"

"I can't stand by you if I let you stay here."

"Why not?"

"Because that would be destroying you."

"Are you going to send me away?"

"Certainly."

"Where are you going to send me?"

"Home."

"Home!" she repeated, beginning to cry again.
"Why do you call his house 'home ?' It's no more
my home than he is my husband "

"He is your husband ! What do you mean
by talking this way?"

"He isn't my husband. I told him I didn't care
for him when he asked me to marry him. He
only grinned. It was a perfectly cold-blooded
bargain. I didn't sell him everything!"

"You married him."

"Partlv."

"What!"

She flushed crimson.
"I sold him the right to call me his wife and
to — to make me so if I ever came to — care for
him. That was the bargain — if you've got to
know. The clergy did their part "

"Do you mean "

"Yes!" she said, exasperated, "I mean that it
is no marriage, in spite of law and clergy. And
it never will be, because I hate him!"

Desboro looked at her in utter contempt.

"Do you know," he said, "what a rotten thing
vou have done?"
' "Rotten!"

"Do you think it admirable?"

"I didn't sell myself wholesale. It might have
been worse."

"You are wrong. Nothing worse could have
happened."

"Then I don't care what else happens to me,"
she said, drawing off her gloves and unpinning
her hat. "I shall not go back to him."

"You can't stay here."

"I will," she said excitedly. "I'm going to
break with him— whether or not I can count on

your loyalty to me " Her voice broke child-

ishly> and she bowed her head.

He caught his lip between his teeth for a
moment. Then he said savagely:

"You ought not to have come here. There isn't
one single thing to excuse it. Besides, you have
just reminded me cf my loyalty to you. Can't
you understand that that includes your husband?
Also, it isn't in me to forget that I once asked
you to be my wife. Do you think I'd let you
stand for anything less after that? Do you think
I'm going to blacken my own face? I never
asked any other woman to marry me, and this
settles it — I never will ! You've finished yourself
and your sex for me !"

She was crying now, her head in her hands, and
the bronze-red hair dishevelled, sagging between
her long, white fingers.

He remained aloof, knowing her, and always
afraid of her and of himself together — a very
deadly combination for mischief. And she re-
mained bowed in the attitude of despair, her
lithe young body shaken.

His was naturally a lightly irresponsible dis-
position, and it came very easily for him to 'con-
sole beauty in distress — or out of it, for that
matter. Why he was now so fastidious with his
conscience in regard to Mrs. Clydesdale he him-

self scarcely understood, except that he had once
asked her to marry him; and that he knew her
husband. These two facts seemed to keep him
steady. Also, he rather liked her burly husband ;
and he had almost recovered from the very real
pangs which had pierced him when she suddenly
flung him over and married Clydesdale!s millions.
One of the logs had burned out. He rose to
replace it with another. When he returned to the
sofa, she looked up at him so pitifully that he
bent over and caressed her hair. And she put one
arm around his neck, crying, uncomforted.

"It won't do," he said ; "it won't do. And you
know it won't, don't you? This whole business
is dead wrong — dead rotten. But you mustn't
cry, do you hear? Don't be frightened. If there's
trouble, I'll stand by you, of course. Hush, dear,
the house is full of servants. Loosen your arms,
Elena! It isn't a square deal to your husband —
or to you, or even to me. Unless people have an
even chance with me — men or women — there's
nothing dangerous about me. I never dealt with
any man whose eyes were not wide open — nor with
any woman, either. Cary*s are shut; yours are
blinded."

She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood
there, her hands nervously clenching and un-
clenching.

"When I tell you that my eyes are wide open —
that I don't care what I do "

"But your husband's eyes are not open !"

"They ought to be. I left a note saying where
I was going — that rather than be his wife I'd
prefer to be your "

"Stop! You don't know what you're talking
about — you little idiot!" he broke out, furious.
'The very words you use don't mean anything to
you — except that you've read them in some fool's
novel, or heard them on a degenerate stage "

"My words will mean something to him, if I
can make them 1" she retorted hysterically. " — and
if you really care for me "

Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed
to see Clydesdale, bulky, partly sober, with his
eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin, ram-
bling about among his porcelains and enamels
and jades and ivories, like a drugged elephant in
a bric-a-brac shop. And yet. there had always
been a certain kindly harmlessness and" good
nature about him that had always appealed to men.

He said, incredulously: "Did you write to him
what you have just said to me?"

"Yes."

"You actually left such a note for him?"

"Yes, I did."

The silence lasted long enough for her to be-
come uneasy. Again and again she lifted her
tear-swollen face to look at him, where he stood
before the . fire, but he did not even glance at
her; and at last she murmured his name, and he
turned.

"I guess you've done for us both," he said.
"You're probably right; nobody would believe the
truth after this."

She began to cry again silently.

He said: "You never gave your husband a
chance. He was in love with you and you never
gave him a chance. And you're giving yourself
none, now. And as for me" — he laughed un-
pleasantly — "well, I'll leave it to you, Elena."

"I — I thought— if I burned my bridges and
came to you "•

"What did you think?"

"That you'd stand by me, Jim."

"Have I any other choice?" he asked, with a
laugh. "We seem to be a properly damned
couple."

"Do — do you care for any other woman?"

"No."

"Then— then "

"Oh, I am quite free to stand the consequences
with vou."

"Will you?"

"Can we escape them?"

"You could."

(Continued on page 27)

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Eleven

How to Get Into the Movies

cMabel cVormancb

VII. Hollywood Conditions.

THERE are so many misconceptions concern-
ing studio conditions on the West Coast
that I feel it is necessary to tell you some
facts.

By far the largest part of film production is
carried on in California, hence, a person has a
better chance of breaking into pictures here than
in New York, where there are always a great
many experienced stage actors out of work.

The motion picture studios of California are
not grouped together on one street or even in
one town.

Los Angeles, I believe, covers more ground
than_ any city in the United States. Through it
and around it are the various studios.

Hollywood is a suburb about a half -hour's
trolleying distance from downtown Los Angeles.
It is considered the center of the studio section,
but there are also studios located at Culver City,
ten or twelve miles beyond Hollywood, and there
are studios on the other side of the city.

The great distances which separate the studios
are a source of difficulty to the beginner, who
must necessarily do a good deal of studio visiting.

Because the largest and most active producing
units are located in Hollywood it would seem
that here is the best place to live. But I believe
that living accommodations are a trifle more ex-
pensive in Hollywood than in Los Angeles.

If a girl comes to Hollywood unchaperoned
she should go at once to the Studio Club and
register. This club has for its patronesses a
number of prominent women of the film world,
and is related to the Y. W. C. A.

The club house is a beautiful old Southern man-
sion located just a block above Hollywood Boule-
vard. It accommodates from twenty to forty
girls, I believe, and about twice that number can
be accommodated as boarders. The meals and
the rooms are extremely cheap.
. Of course, there is usually a waiting list of
applicants for rooms at this club. Any girl can
join the club and have the freedom of its living
rooms. Here you will meet other girls who are
beginners in some branch of the business, and
from them you may get valuable tips concerning
work and the way to go about getting it.

In the event that you are unable to reside at
the Studio Club you should be able to get a very
nice room elsewhere for five or six dollars a
week.

I believe that one can live as cheaply in Hollv-
wood as in any other part of the United States,
and much more cheaply than in a large citv.

As I have said before, do not start for Ho 1 ly-
wood or for New York unless you have enough
money to keep you for several months — and
enough to take you home in the event, you find no
opportunity.

Upon arrival in Los Angeles, take a trolley to
Hollywood. Go at once to the Studio Club,
which can be easily located by inquiry, and ask

the matron concerning living quarters. If the
club house is filled, a list of good rooming houses
can be supplied to you.

There have been so many sensational stories
written about Hollywood that some people seem
to have the idea it is a very unsafe place in which
to live, I find that the general conception of its
inhabitants is that they are closely akin to the
Apaches of Paris.

Nothing could be more absurd. Hollywood is
a quiet little village. Only a very small percentage
of its population consists of film people. There
are no night cafes or dance places in the entire

The Author

town. The only amusement places, in fact, are
three or four small movie theatres. By ten
o'clock in the evening Hollywood Boulevard,
which is the main thoroughfare, is as quiet as
the main street of any village. The "night life"
of which you have read so much is not in evi-
dence.

You will find all sorts of people in the film
colony, for it has brought people from all classes
and all quarters of the globe. It is up to you to
pick your associates. There are teas and dances
given at the Studio Club at which you will have
an opportunity to meet a great many charming
young girls who are serious artists. . Among them
you will find girls who, like yourself, are trying
to break into pictures. They will be able to tell
you the best way to take. There are also girls
engaged in scenario writing, costume designing,

magazine writing and other phases of work per-
taining to the industry.

You should not miss an opportunity of meeting
people connected with pictures, for through them
you may find the opportunity which you seek.
Make friends especially with the girls who are
doing "extra" work, for you will probably have
to start as they are starting and every bit of
information they can give you will be of value.

I have visited the Studio Club at various times
and I have found that the girls who live there
are charming and refined. Many of them are
college girls of splendid education and talents.
They are easy to know and for the most part, I
think, extremely sympathetic toward the new-
comer, for they remember the time when they
came as strangers without any knowledge of the
business.

Let me say here that right now the conditions
in the studios are not favorable toward a be-
ginner. The business depression throughout the
country has affected the theatre business to some
extent and there is not as much work in the
studios as there will be in a few months. I
believe that the fall will find Hollywood much
busier, although there always seem to be plenty
of applicants for jobs.

As soon as you have become settled you should
at once set about looking for work. The sooner
you learn the ropes the sooner will an opportunity
be presented for employment.

Don't be led astray into taking courses at any
school of moving picture acting in Los Angeles.
I know of none that I can recommend. By ming-
ling with the girls who play "extras" you can
find out when the studios are in need of "atmo-
sphere" — that is what they call extra players who
aopear in ballroom scenes, mobs, and the like.
The pay for this ranges from five to seven and a
half per day. Some studios supply costumes.
Others will want you to supply your own. But
do not invest in an elaborate wardrobe unless
you have plenty of money to spare. An evening
gown certainly would be of service, but it need
not be an expensive one.

Because the studios are refraining from pro-
ducing pictures which require a great number of
people, times are hard at present for the "extra"
folk, yet some are always in demand at certain
studios. If you once become established you will
get calls when special productions of this sort
are being made. At first, however, you must
expect to make the calls. Although producers
' say they want new faces for the screen they are
not going up and down the streets looking for
them. Very few new faces are "discovered" out-
side the studio walls, so your problem will be to
get inside and attract attention.

In our next chat I will attempt to outline more
fully the way of going about job-hunting, a task
which requires, for the most part, individual ini-
tiative. There are, however, certain things which
are worth knowing before you start the rounds.

SECRETS of the MOVIES - - Picture That Made the Most Money

x

THE picture which holds the record for
having made the most money for the amount
invested was only eight hundred feet long.
It was produced in the early days by the
Edison Company and was called "The Great
Train Robbery."

The picture cost $400 and made $92,000— a per-
centage of profit which has not been reached by
even the most pretentious of modern productions.
The small amount of money expended on the

picture was due to the fact that it had only one
studio set — that of a telegraph operator's office.
The rest of the picture was taken outdoors where
there was no cost for construction. The picture
opened up on a telegraph operator sitting at his
key when two robbers slipping in cover him and
order him to flag the oncoming train. The oper-
ator is bound and gagged, and when the train
slows up the robbers board the tender and then
crawling up, cover the engineer. They cut the
engine loose, rob the express car and escape on
waiting horses. Later the telegraph operator

wiggles loose from his ropes and helps capture
the robbers.

From the beginning to the end there is not a
sub-title in the picture. It is all action. It is
interesting also to note that one of the robbers
who escaped on the horses was later the first
cowboy hero — G. M. Anderson, known as
"Broncho Billy." He got fifty cents extra for
riding the horse.

The picture is still in existence and was shown
recently at Edison's birthday party.

Page Twelve

MOVIE WEEKLY

■

■

BernarrMadaddens

Fox

Sunshine
Comedy
Girls

I read in a recent issue of the Saturday Evening Post one of
the most humorous, albeit one of the most serious, reports of what
happens when women permit themselves to become lax in caring for
their bodies. Mary Roberts Rinehart in her story, entitled "Tish
Plays The Game," tells the near-tragic account of what happened
when the three women, Tish, Aggie and Lizzie go to a gymnasium
to reduce weight and to regain control of their muscles, the better
to indulge in long walks and other athletic sports.

"The first day," narrates the writer in recounting their initial
exercises at the gymnasium, "was indeed trying. We found, for
instance, that we were expected to take off all our clothing and to
put on one-piece jersey garments, without skirts or sleeves, and
reaching only to the knees. As if this were not enough, the woman
attendant said, when we were ready, 'in you go, dearies/ and shoved

us into a large bare room where a man
was standing with his chest thrown out,
and wearing only a pair of trousers and
a shirt which had shrunk to almost
nothing . . .

"Tish was explaining that we wished
full and general muscular development.

MOVIE WEEKLY

BeauQ) Pages <&

\ f ]

" 'The human body,'- she said, 'instantly responds to care and
guidance, and what we wish is simply to acquire perfect coordination.'
'The easy slip of muscles underneath the polished skin.'

" . . . When the lesson was over, we staggered out, Tish however
had got her breath and said that she felt like a new woman and that blood
had got to parts of her it had never reached before."

But the exercises had been exceedingly simple, as simple as those which
I have recounted at length on these pages from time to time. I quote from
Mrs. Rinehart's story, to demonstrate in full exactly what I mean when 1
say that once you permit yourself to neglect your body and indulge to excess
in the comforts afforded these days, you perforce have a long and a painful
road to retrace when you decide to get yourself in good physical condition
and to enjoy a good time out-of-doors.

In the last two issues of "Movie Weekly," I detailed certain exercises
that will surely be of aid to you in keeping yourself in trim. If you missed
them, write to me and I will see that copies are forwarded to you.

Josephine Hall,
Christie Comedies

Mack Sennet
Bathing Girt

Fage Thirteen

*&\

1 1 -

V

9,

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Page Fourteen

MOV IF. fVFLKLY

with the Stars

Winifred Westover, now Mrs. Bill Hart, doesn't

know whether the mirror is playing an April Fool

joke on her or whether the cameraman is up to

tricks! Sumthin's wrong, anyway. Eh wot?

Gloria Swanson catches Rodolph Valentino On

the old pocketbook trick. Oh, Valentino! How

Could you!

MOVIE WEEKLY

fage Fifu

gambling Through the Studios in the £a$L

ll||ih_ : . With Dorothea B. Herzog

H Lucy Fox Frisks in Three Pictures at Same Time !

lilfu

gM SS ,.. g . iHIH ..uiiHiBiiiih«am«iHH!
iiyjIllijIIJllIlIjinJIHJlljniHlfslil

About Pearl White

PEARL WHITE will return to New York
shortly to begin work on her serial for
Pathe, which George Seitz, her erstwhile
serial director, will have in charge. It's a
far jump from five reel features to serials, but
the undauntable Pearl achieves the jump with a
nonchalant flourish of pen as it scrapes on the
crinkly sheet of the contract.

We were told that
Miss White is the
most popular of stars
. in France. Over
there, the people
salute her with burn-
ing enthusiasm as
The White Pearl.
And how they love
her in serials ! Pearl's
move backwards to
serials may be a
rather wise one after
all.

She's finishing up
an engagement on the
French stage, now,
and in the not distant
future will be again
on American terra
firrna dashing through
the wild escapades that feature her serials.

Hedda Hopper

* * • * *

You'll Be Surprised

And you'll be surprised to know that over in
France, Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle's popularity,
has in no wise diminished because of the unfor-
tunate affair he was mixed up in not so long
ago. Fatty is one of the real illustrious lights
frolicking on the silver sheet. Such is the vast
difference in the judgments of peoples of differ-
ent countries.

• * * /* ' *

A Popular "She-Heavy"

You've often heard of the "he-flapper" and the
Scott Fitzgerald created flapper. Ye Rambler
hereby creates and gives life to the "she-heavy"
in the form of Mrs. Hedda Hopper, who is ac-
claimed by the press agent as "De Wolf Hopper's
fifth wife." The p. a. probably knows what she's
doing. Anyway, what's the "diff" concerning the
number of wives among friends?

Mr. Hopper is one of the ideal "she-heavy"
types. She's got that undulating gliding walk
that faiirly shouts "dirty w/ork afoot. She
flaunts an urbane, a suave, an irrelevant smile
that blends blankness and revelation so para-
doxically.

And in 'Sherlock Holmes," an Albert Parker
Production starring John Barrymore, Mrs. Hop-
per deals black hands promiscuously about, until,
in the end, the ingenious wiles of Sherlo-k,
himself, get her in the dilemma that all "she-
heavies" must eventually get in, in order to
provide the hero and the heroine the proper
opportunity to clinch in the "fiverfoot" closeup !

*****

Oh You, Doris Kenyon

Well, we take off our rakish headgear to Doris
Kenyon. She's gone and done it again. Indeed,
Doris does "it" with such regularity that we are
commencing to be aroused to furious sessions of
envy. Doris never falls down. That's the whole
thing.

Now, take the night she opened on Broadway
in "Up the Ladder," William Brady's latest stage
venture. We had a hunch Doris would get shell-
shocked or something at the last minute, and lose
her nerve. It's done, you know. Lots of old-
timers get so nervous they quake quite obviously.

Not so Doris. She was as cool as the proverbial
cucumber. Her entrance created a stir of thun-
derous applause. Her exits did the same. Even
staid New Yorkers know how to appreciate good
work.

The critics, the next day, admitted Doris "was
there." Well, you see how it is. Friend
Reader. Doris is a terribly young girl, but we
never caught her "falling down," and we've
camped on her trail tirelessly. Keep your eagle
eye cocked on Doris.

*****

Constance Binney Here

Constance Binney is in town. Maybe to stay.
Her contract with Realart has expired and from

Lucy Fox bids good-bye to her little nephew
before leaving for the South.

what we were told it is not to be renewed. The
wee star may return to her first love — the stage.
Then again, some producer may come along and
offer her a crackerjack role in a corking produc-
tion and she'll stay right in pictures. 'Tis a
game of "Put and Take," with the gods of des-
tiny holding the top.

*****

Lucy Fox Finishes Three Pictures

YE RAMBLER has made an astounding
discovery. Gather around, and hark ye
to it. We've found a girl who has made
the astonishing record of playing in three
pictures at one and the same time. Which may
be a gross violation of the hitherto unquestion-
able : "You can only be in one place at one time,"
but it's the honest-to-g'oodness truth.

It happened in this wise: Lucy Fox was down
South playing the role of the mountain girl in
"My Old Kentucky Home," with Monte Blue.

Returning to New York, she was engaged for a
part in Dick Barthelmess' new picture. About
this time, Pathe upped and demanded her services
as leading lady opposite Charles Hutchinson in
his new serial, entitled "Speed."

The Dilemma

. Get the situation? Well, Lucy played a scene
or two in "My Old Kentucky Home," and then
dashed to another studio to play opposite Dick
Barthelmess. "Speed" was to be started in a
week or so. Everything would have ben hunka-
dory had not Director Henry King of the Barthel-
mess' forces been knocked out by "Kid Pneu-
monia."

This threw a crimp in Lucy's plan. She finally
completed "My Old Kentucky Home." But no
work yet with Dick. Then Hutchinson began
his serial and Lucy started in to work with the
tremendous energy a serial leading lady must.

* * * * •

To Go or Not to Go

DUTCH and his company were scheduled
to leave for the sunny Southland to shoot
scenes. Lucy was "very much" among
those present. In the meantime, Dick's
new picture had not been begun. To go South
or not to go, that was Lucy's tragic predicament.
.The long and short of it is, that energetic little
person has gone South and Dick's picture is still
held in abeyance, waiting Director King's return
to healthr-a long road following "Kid Pneu-
monia's" dastardly K. O.

Now Lucy has only one thing to worry about.
How will she be able to get back to New York
in time to finish her work with Dick and still
continue her serial work?

Gad, she's in a dilemma we don't envy. But
Ye Rambler wagers a package of chewing gum
against a bean shooter that Lucy will come out
ace high.

* * * * *

Alice Calhoun Recovers From "Flu"

All the way from California comes a cheery
word from Alice Calhoun. Alice's words are
always cheery, bless
her. She tells us that
she has just recovered
from a severe attack
of influenza and is
completing work on
her new picture,
"Knocked Out."
"Rather appropriate
title, is it not?" asks
Alice. We agree. But
we hasten to add she
has supplied her own
climax : "You can
knock me out, but I'm
jiggered if I'll stay
down." Alice tells us
th A she has no idea
when she'll return to
New York. Anyway,
making pictures on
the Coast is "some pumpkins," she contends.
They're gorgeous mountains and nature all green
and lovely to roam through. Not so worse.

This reminds us of a Tine from Floyd Dell's
"The Briary Bush." According to the chief char-
acter in this story: California depresses him. It
seems so immoral for Nature to be green in the
winter time. (Wonder if Californians ever feel
this way?)

Constance binney

MOVIE WEEKLY ART SERIES

BEBE DANIELS

Photo by Edwin Bower Hesser

Page Eighteen

MOVIE WEEKLY

Bucking" into
the Movies

Hollywood, 1922.

Me. H. O. Potts,
Hog Run, Ky.

Dear Maw and Folks :

Yours of the 28th ultimo received, and was inter-
ested to read that the Civic Improvement League of
Hog Run, headed by Gamaliel Whitley, had gone on
record as demanding that the proprietor of "The
Bijou," Hog 'Run's leading and only r-oving picture
palace, at once reduce his admission charge from a
dime to nine cents, except on Saturday nights and
national holidays only.

But I wasn't surprised any extent at the -news,
because most of the 1 inhabitants of Hog Run are
such natural spendthrifts that they wouldn't of given
a Canadian quarter for an aisle seat at the Creation
of the World, unless they got a chance on a turkey
throwed in or something. And as for Gamaliel W.
himself — honest, Maw, that bird is so darned tight

" 1 he costumes ranged everywhere from Cleopatra
to Pierrot."

that he stretches a nickle till the buffalo on it looks
like a giraffe !

Well, folks, I had another job today, during the
course of which I acquired' a slight knowledge of
Roman history, a sizable amount of physical agony
and a .sudden reputation as an emotional actress.
The scene of action was in Mr. Lasky's little cinema
factory down on Vine Street, and the name of the
play was "Beyond the Rocks." It was a sort of an
all-star affair, the piece being written by Mrs. E.
Glyn, and the cast including me, Gloria Swanson and
Rodolph Valentino.

You may remember E. Glyn. One of the many
prominent members of the Caesar family invented
the calendar some two thousand years ago, and then
Mrs. Glyn came along and made a novelized improve-
ment of it which she called "Three Weeks." Then
she was also more or less directly responsible for
that play of the 1 hour, "The Great Moment," in which
Gloria Swanson co-starred so brilliantly with a rattle-
snake. And as for R. Valentino, he was the dark-
complected hombre wh"o recently achieved fame, not
to say notoriety, by appearing as the masculine ele-
ment in "The Sheik."

Well, anyway, the scene was supposed to be in a
ballroom, and a flock of about sixty of us was
endeavoring to portray the principal ingredients in a
masque ball. In the matter of costumes we was
granted a freedom bounded only by our imaginations
and, consequently, we- represented every nationality
known to man, and some that haven't even been dis-
covered yet. Honest, maw, in comparison with our
little gathering, the Mardi Gras on its wildest night
would of looked like a village in England during the
reign of Oliver Cromwell.

The costumes ranged everywhere from Cleopatra
to Pierrot. The first cf these consists of a string of
beads, a natural immunity, against pneumonia and a
vampish facial expression, and the latter is a clown
suit, the 1 two sides of which is entirely different, giv-
ing a sort of a ''before-and-after-taking" effect, if
you know what I mean.

As for me, I wore a Japanese costume, which same
consisted of a kimona, a set of slanting eyebrows and
a domino. This kind of domino, maw, isn't that
indoor game popular among children in America and
criminals in Paris, but is a small piece 1 of wearing
apparel that is as indispensable to a masque ball as
a pair of galluses is to a fat man with a weak belt.
It is an official emblem of the Burglars' Union which
has gotten into society, and is nothing more or less
than a small mask made out of black silk.

Well, anyway, I drew for my partner a rather
simple 1 looking hombre who was attired as a Roman
gladiator, but the morning passed, without our danc-
ing together to any great extent. Because a gladiator,
folks, seems to have been a sort of Roman equiva-
lent for a buck private arid, being an individual who
earned his living by fighting various assorted Gauls,
lions and other carnivorous animals, he was dressed
for the occasion in a full outfit of "Pittsburg Tweeds."
Which is to say that he was reniforced at every
angle with sheets of pig-iron, and bristled with spikes
like a chestnut's winter overcoat. The result was
that my little playmate, with his scaled tunic, spiked
helmet, et al., looked like a cross between a unicorn
and a fish, and made about as congenial a dancing
partner as an adult porcupine.

But we got along fairly well during the morning,
e'xeept that the director had to bawl my partner out
about every five minutes because of a charming habit
he had of doffing his iron helmet to mop his heated
brow right in the middle of otherwise dramatic
scenes. Then come the first shot of the afternoon,
and with it my sudden recognition as an emotional
actress, via the physical agony route. The plot went
something like this.

We was supposed to stop dancing all of a sudden
and, sinking into nearby chairs, gaze soulfully at a
pathetic little episode which was slated to occur at
the other end of the ballroom about then. Which,
along with the rest of the gang, I did — only I didn't
see anything whatever of the 1 aforesaid pathetic little
episode. I found myself too blamed much engrossed
in Pathos much nearer home, Pathos which developed
in exact conjunction with the time of my sitting
down. In fact, I had no sooner hit the 1 chair than
I regretted it more than I ever did anything in my
life before, but it was too late to renege and get
up then.

Because the camera was clicking, I was directly
in the foreground of the scene, and I had far too
healthy a respect for our director's temper, imagina-
tion and vocabulary ;o even risk a break. But, while
I could control my body, I couldn't control my feel-
ings, and I began weeping like Niobe, or whoever it
was that pulled the sob act over Napoleon's tomb that
time. The more I tried to keep from it, the harder
I cried.

"Fine!" yelled the director. "Great stuff! By
George, vou're pulling tears like a veteran. Miss
Potts. Keep it up!"

I did, for the excellent reason that I couldn't pos-
sibly have' stopped the flow if I'd wanted to. Then
the longest three minutes I've ever endured in my
life finally come to an end, and when the camera
stooped I was free to make a frenzied investigation.
I found just what I thought I would.

i

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"/ had no sooner kit the chair than I began to
regret it."

That hick partner of mine, getting overheated
again, had very intelligently parked his spiked helmet
on the chair beside! him, and I had inadvertently sat
on it. And, believe rae, anybody who can sit on the
business end of a Roman helmet for three minutes
and not shed tears is either superhuman or a candi-
date for the 1 cemetery !

Which I guess will be all for this time, only if
I happen to be cast to play opposite that gladiator
chap again tomorrow, there is going to be a sudden
and permanent vacancy on Julius Caesar's payroll.

Your loving daughter, resp'y yours;

SOPHIE POTTS,

Via Hal Wells.

MOVIE WEEKIY

* Screen.' 1

UictionoLTU

"Movie Weekly" presents to
its readers the following diction-
ary of special terms which have developed
with the growth of the screen industry.
This dictionary includes words and phrases
which apply to everything from the writing
of the script to the projection of the com-
pleted film on the theatre screen. Clip the
instalments and save them, they will enable
you to obtain a more complete understanding
of the technique of motion picture produc-
tion.

Atmosphere — Extras used to create back-
ground for the leading players in a scene.

B

Bit — A small role of insufficient importance
for screen credit.

Booking — Dates assigned to theatre owners
for the showing of a film.

Boothman — Operator of projection machine.

Break — Lack of continuity in a film.

Broadside — Used by theatre owner to ex-
press method of advertising film by means
of postcards to his patrons.

Burnt-out — Scene spoiled by over-lighting.

Camera-wise — Applied to i an actor who
knows how to stand before the camera in
such a way as to be prominent in the
scene.

Camera-hog — An actor who "hogs" the
light.

Continuity — Scenario. This word is almest
always used in screen circles in prefer-
ence to the popular word, "scenario."

Crank-turner — A cameraman without par-
ticular skill or artistry.

Character man — An actor who plays away
from himself, portraying bizarre roles,
unlike his own personality.

Camera louse — An extra who tries to stay
in front of the camera all the time.

Cooper-Hewitts — Lights.

Closeup — Used when the camera, at close
range, is centered on an object or person.

Cut-outs — Scenes not used in the completed
film.

Casting director — Studio official who selects
actors for parts.

Continuity clerk — Assistant to director who
records scenes taken, players used in
them, progress of filming, etc.

Co-star — Player who is equally featured
with another in the same picture.

Cut-ins — Inserts from travelogues and
news reels used to suggest foreign atmos-
phere.

(Continued next week)

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Nineteen

sShrtl-Under the Change Pekpelree

ou Irma, the Ingenue

WAITER, bring me the cup that cheers
but not inebriates! . . . What? Well,
let him find out what it means. I believe
in uplifting the masses whenever it can
be done, and quotations have a great deal of
cultural value, as our teacher used to say at
finishing school when she gave us a page of quo-
tations to memorize because she was too lazy
to think up something original."

Irma, the Ingenue, turned around just enough
so that everybody else in the tea garden couid
get a look at her spring hat, and I asked her
what was the latest in the film colony.

"Well, of course there's the Taylor case, but
as nobody knows anything about it, what's the
use of talking about it? Let's talk about some-
thing pleasanter, as the mouse said to the cat
when , the cat told him she was going to eat
him up.

"Now-a-days it's getting to be all the style to
marry a person and then not live with them. (Of
course 'them' isn't right, but who in heaven's
name is going to rattle along with a 'him' or
her?') It's getting to be just nothing at all to
marry a person and then say good-bye and trot
off home and leave him or her to go home or
take a room downtown or sleep in the park. And
they seem very good friends at that. Is there
no more romance in the world?

"That's how it is with Marcia Manon and her
husband, J. L. Frothingham, the producer, you
know. He lives at the Beverly Hill Hotel, you
know, and she stays up in Laurel Canyon. She
isn't very well, and she savs it agrees with her
better up there than anywhere else. He says
that Laurel Canyon is too far for him to go at
night, because he's often kept late at the stud : o.
He spends the week-ends with her at her Lauret
Canyon home, and both say there's going to be
no divorce. He has bought a ranch for her, and
she says she's going to spend the summer there.
I think he's very deeply devoted to her."

"Romance is so pale, these days. Nobody is
admitting being engaged to wed. They seem to
feel that it isn't proper to even be in love any
more, since all this scandal has been stirred up
in the film colony. Most of the girls are behav-
ing like cloistered nuns, these days. They won't
even go out with the same young man more than
once a week; and as for letting a man kiss youl
Oh. my dear, it simply isn't done!

"Of course they do say that Jimmie Young is
engaged to Virginia Faire. She played in 'With-
out Benefit of Clergy,' you know, which he di-
rected, and he was awfully attentive to her for
a long time, in fact until about a month ago. She
says she isn't engaged to him, though, so prob-
ably there's nothing in it. Why, even Mary Mac-
Laren hasn't been engaged in six months, and
that shows how awfully slow the romance busi-
ness is..

"But speaking of romance, that was rather a
sweet one, wasn't it, between Clara Kimball

"Wasn't

that

a sweet

romance

between

Clara Kimball Young's father,

Edward

Kimball,

and

Elise Whitaker, the

scenario

writerf

Clara

is just as

pleased as

she can

Young's father, Edward Kimball, and Elise
Whitaker, the scenario writer? Such a surprise,
too! They had known each other a long time,
but somehow nobody thought about their getting
married. Clara's dad has been playing a part in
'The 'Masquerader,' with Guy Bates Post, and one
day when it was raining he skipped off with Elise
and got married. Then he came back and told the
company. Clara is just as pleased as she can be
they say, because she and Elise are great friends,
being about the same age. Clara says- she can't
think of calling Elise 'Mamma !'

"Mme. Nazimova is going to take a nice long
rest before doing anything more. She has worked
so hard in 'Salome' and 'A Doll's House.' And
it was so cold while she was making 'Salome,'
and you know how a person has to dress for
that part ! Why, Salome's heavy winter clothing,
you recollect, consisted of seven veils ! Nazi-
mova is going back to New York to show
'Salome,' and then she's going down to her New
York State farm 10 vegetate. She's going to
Europe next year, sjhe says — wants to see the
battlefields and styles and everything.

"Anita Stewart is another young lady who is
going to vacation She and her husband, Rudolph
Cameron, are going to take a little rest at her

"Why, even Mary MacLaren hasn t been engaged
in six months, and that shows how awfully slow

the romance business is!"

"Chet Franklin is building a house on Hollyood

Heights. He wouldn't tell whether he was going to

be married or not, but they do say that Bebe Daniels

has expressed a great interest in the plans."

Long Island home, and then she's coming back
to do a costume picture.

"Dear me! ' We soon shall have to depend
entirely on the fashion magazines for styles,
shan't we? If all the picture stars go into cos-
tume plays. But I'm sure costume plays will be
very uplifting, because we'll get a chance to think
about the play itself, instead of concentrating, as
we do now, on the clothes."

Irma, the Ingenue, paused with a sigh, as she
mentally weighed the contrasting advantages of
white French pastry and pink, finally deciding
against the pink because it didn't go well with
her henna tailored suit. Then she went on.

"Oh, but have you heard about Harold Lloyd
and his illness !" lrma's questions were never
really questions because she never gave you time
to answer. They were more in the nature of
exclamations. "You know both Marie Mosquini
and Mildred Davis are supposed to be rather de-
voted to him, and he in turn likes them both
tremendously. But they do say it takes a lot of
diplomacy on his part always to have things
smooth, though the girl are good friends. But
when he got ill, both young ladies were anxious
to do something for him. Both hit on the plan
of sending him jellies. He couldn't eat any jelly
when he had a fever, of course ; but when he
began to get better, he enjoyed it. But oh, woe,
one clay Mildred called, and when he heard her
voice, he thought it was Marie, and began eating
Marie's jelly ; and oh, how reproachfully Mildred
gazed at him. as he blushed and nearly choked
on Marie's jelly ! I was with Mildred, and you
should have seen his face — looked as if his fever
had risen !

"Marie Prevost is the latest girl to be reported
engaged. Her rumored fiance is a man in the
automobile business. But Marie is one of those
sensible girls who intends to look before she
leaps ; besides she says she considers marriage a
career in itself, and she doesn't intend to marry
until she is willing to give up the screen. As she
is doing very nicely, I suppose it will be a long
time before she gives up her career.

"Chet Franklin drove me up to the Hollywood
Heights, where he is building a house, the other
day. He wouldn't tell whether he was going to
be married or not", but they do say that Bebe
Daniels has expressed a great interest in the
nlans, and I know there is to be a beautifuf
Spanish patio with a fountain, so that does sound
suspicious, doesn't it — at least it does to one of
my suspicious mind. Yes, Chet was married be-
fore. His wife was a lovely auburn haired girl,
who used to appear in Triangle pictures. I for-
get her name. But she died, and he took it so
terribly to heart that he has never cared for any-
■ one since. But it seems that Bebe has won him."

j:SWi<ii

"Oh. have you heard about Harold Lloyd and
his illness? You know both Marie Mosquini
and Mildred Davis are supposed to be rather
devoted to him. When he got ill, both young
ladies decided to send him fellies."

"But , oh, woe, one day Mildred called; he
'hought it was Marie, and began eating
: Marie's jelly I" Horrors ". . .

m

fe^

$ta^^

"Oh, how reproa'chfully Mildred gated at
him, as Harold blushed and nearly choked
on Marie's ielly. You should have seen hit
face; it looked as if his fever had risenl"

^ 9

Page Twenty

MOVIE WEEl

Questions AnswerecJ,

JZiZMJ

I have joined the staff of "Movie Weekly" just to answer questions.
Wouldn't you like me to tell you whether your favorite star is mar*
ried? What color her eyes are, or what may be his hobbies? All
right, then, write me on any subject pertaining to the movies. For an
immediate personal reply, enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope.
Address me, Thb Colonbl, "Movie Weekly," 119 West 40th Street,
New York City.

Every day I get requests for pic-
tures of various stars, or sometimes
the requests come to the editor. And
of course the only thing we can
do is to answer these requests with
the statement that pictures should
be obtained from the stars them-
selves. Just imagine how much work
there is in getting out a whole maga-
zine every week, and then maybe
you will understand why it is mat
we haven't time to send out pictures.
That is a business in itself, and we'd
have to have a whole additional staff
to take care of it. And anyway, Sis-
ter Susie, think how much more!
thrilling it is to write to stars with
your requests than to write to an old
duffer like me.

TESSIE— So you think Thomas
Meighan "has it all over" Wallie
Reid. Well, there's one thing about
them — the ladies like! them both-
Torn is married to Frances Ring.
He was born in Pittsburgh in 1883.
He is six feet tall, weighs 170 and
is a brunette. He began his stage
career with Grace George and joined
the movies some years later. He
became famous in "The Miracle
Man."

MISS RACHEL SOMEBODY—
If you have been watching "Movie
Weekly" for your answer, you have
probably learned all about Rodolph
by now. He is very dark and weighs'
154. He lives at 7139 Hollywood
Blvd., Los Angeles, but I can't guar-
antee that he will answer your letter.
He gets hundreds, you know. But
he will probably send you his
"pitcher." I hope so, anyway.

FLORENCE ALLARD— You're
an old friend of mine, aren't you?
Mabel Normand is not married now.
No, Al St. John is no relation to
Fatty Arbuckle. Jack Mulhall, Jr.
is the son of Mrs. Jack Mulhall, the
second, who, before her marriage,
was Laura Bunton. I suppose you
saw the results of the Head and
Shoulder Contest in the issue of
February 4th?

MOLYY H.— Where am I going
to put the answers to all your ques-
tions—out in the margin? If you
will tell me your full name and ad-
dress, I will write you the chattiest
letter I can and fill it full of infor-
mation.

ANITA STEWART— Yes, Anita
Stewart's youngster is very cherubic.
But why, when you enclosed his
picture, did you tell me that Anita
and I have a lot of explaining to do ?
Surely you don't hold me responsible?

HELEN BROWNE— Your favor-
ite, Alice Calhoun, has been working
on "Blue Bells," which should be
released about this time. <

FRANCES M.— When you say
"the worst vamp in the movies," do
you mean publicly or privately?
Wallace Reid is twenty-nine and
Gloria two years younger. Bebe is
twenty-one and Connie twenty-four.
Connie's husband Is John Pialoglou,
a Greek. No, Bebe is no relation to
Jack Daniels.

TOM AND TONY— I will tell
the editor that you requested us to
publish pictures of Tom Mix and
William S. Hart. Of course the
trouble is, we try to use only beauti-
ful pictures in the center of the
magazine, and with all due respect
to both William S. and Tom, they
surely don't think they are beautiful.

PAULINE — Your name is sweet
because it's almost like one of my
favorite kinds of candy — pralines.
Norma Talmadge is twenty-five; she'
is Mrs. Joseph Schenck. George
Arliss is fifty-four; yes, he is mar-
ried. Mary Pickford is twenty-nine ;
she has no children. Raymond
McKee just laughed when I asked
him his age.

VIRGINIA T. C— ■ What puzzle's
me is what does the art decoration
on your letter represent? Or is it
just supposed to indicate time and
labor on your part? Dorothy Gish
has medium brown hair; the black
wig was only worn in some of her
pictures. Write her at the Griffith
Studio, Mamarone'ck, N. Y. Betty
Compson and Gloria both get their
mail at the Lasky Studio, 1520 Vine
St., Hollywood, and Nazimova c-o
United Artists, 729 7th Ave., New
York. May McAvoy has been living
at the Hotel Ansonia, 72nd St., New
York. She is twenty-one.

MARY PIGLER— So you wish
"Movie Weekly" would be printed
every day? You must like to see
people work. Wouldn't you like to
get a personal letter with all those
addresses you wanted? All right,
then, Mary, where do you live?

DARE DEVIL MORRISSEY—
So Marguerite Clark is your sweet-
heart ? Well, that's hard luck, be-
cause she is married to H. Palmer-
son Williams and she makes a mov-
ing picture moving about the house.
She hasn't made any pictures since
"Scrambled Wives," and has not de-
clared her intention of making any
more.

IRISH — No, Miss Dupont is no
relation to the powder works, not
even by marriage — and I don't know
whether she is married or not. Her
name is Margaret Armstrong and
her address is 5937 Maplewood, Los
Angeles, where you can write her
for a picture.

MINNIE G. — No, Minnie, Mary
Pickford doe's not wear a wig ; the
hair on -her head is like Topsy. It
"just growed."

BABE— Of course! I don't mind
if you write to me every now and
then, and the "nower" the better.
Jack Mulhall lhes.at 5857 Harold
Way, Hollywood. He is bashful
about telling his age, but he is about
thirty. Jack Roach can be reached
through Vitagraph, 1708 Talmadge
St, Hollywood.

RED 'ED — I always know your
handwriting (I'm beginning to be a
handwriting expert). Yes, E. Phil-
lips, who appeared in "Just Around
the Corner," also played in "The
Scarab Ring." Helen Weer's name
is probably misspelled Weir somef-
times, but Helen Ware is a different
actress. She is well-known on the
stage and plays dramatic roles. There
is only one Virginia Lee. "The 1 Sky
Pilot" was a King Vidor Production ;
George Seitz did not play in it.
Mary Miles Minter's picture that you
refer to was "All Souls' Eve." . I
have not heard of Wallace Beery's
marriage to Mona Lisa. A "gag"
man is a man who is hired by the
studios to make 1 funny remarks when
the players are to register laughter.
Ayres is pronounced like airs.

ANXIOUS — Is this information
important eough to be anxious about?
James Rennie played opposite his
wife, Dorothy Gish, in "Flying Pat."
Mona Lisa was the vampire in "To
Please' One Woman."

MICHAEL CARROP— You're one
of my most frequent repeaters, aren't
you? Mitchell Lewis was born in
Syracuse. Harold Becher won first
prize in the Head and Shoulder Con-
test. I suppose you saw the' results
in the February 4th issue.

AN ARDENT SCREEN LOVER
— A't least your signature is more
original than "A Valentino Lover."
Constance is the youngest Talmadge
sister. Mary Miles Minter is twenty
and unmarried. Yes, "The 1 Cabinet
of Dr. Caligari" was rather highly
colored, wasn't it? As it was im-
ported ready-made, I don't know
who wrote it. Charles Rav is mar-
ried to Clara Grant. Wallie is 29.

30 BELOW ZERO— But cheer up ;
Soring is here. Ruth Clifford was
born in Rhode Island, Feb. 17, 1900.
She is 5 feet 2, weighs 115 and is
a blonde with blue eyes. She is not
married now. The last pictures that
I know of her making were in Porto
Rico, for the Porto Rico Photoplays
Co. I understand that she is living
in Los Angeles now, but do not know
of anv movies that she" is in. Her
plays include "Fires of Youth," "The
Game Is Up," "The Black Gate,"
"Tropical Love," etc.

J. B. — I don't know who would be
more interested in sending you a
good picture of Earle Williams than
Earle himself. Suppose you write to
him at the Vitagraph Studio, 1708
Talmadge St., Hollywood.

JUST CHICK— Thanks so much
for the valentine. Did you think I
had forgotten you? Eddie Hearn
has just finished playing opposite
Mary Miles Minter in "The Heart
Specialist." Eddie is fond of all
kinds of athletics.

DEARIE — Were you named after
the old popular song or was it named
after you? Tom Carrigan played
opposite Constance Binney in Room
and Board." And Herbert Rawlinspn
was the leading man for Clara Kim-
ball Young in "Charge It."

CHERRIE — And cherries are val-
uable just now because they're not in
season. Didn't you re'ad about Wil-
liam S. Hart's marriage in "Movie
Weekly?" Yes, Bill married Wini-
fred Westove'r; he ought to be
very satisfied with his wife ; he cer-
tainly took long enough to make up
his mind. Mary Mile's Minter is
twenty ; she spends her life deny-
ing rumors of her engagements.
That's what you >get for being so
popular. Mary Pickford is twenty-
nine and Doug is ten years older.
The other ages you asked for aren't
given. George Walsh's latest pic-
ture is "With Stanley in Africa."

DOT — My sister had a dress once
with dots all over it. Wallace Reid
is twenty-nine and Gloria Swanson is
twenty-seven. Bebe is twenty and
not married yet. Think of that 1
How she can hold out against such
ardent persuasion as she is subjected
to is too much for me ! Anita Stew-
art's age is a secret between herself
and the 1 family Bible.

P. I. E. G. — And I sat up all night
trying to decipher the code of P. I.
E. G. What does it mean? Yes, I
spent my Christmas holidays in great
style That, wasn't all I spent either.
I have a bitter blow for you : Niles
Welch is married — to Dell Boone,
and they live at 1616 Gardner St.,
Hollywood. Write him for a pic-
ture. . You. have a long bunch of
favorites ; are there any stars left
to be "runners up?" (Pardon the
race track parlance.)

I. O. DINE— Don't, say "dine",
to me now; I'm working overtime
to-night to tell you fans what you
want to know and you make me want
to grab my hat and run to the near-
est restaurant Too many addresses,
I. O., to publish in this column;
tell me the rest of your name and
I'll write you. Tom Mix lives at
5841 Carlton Way, Hollywood.

10V1E WEEKLY

Page Twenty-one

ililm0lani

No Bargain

"I have heard of exclusiveness in all degrees," said
Richard Barthelmess/ "but this man I am going to
tell you about was just about the most exclusive per-
son I ever heard of. ."■■•■

"In a small town where we were on location, a
member of our company went to church on Sunday
morning. The church was crowded, but up front he
noticed a pew with a single; occupant, an austere man,
reading his prayer book devotedly. My friend walked
up to the pew, and as the man made no effort to make
room for him, he stepped by him and sat down.

"The old man glared at him. He paid no attention.
As services commenced, he saw that the old man was
ostentatiously pushing a prayer book toward him.
Pleased at this mark of cordiality, he reached for it.
On the fly leaf to which it was opened a hurriedly
penciled comment met his eye :

" 'Young man, I pay one hundred dollars a year
for the exclusive use of this pew.'

"Supressing a smile, the; actor took out his pencil
and wrote his answer.

"The exclusive one adjusted his glasses and read,
to his astonishment :

" 'You pay too darned much.' "

Hunger Note

"Yes," said Thomas Meighan, discussing his next
picture, "The Bachelor Daddy" "it's a good story —
wonderful script, the train stuff is great, but— the
darned scenario writer forgot to put in any dining
car scenes, so we all had to get off in the country
and eat our meals at lunch counters."

A Barbarous Suggestion

There is a "penalty box" at the Hal Roach studio
into which every punster must put a dollar peSr pun.
Harold Lloyd is a frequent contributor.

This remark cost him a doljar :

The Lloyd quartet was having a request program the ,
other day when Harold came along with his request.

"What'll it be?" the boys asked him, in good old
"barroom style.

"You're' Next," said Harold, "from 'The Barber
of Seville !' "

An Experienced Actress

"What experience have you had?" asked Director
Henry KifTg of the flapper who applied for a part in
Richard Barthelmess' picture, "Sonny."

"Why," was the proud answer, "I was understudy
for Dorothy Gish."

Mr. King looked at her in amazement This was a
new one on him. He had heard of doubles in movies,
but never of understudies, and he had certainly been
in movie's long enough to know all the studio terms
anyway.

"What do you mean by understudy?" he asked
the young lady. And the truth came out.

To save the star the fatigue of standing with the
camera focused on her while the set was being "set
up," thety use a girl of about the same height and
'hat, is_what-thi&- girl had been doincr.

A Bloodthirsty Tale

"Send for a doctor, quick," said someone at the
Universal studio excitedly pointing to Hirry Myers,
after some scenery had fallen, Harry looked like the
end of a prize fight or something, bleeding copiously,
it seemed.

"But I'm not hurt," he protested to the four doc-
tors who arrived post-haste! And of course no one
would believe him — not, at least, until it was discov-
ered that the red fluid was only water that had
spilled on bis highly colored trunks.

R

"I've been held up by salesmen, but never before by
an automobile," says Helen Ferguson.

The Whole Town Was Celebrating

Here's a thrilling one that Helen Fe'rguson tells on
Buck Jones. Theye were on location with the cow-
boy's company and one evening after etfnner, they
started a game of "follow the leJader." Even the
cowboys over thirty joined in just like a bunch of
ten year olds.

The game grew tiresome after awhile, and then
Helen, with a mischievous twinkle in he!r eyes, whis-
pered something in Buck's ear.

"What! I'm not game? Just follow ME!" said
the daring, dashing cowboy, and he lead the crowd
to the town's only "pitcher" show. Down the aisle
he went, and right up onto the stage!.

The natives soon caught the idea, and applauded
gayly. And just to show what a good sport he was,
the exuberant Mr. Jones treated the whole audience
to ice-cre'am cones — all thirty seven of :hem ! (Of
course this was a small town).

*****

A Pish Story

Near one of the studios they are pumping fish out
of a new oil well.

Suppose they will be getting a thousand barrels of
cod <ish oi Lout, next.

A Light Story

Mr. Kleig is one of the leading lights around thtf

Paramount studio.

*****

Making Mountains of Mole-Hills

"Sunshine Sammy" idolizes "Snub" Pollard, but
when he can get a laugh at Snub's expense, he is
very gleeful. The other day,-the "gang" around the
studio were discussing what they would do if they
had a lot of money. Sammy wasn't going to be left
out of anything ; he edged into the crowd.

"Well, Sammy," asked one of the boys, "what
would you do if you bad a million or so?"

The youngster glanced at "Snub." "I know," he
answered. "I'd buy Australia, . where) Mr. Pollard
came from, and make it a real country as large as
the United States."

*****

Mrs. Ayres Doesn't Like Cavemen

If anyone wants to be mean to Agnes Ayres —
though how could they? — they will have to answer
to her mother. For Mrs. Ayres is justly proud of
her daughter and she intends to look out for her.

That is what poor Clarence; Burton discovered wheti
he met her at the close of a very rough scene in "The
Ordeal." Mrs. Ayres refused to have anything to
do with him. And Clarence just couldn't convince
her that it wasn't his fault that he was supposed to
lay the villain in the picture and manhandle Agnes.
_teally, he's as harmless as movie villains usually are
in real life — has a wife, and ducks, and a dog, and
everything.

"I don't think you ought to see much of that
Mr. Burton," Mrs. Ayres soleimnly advised her
daughter, "I think he's the most brutal man I ever
saw."

And now poor Clarence is worried as to how he
can live down his reputation.

*****

A Private Earthquake

Director George Melford came home from a busy
day aboard a sailing ship directing scenes for "Moran
of the Lady Letty."

"Hello," he said as the telephone bell jangled.

"Oh, Uncle George," came the agitated voice of
Dorothy Dalton, "did you feel an earthquake?"

"No," answered the director, "don't get excited;
there was no earthquake."

"Yes, but I felt one — the whole hotel just shook.
Oh, there it goe's again. Don't you feel it?"

Melford broke into a . hearty laugh, but Dorothy
couldn't see the joke.

"If it isn't an earthquake," she demanded, "what
in Heaven's name is it?"

"It's not the building or the earth. It's you,"
explained the director. "You've been out on a roll-
ing ship all day and you haven't got your land legs
yet."

"Oh pshaw," was the only reply that Melford heard
as the receiver was jammed back on the hook.
*****

, Can You Bear This?

Gloria Hope might have been a lawyer if she hadn't
gone into the movies. She has such a logical mind.
One of her arguments is that the bill recently intro-
duced to bar sleeveless gowns is unconstitutional.

"The constitution says," explained Gloria demurely,
"that the right to bear arms shall not be infringed."

A. M. T.

THE INS AND OUTS
OF THE MOWS WOICD

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Page Twenty-two

8 to Scenario Wri

(~^edencli^pc&'me r t

MOVIE WEEKLH

Scenario Note : Our
readers are invited to
•write and ask us ques-
tions they may have in
mind on screen writing.
Please enclose stamped
and addressed envelope.

CONCERNING THE SYNOPSIS

TIME was when directors — most of whom
were seeking "ideas" only — requested that
picture plays be submitted in the briefest
form possible. "Give the gist of your story
in five hundred words," they informed aspiring
photoplaywrights. "A bare plot outline is all we
desire. Our continuity men, under our guidance,
will do the rest."

But those days are long since past. Studios —
excepting in rare instances — no longer allow di-
rectors to build up their own stories. Instead,
the scenario department prepares the script so
carefully, mapping every "shot," that the director
has small scope compared to the former period
when he was monarch supreme. He must now
attend to the task of seing that stars and others
in the cast successfully enact the story that is
handed to him, and leave scenario writing to
those who make it a distinct profession.

Which brings us to the question : "How long
should a synopsis be?"

Well, a synopsis should be long enough to
insure that the story "gets across," to use a
motion picture phrase. If you are clever enough
to tell a five-reel story in 2,000 words, do not
"pad" it into 3,000 words. But if you sincerely
feel that you cannot tell your story in less than
10.000 words, that is the proper length. Remem-
ber, however, that description and clever witt'-
cisms — excepting in rare instances — are not only
unnecessary in a photoplay synopsis, but are also
undesirable. Just as you must visua'ize your
story in terms of action, just so must you tell it
in action. The scenario editor is not concerned
with Sadie Dimplechin's "beautiful blue eyes,"
for instance ; indeed, the star for whom he in-
tends to buy the story may have eyes as dark as
a Spanish siren's, and your description will tend
only to prejudice him against your heroine, or
at least to make the story seem less fit for tSe
lead he has in mind. That abandoned farmhouse
you describe in your climactic scene, may be con-
spicuous by its absence from the particular "lot"
in which you expect your story to be filmed, and
the company may not wish to expend money in
finding, or building one exactly like it. But, if
you have not been too particular — too detailed —
in your description of this location, the studio
men may decide that some other farmhouse, al-
ready on their "location list," will fill the bill.

The foregoing are but two illustrations of
many instances in which writers are apt to "over-
play their hands" in writing synopses ; and. un-
doubtedly, the extreme length of many such
photoplays is due to this over-anxiety to inject
minute descriptions into a story.

However, if your plot contains enough "meat,"
enough real action and dramatic suspense,, the
synopsis. thereof will be long enough, even when
all extraneous matter has been excluded. Ceril
de Mille, the famous Lasky director, recently
stated that no story worth filming, could be told
in less than 5.000 words. Immediately thereafter,
I presume, the Lasky scenario department was
flooded with scripts of 5,000 words or more.
But what Mr. de Mille undoubtedly had in mind
was that unless a story contained so much dra-
matic action that it could not be condensed, ar-
tistically, to less than 5,000 words it would not
be filmable. He certainly did not mean to encour-
age scenarists to "pad" their otherwise slim plots
with a mass of non-picturable incidents or bits of
description.

Speaking from experience, I believe that most
film stories may be told in fullest detail within

10,000 words, and that the ideal length is about
the 5,000 words mentioned by Mr. de Mille. I
have seen a number of synopses that dragged
along into the twenty and thirty thousands ; but
I cannot state that I obtained much inspiration
from reading them, and do not believe that the
average scenario- editor would have done so,
either.

Follow the fashion — see any style journal for
women — and "keep 'em short," but not so short
as to be impractical. In photoplay writing, as in
women's styles or anything else, there is always
the happy medium.

*«— «

i
I

S^estkms and Answers

(Q.) Does censorship rule out the situation of
"abduction ?" — D. M.

(A.) Even though it is given a very subtle treat-
ment, this situation is apt to be frowned upon by the
censors. In 'The Whistle," starring. William S. Hart,
a child is kidnapped, the motive for this kidnapping
being strong and thoroughly justified. The child never
comes to harm at the hands of the kidnapper. And
yet, this picture was struck out by local censorship
boards in several states, owing to the fact that the
central situation was a "kidnapping."

(Q.) Is it necessary to have "physical" conflict in
the photoplay? — D. L.

(A.) No, indeed. Almost all producers are begin-
ning to concede that mental or spiritual conflict is
preferable. The whole tendency in the cinematic
world seems to be away from melodrama — the wild
shootings, etc., etc., of the past.

(Q.) Do not actors "put across" a story more
than the author? — R. A.

(A.) No. The story is the backbone of the entire
enterprise. In spite of a most excellent production,
the inferior story will never make a good picture. A
good story, poorly screened, is, nine times out of ten,
far more successful than a weak story that is given
the most elaborate and satisfactory production.

(Q.) Why is it that incidents from real life are 1
sometimes condemned by the critic as unconvincing?

— R. B.

(A.) Because an incident or a situation actually
occurred, is no reason to suppose it will make good
story material. Everything depends upon the way it
is developed. The question is not so much — is a thing
possible — as — is a thing probable? You must con-
vince your audience that a certain consummation
would really take place. In other words, you must
make the course of action in your story plausible.
Art is quite different from reality. It may be based
upon reality, but the writer must also bring imagina-
tion into play, must shape and mould reality until it
becomes dramatic and interesting enough to hold the
attention of the spectator. If the spectator wanted
reality merely, he would not bother to go to the the-
atre. It is art that he wants.

(Q.) Is it necessary for the photo-dramatist to
designate the number of scenes, in writing the detailed
synopsis, for the guidance of the continuity writer?

— B. R.

(A.) Matters of this kind are decided by the direc-
tor and by the producer; and it is not necessary for
the writer of the story to take them into serious con-
sideration. If you will be sure you have enough
material, by determining the number of incidents
and situations that your plot contains, nothing further
will be required of you along this line.

(Q.) Why do producers object to stories dealing
with the motion picture profession? — H. D.

(A.) There is a sort of an unwritten law among
producers to the effect that stories dealing with any
part of the profession, especially those possessing
studio atmosphere, be disregarded as picture 1 material.
We believe this is due to the fact that "sti Ho busi-
ness" in a picture would detract too great.v from
the story. The audience would be so impressed with
the novelty of seeing a picture made that the story

would hold little or no attraction for them. Audi-
ences usually "live" the stories of the screen, and
it would be "unfair to both them and the producer to
remind them, during the production, that it is "only
a movie."

(Q.) Do producers pay more for stories when
they are accompanied by the continuity? — M. L. P.

(A.) Staff continuity writers are paid rather tre-
mendous salaries to adapt accepted stories according
to the studio's individual method, and for that rea-
son the producer would pay no more for a story
accompanied by a continuity than he would for simply
a detailed synopsis. In the case of independent com-
panies, it is very often possible for a free lance con-
tinuity writer, whose success has been established,
to write a continuity to his accepted original, but,
even in a case! of that kind, the writer is in almost
constant touch with the director and star which makes
it possible to create a continuity suitable to everyone
concerned.

(Q.) Suppose I read a book which I think would
make a good photoplay, .could I write it up in sce-
nario form and then obtain the 1 rights from the author
to sell my scenario? — A. H.

(A.) In attempting to adapt a published book, we
would suggest that you first secure the rights to do
so, otherwise, you may find that your work has been
in vain. Producers dp not buy scenario adaptations
from books. When they desire a certain book for
screen purposes, they write direct to the publisher in
an effort to buy the screen rights to the entire book.
When that is secured, it is handled very much in the
same manner in which an original story is handled.
It is given to a staff writer who is trained to write
continuities in the particular style desired by that
certain company. ■

(Q.) Can you tell me if any of the studios would
be interested in a "flood" story? If so, which one?

— C. B. M.

(A.) We do not know of any studio at present that
might be interested in a story dealing with a flood.
Such a story would be difficult to make, inasmuch as
it is not an easy matter to stage' a flood disaster,
besides there' would be a tremendous expense in its
production. Frequently an otherwise acceptable story
is rejected by a studio because it is written in a
manner that requires too great expense in production.

(Q.) How can one prevent himself from using
hackneyed ideas and plots? — M. T.

(A.) He can't prevent it entirely, but he can
guard against it by seeing as many picture's as pos-
sible, and by studying the synopses of current plays
published in the trade journals.

(Q.) I am told to make my characters more "life-
like." They seem real enough to me. Why don't they .
seem real to the people who criticize mv stories?

— T. H. S.

(A.) Proficiency in the art of self-criticism can
be acquired only by long and arduous practice. Until
you have had that practice, the only standard you
have is the criticism of people in whom you have
faith. To make your characters more Hfe-like, study
the people around you — their habits, their outstand-
ing traits, their motives, and their little, apparently
meaningless actions.

(Q.) It seems to me that if a writer makes his
play interesting enough he doesn't need to bother
about the rules of construction and development. Am
I right in this? — L. L.

(A.) You are right. But the point is that a Writer
cannot make the story interesting without following,
consciously or unconsciously, the rules of construc-
tion and development. One with genius does not
need rules; most of us do need them.

(Q.) I have a comedy that I think is good, for
the reason that I have had letters from two editors
saving that they liked it. Why didn't they take it if
they liked it? — E. R.

(A.) Probably because it didn't fit the policy of
either studio. Each company that produces comedy
has one particular kind that it favors. Some use
"bathing girls," some use ''stunts" or "gags," while
others use the "situation" or "polite" class.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twenty-three

A Philanthropic BankBurglar

fyjohnWGiey

Blackey had hardly ut-
tered the words: "It looks
bad," when the two uni-
formed policemen pushed
the door open and stepped
inside the bank. A death-
like silence prevailed as the
two cops stood there in the
dark. Every tick of the
clock sounded like the blows
of a sledge hammer upon an anvil to Blackey and
• Jimmy <«s they crouched down behind the door
but a few feet away from the unsuspecting
officers.

Suddenly Blackey shouted, "Hands up. quick!
Don't make a move or we'll kill you right where
you stand !"

"Keep your faces to the wall," he snapped.
"If you turn your head an inch y die."

The cops made no reply, neither did they make
any effort to turn their heads and they immedi-
ately raised their hands.

"Get their cannons," he commanded Jimmy.

Jimmy lifted up the tail of their overcoats and
pulled the guns out of their pockets, handing
them to Blackey.

"Tie 'em," he grunted when Jimmy had handed
him the guns.

The first cop submitted to the binding and
gagging operation without any resistance, the un-
expected reception had swept him off his feet and
he obeyed Blackey's commands sort of automatic-
ally. When Jimmy had finished with him he
dragged him back into the room where the bank
watchman was reposing on the floor. The second
officer never moved, said nothing, just stood
there like a statue until Jimmy returned and be-
gan to tie his ankles together. Like a flash he
turned and kicked Jimmy, knocking him over on
the floor, and then dashed for Blackey.

He paid no attention to Blackey's orders to
halt, he just continued to come on to Blackey
like an enraged animal of some kind. Blackey
backed away from him remarking as he did so:

"Another step and I'll blow your brains out.
Stop ! before I kill you !"

With a spring he was on Blackey, swinging his
"billy" at his head with one hand and trying to
grab Blackey's gun with the other. They both
went to the floor, fighting, rolling over and over
in a death-like embrace. Once or twice the big,
burly cop succeeded in hitting Blackey on the
head with his "billy." This enraged him, so he
tossed his gun to one side and determined to end
the farce right then and there. With his super-
human strength he wrenched the "billy" from
the fighting cop's hand, picked him up clean from
the floor and hit him an uppercut and then stood
to one side while he fell to the floor unconscious.

Jimmy raised his gun to bang him over the
head, but Blackey, quick as a flash, stopped him.

"Never mind that slugging, Jimmy, tie him up
quick, while he is out."

When the battling patrolman came to he was
securely bound and gagged. They carried him
back to the room with the other cop and the
watchman.

"That fellow is a regular Hackenschmidt,"
lauehed Blackey.

"He nearly put that big hoof of his through me
stomach," said Timmy. "Whv didn't y' shoot
him?"

"Because I knew that I could handle him,"
replied Blackey as his mind for the moment
drifted back to his days at Yale when he was
recognized as the inter-collegiate heavyweight
wrestling champion.

"Come on. let's get out of here," he continued
"before we have any more cops coming in on us."

The streets were deserted as they stepped out
of the bank. They started up the street toward
their car which was parked about three blocks
away. They had just gotten into it and started
the motor when an officer turned the corner and
hailed them : .

"Hey, wait a minute!" he shouted.

"Go on." said Blackey to Jimmy, "don't stop."

Jiipmy gave her the gas. but the cop jumped on
the funning board before he got going rapidly.

"Stop this c — " : before he could finish, Blackey
hit him and knocked him sprawling off the run-

THIRD INSTALMENT

IBll!llllllll!lll;llll!llllllllllllllillllil!lll!!!lllllllllllli:lllllllll!llll

iiiiiiniiiiiiii iiiiiiiimiiiiinmiuiu

graduate
utilizes his

SYNOPSIS

Jack Kennard, a great athlete and a
of the Yale school of Chemistry, u
knowledge of chemistry to make a new liquid
explosive with which he proposes to burglarize
banks to get funds to build a hospital for his
friend, Henry Haberly. the noted neuro-patholo-
gist, who is interested in reclaiming criminals
by scientific methods. He rescues a crook from a
policeman in Central Park and makes a pal
of the crook, "Jimmy" O'Connor. Together they
plan the robbery of the Arlington National Bank
in Philadelphia. Kennard, in the uniform of a
Captain of Police, visits the president of the bank
and makes arrangements with him to be ad-
mitted to the bank that night with his pal,
Jimmy, so that they can make the capture of the
supposed burglars. They succeed in getting into
the bank and tie and gag the watchman. Blackey
then prepares to blow the safe open while Jimmy
makes the rounds of the bank and punches the
alarm clocks. The phone rings and Blackey
answers it It is Mr. Barker, the President of
the bank. Blackey tells him that he has cap-
tured the burglars and that if he will come to
headquarters in the morning he may see them.
They have secured the money and are preparing
to go when they hear voices outside the door.

ning board into the street. They tore up Race
Street to North Broad and within a few mo-
ments they were on their way to New York.

"Some night!" declared Jimmy.

"Lots of thrills, eh, Jimmy?"

"Too damn many for me" he replied, "dis jug
game is some racket. I'll tell the world that."

"We've got to ditch "this car somewhere between
here and New York," said Blackey, "and we've
also got to plant this money. We can't go into
New York early in the morning carrying three
or four hundred thousand dollars."

"It's a good thing that we had phoney numbers
on it or dat cop would have us dead to rights !"
exclaimed Jimmy.

"Right you are, Jimmy."

They went through Trenton at a fifty-mile-an-
hour gait and when they struck a patch of woods
on the outskirts, Blackey made Jimmy pull into-
them.

"Wat's the idea." inquired Jimmy, "you don't
mean to tell me that y're going to ditch the boat
here, do y'?"

Blackey made no reply until he had finished the ,
job and then he simply said: "Get the bags and
move away." He lighted the fuse, a terrific de-
tonation followed, blowing the car to pieces.

"That eliminates any clue that the Philadelphia
police may have as far as the automobile is con-
cerned. Now let's plant the money and those
bonds." Three or four miles further up the road
they dug a hole and "stashed" (hid) the proceeds
of the Arlington Bank.

"Now." said Blackey. "if we should happen to
meet anybody we're all right.

They walked back to the Pennsylvania Station
in Trenton and caught an early morning passen-
ger train into New York. They went direct to
Blackey's apartment snd retired. They were dog
tired after their eventful night, and were soon
sound asleep.

About ten minutes to nine, the morning
after the robbery. President Barker of the Arling-
ton National Bank walked into the police sta-
tion of the sixth precinct to keep his appointment,
with "Captain Worthington." He was rather en-
thused over the thought of having a look at a
couple of real, live bank _ burglars in the flesh.
He stepped jauntily up to the desk, handed
his card to the Lieutenant on duty and said:

"I want to see Captain Worthington. please."

The Lieutenant took the card, looked at it and
then said :

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barker, but Captain Worthing-
ton isn't on duty today."

"I had an engagement with him here at nine
o'clock, possibly I'm a little early," he said as
he pulled out his watch.

His statement that he had an engagement with
the Captain caused the Lieutenant to get up from
his desk and inquire rather suspiciously:

."You say that you had an engagement with
Captain Worthington to meet him here at nine
o'clock, Mr. Barker?"

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"There must be some mistake, Mr. Barker.
May I ask when you made this engagement?"

"I think it was about quarter past twelve last
night."

"Quarter past twelve last night ?" repeated the
Lieutenant.

"I think it was about that time," continued
Mr. Barker.

"Were you talking with the Captain personally ?"

"Yes," he answered.

"I don't understand this," declared the Lieuten-
ant, "for I was talking with the Captain in St.
Agnes's Hospital last night and he told me that
he didn't think he would be able to leave the hos-
pital for at least another week, possibly two."

"In the hospital!" exclaimed Mr. Barker ex-
citedly. "In the hospital!" he repeated. "Why
that can't be possible, for he was in my office at
the bank talking with me yesterday afternoon and
made arrangements with me and my watchman
to let him and his detectives in the bank to cap-
ture the burglars when they came to rob it. I
phoned him at the bank about twelve fifteen last
night, at which time he told me he had captured
the crooks and if I would be here this morning at
nine I could have a look at them."

"Captain Worthington has been in the hospital
for over three weeks I am telling you." shouted
the Lieutenant as he made a dash for the patrol-
men's rest room. He understood what had han-
pened and he lost no time in getting busy. He
pulled open the door of the room where ten or
fifteen officers were sitting around tables playing
cards and shouted :

"Go to the Arlington National Bank at Sixth
and Race, get the auto and beat it there as fast
as you can, the bank has been robbed."

"My God !" exclaimed Barker dramatically.

The Lieutenant grabbed him by the arm, pulled
him towards the door and yelled : "You go to the
bank with the officers in the auto. I'll phone De-
tective Headquarters to send detectives to the
bank at once."

Barker was a picture of dejection as he clam-
bered into the car and when he arrived at the
bank with the cops he was the first to jump out
and dash up the steps. He • hurriedly unlocked
the big iron door and made a bee line for the
vault. The first sight that met his eyes was the
two night patrolmen and the bank watchman lying
on the floor bound and gagged. He stopped and
looked at them for a moment and then continued
on to the vault. He pulled the door open and
stepped inside :

"By. God, they have taken everything !" he ex-
claimed in a voice ringing with emotion. "Every-
thing !" he repeated.

Up and down the bank floor he walked with
his hands in his pockets and his head bowed,
talking to himself excitedly, waving his hands,
trying to think, but only able to curse and swear.
He acted like a man who was bereft of all reason.

"By God ! by God !" he continually repeated to
himself. "This will ruin me as sure as hell, I
know it, I know it. I know it! What am I to do?"

He was really a pitiful sight as he paced the
floor to and fro like a madman. His secretary
came in while he was in the midst of one of his
semi-maniacal harangues. When he saw him, he
shouted more wildly than ever:

'Get the Harlan Safe people on the phone at
once !"

"Burglar-proof safe." he muttered to himself,
"burglar-proof safe be damned !" he repeated over
and over again.

"Here you are, Mr. Barker," said the secretary
as he got up from the desk. "Here's the Harlan
Safe people."

Page Twenty-four

He grabbed the receiver out of the secretary's
hand nervously and in a voice ringing with indigna-
tion he began:

"Mr. Watts there? Watts, yes, Watts! Put him
on, put him on 1

He stamped the floor nervously while he awaited
Watts' coming to the phone'.

"Hello, Watts. My bank has been robbed of every
dollar. Why did you represent that time lock safe
as being absolutely burglar-proof? Why did you do

it? Why, I ask you — I — I " Watts, on the

other end of the wire, interrupted him by saying:

"Y' don't mean to tell me that our time lock safe
was blown open ? Impossible, impossible !"

This was the last straw. If Mr. Barker was excited
and upset when he first be'gan to talk with Watts, he
was now a rip-roaring maniac, exasperated beyond
expression, and what he didn't say to Watts wasn't
worth saying.

"Impossible !" he shouted over the phone to Watts,
"I want you to come on down to the bank quick as
you can get here! and see how damn impossible it is
to blow open your time lock safe! Impossible be
damned!" he shouted as he put the receiver up with
a bang!

This news created consternation in the office's of the
Harlan Automatic Time Lock Safe Company, because
they really believed the safe to be absolutely burglar-
proof. A series of tests had demonstrated beyond
question that the safe could not be drilled and on
the strength of their representations that it was bur-
glar-proof nearly every bank in the United States had
purchased one 1 , and President Watts was a picture of
despair as he. grabbed his hat and departed for the
Arlington National Bank.

Mr. Barker was still pacing the floor when he
entered the bank. He grabbed Watts by the arm and
rushed him to the vault.

"Look at it!" he! shouted in a rage. "Look at it!"
he repeated. "Does that look as though it were
burglar-proof?" he inquired. "Hum!" he grunted,
and swore again.

Watts face was beyond any possibility of descrip-
tion in words. He just stood and looked at the devas-
tated mass of steel on the vault floor. He couldn't
talk. He and Barker were in Barker's office when
the detectives arrived from headquarters, and after
they had talked with the bank watchman and the two
cops who had been bound and gagged by the robbers
and had looked the bank over from one end to the
other for finger prints and clues of every sort they
advised President Barker that they wanted to take
a statement from him.

He recited in detail the story of the bogus Captain
Worthington's' visit to the bank, to all of which they
listened very attentively, and when he had finished
they quizzed him for an hour or more. His descrip-
tion of "Captain Worthington" was decidedly inac-
curate, conflicting in several instances. Once he
said he thought he was over six feet, another time he
thought he was unde'r six feet. He was sure that he
was clean shaven and that his hair was dark brown,
but he was not so positive about his height and weight.
He remembered the lisp in his voice and the gold
tooth.

"Ah !" said the detectives, "lisp in the voice 1 and
a gold tooth, eh? That's a real clue, Mr. Barker,
we'll get some results on this burglary, be patient."

"I hope so," he replied, "have y' got any ide'a as
to who they might be?"

"The gold tooth and the lisp in the voice gives us
a lead. We'll look over our gallery and see what
bank burglar tallies with your description," said one'
of the detectives.

"Do your best, boys," he said to them as they left
the office, "and I'll see that you're, well rewarded."

The news of the burglary quickly circulated amongst
the rest of the banking interests in Philadelphia aid
the! old Quaker City was aroused as it had never been
aroused before. Newsboys were on every street in
the hanking district with extras containing a sensa-
tional account of the robbery. "Full account of the
big Arlington Bank Burglary !" they shouted in. loud,
resonant tones. Bank employees dashed out of the
banks and bought the papers as fast as the kids
could hand them out, and it wasn't long before every
bank and every bank employee in Philadelphia had
heard of the burglary.

Detective!* from Police Headquarters were comb-
ing every nook and corner of the underworld of
Philadelphia for crooks with reputations as "iug"
men (bank burglars') and hauling them to the detec-
tive bureau. "Look for the gold tooth and don't
forget the lisp in the voice!," were the instructions
that Chief of Detectives Murray gave to his men as
they left the office.

A hurried me'eting of the board of directors of the
Arlington National Bank was arranged and it was
decided to call the celebrated detective, Mike Morrisey
of Boston, in on the case.

"He's the fellow to handle this robbery," they said.
"If there is a man in this country who can catch
these crooks, Morrisey's the boy."

They phoned his Boston office and ascertained that
he was in New York at the Knickerbocker Hotel.
Within an hour they had located him and he was on
his way to Philadelphia, arriving about noon.

It was recalled that he had been frequently con-

jlted by many of the European Governments when

the sleuths of Europe had fallen down on some bank

burglaries that occurred over there. On more than

one occasion, Chief Inspector Burroughs, of Scotland
Yard had called Morrisey in to help him and it was
only quite recently that he had solved the mystery of
the robbery of the Crown's Bank at Liverpool, which
was the work of three American crooks, Mark Shin-
burn, Tommy White and Jimmy Hahn, all of whom
Morrisey had run to earth after everybody else had
failed.

His methods, incidentally, were unique and orgi-
nal. When he consented to handle a case he did so
under certain conditions. He would never make an
arrest, neither would he appear in court as a witness.
He would gather all the evidence with one of his men,
Tom Sheehan, and when the case came to trial Sheehan
was the fellow who handed out the evidence that had
been collected by him and Morrisey. This procedure
enabled Morrisey to keep his identity more or less a
mystery and as a consequence there were very few
crooks in the underworld who knew him at sight,
though there we're not many of them that he didn't
know up one side and down the other. The "grifters"
called him the "human bloodhound" and he was the
only "dick" in the world who gave them any concern.

There was nothing about his personality that sug-
gested the detective. He was forty-four when he
took up the Arlington Bank robbery case. He stood
about five feet seven and weighed around one hundred
and fifty. His eyes were 1 probably the most attractive
part of him. They were dark brown ; small, gimlet-
like eyes that seemed to look into the bottom of your
soul, or away back into the very recesses of your
mind and read the things that you were thinking.
When deep in thought over some knotty problem in
criminality he invariably chewed on the end of an
unlighted cigar and twirled between the thumb and
forefinger of his left band a small pocket knife.

At two o'clock on the afternoon following the bur-
glary, he sat in the Arlington National Bank talking
with President Barker and the Board of Directors.
He had made a thorough examination of the wrecked
safe and the! vault. He had talked -with the bank
watchman, Kelly, and the two cops who had been held
up, bound and gagged by the burglars. He took down
a word for word statement of everything that was
said. He interviewed the burglar alarm representa-
tives and Mr. Watts of the Harlan Automatic Time
Lock Safe Company, and when he had finished he
made these remarks :

"This iob is the work of some master criminal.
New methods and a new explosive have been used.
I know every bank burglar that has been operating
in this country and Europe for the past twenty-five
yeiars and I know that there isn't one of them who
could open this safe. The fellow that engineered this
job is a brainy crook, a newcomer. I'll stake mv refu-
tation on that. It is the first bank burglary that I've
ever investigated that I didn't find a clue of some 1
kind or other. Of course Mr. Barker's description
of the gold tooth and the lisp in the voice of the
burglar with whom be talked in the uniform of a
Police Captain is going to be of inestimable help to
me, but I have a hunch that I'm starting out on a
long trail. I'll get 'im, you can depend upon that,
so I'll just ask you gentlemen to be patient for a
while." He looked at his watch and then announced
that he intended to catch the four o'clock train for
New York.

"I shall phone our New York chairman of the
American Bankers Association to meet you at t^e
Knickerbocker at seven," said Mr. Barker. "He'll
probably want to know all the details of the robbery
and confirm our employment of you.".

"Very well, sir," he replied, "I'll be glad to see
him. Good afternoon, gentle!men," he said as he
left them.

"Good day, Mr. Morrisey, good luck to you."

IT was close to seven-thirty when Blackey and
Jimmy woke up. The glittering, silver-like rays
from the bright, full moon in the star spangled
vault above came' streaming through the snow white
lace curtains and flooded the room with light. Blackey
got up, closed the window and stood looking out over
the park. _ He was strangely fascinated by the deli-
cate loveliness of the moon. With a sweep of his
eyes he took in the ultra-fashionable Hotel Plaza, the
Netherland's and the Savoy. He stood and looked
and thought. In his revery he traversed Fifth Avenue
from Fifty-ninth to Sixty-fifth Street with its man-
sions of wealth and splendor ; its liveried limousines,
finely gowned women and its luxury-ridden men. And
then he had a dim memory of wandering through a
labyrinth of the sordid home's of the poverty-stricken
tenements on the densely populated east side. He
saw privation, misery and sorrow everywhere; poorly
clothed, ill-fed men, women and children. A con-
temptuous sneer flitted across his face and his e"es
glowed with indignation as he turned from the win-
dow and muttered to himself.

"One feasts, the! other starves. One revels in lux-
ury while the other wallows in the mire of want, and
yet they talk of equality of opportunity, honor and
the golden rule and the brotherhood of man. Fine
bunk 1 Fine bunk ! It's the greed of the rich that
manufactures the conditions in society out of which
criminals are produced. No — it's no crime to plunder
their banks to help those that need help — no— I'm sure
it isn't."

He phoned for the evening papers and then jumped
into the bath.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Jimmy received the papers when the boy brought
them to the apartment and immediately began to
devour them looking for an account of the 1 robbery.

Across the front page ofTne Evening Mail he read :

"Bank burglars rob the Arlington National Bank
in Philadelphia, getting away with approximately
$350,000 in cash and negotiable securities. .The sup-
posedly burglar-proof Harlan Automatic Time Lock
Safe! blown to smithereens. One of the cleverest
pieces of work in the history of American crime and
evidently the work of a master criminal mind."
Jimmy's face lit up with a smile as he read this last
statement ; he continued on with the story :

"The American Bankers Association has called in
the celebrated detective, Mike Morrisey, of Boston, to
handle the case, who says that he is not going to
waste any time combing the hangouts of the under-
world looking for the 1 burglar who engineered this
robbery in the uniform of a Police Captain. Says he
will land the robbers within forty-eight hours."

Jimmy stopped reading right there and dashed into
the bathroom to Blackey shouting :

"It's all off, Blackey, it's all off! They got dat;
guy Morrisey on de jo-li. We better beat it, we better
beat it I tell you or he'll get us sure. Dat guy has
sent more jug men to de stir than all the rest of the
dicks in the country put together."

"Give me' the paper," said Blackey, "and quit your
raving."

Jimmy handed him the paper and he read it as
though he were reading the stock quotations, and
when he finished he handed it back to Jimmy remark-
ing :
. "Why so worried about this man Morrisey?"

"Dat guy will worry anybody," replied Jimmy.

"Forget him, Jimmy, forget him," declared Blackey.

"Forget 'im," repeated Jimmy, "how are y' going
to ferget a guy like dat? Do y' know that he is the
mug dat sent Mark Shinburn, Jimmy Hope, Tommy
White, Jimmy Hahn and all the rest of the jug men
to da boob? Do y' know dat?"

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Sure," said Jimmy.

"What does he look like, what age man is he?"

"He's a little short guy, wid a little mustache."

"How tall is he?" inquired Blackey.

"He's about five foot seven."

"What color is the mustache?"

"Kind'a brown," replied Jimmy, "wid a little grey
in it."

"How old did you say he was ?"

"About forty-seven or forty-eight."

"Does he know you? Ever arrest you?"

"No," answered Jimmy, "never."

"How long have you known him?"

"About six years," said Jimmy, "I . used to play
ball wid his boy, Johnny, when I lived in Boston."

"Sure you were never arrested in Boston, are you?"

"Never."

"I don't see any occasion for being so much alarmed
about this fellow Morrisey," said Blackey, "so forget
about him."

As a matter of fact Blackey was considerably
alarmed over Morrisey being in on the' case. He had
read something about his activities in hunting crimi-
nals both in this country and abroad, and while he
was wrought up. just a little over the matter he gave
no outward indications of it and went on with his
bath.

Jimmy's face wa.? a study. It was ' perfectly evi-
dent that he was doing a lot of thinking. He knew
Morrisey as no other underworld character knew him
and he 1 feared him more than all the rest of the dicks
in the country put together. He was a picture of
deep thought as he sat with his head between his
hands.

When Blackey finished his bath he picked uo the
oaper and be'gan to read it more attentively. When
he came to the part of the story where it stated that
the burglar who was in the bank in the uniform of
the Police Captain had a gold tooth and talked with
a decided lisp he laughed and said to Jimmy.

"I se«! they remembered my feigned lisp all .right,
Jimmy, they didn't forget the good tooth, either, so
I guess I had better take this piece of gold out of
my tooth right now. That little subterfuge has
thrown them off the trail."

"If you think that' will throw Morrisey off your trail
you're bugs," replied Jimmy.

The ringing of the phone interrupted their conver-
sation. Blackey got up and went over to answer it.

"Mr. Biddle calling you, Mr. Kennard, shall I
connect him ?"

"Yes, put him on," said Blackey.

"Hello, Jack," came the voice over the wire.

"Hello* there, George," replied Blackey.

"I want you to have dinner with me tonight."

"AH right," answered Blackey, "what time and
where ?"

"The Knickerbocker Grill at eight-thirty. How's
that suit you?"

"All right."

"I have an interesting friend who wants to meet
you," said Biddle.

"Who is she?" laughed Blackey.

"It isn't a she," replied Biddle, "it's a he, a de-
tective.

"A detective? What detective?" inquired Blackey.

"It's a man you've heard of, Detective Morrisey,"
said George.

(Continued next week)

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twenty-five

A Fiery Romance of Love

by Otfpntani/eTerry

Doris, snatched from the
yellow car to the motor-
cycle, seeing the trees, the
telephone poles and fences
melt together in a swift
blur, was not in the least
frightened. When a girl
earns her daily bread by
being snatched from one
harrowing predicament into
another, she isn't easily scared or upset. The
reason for her Cave Man's precipitate action had
not dawned on her, but her instinctive faith in
him was still strong. She threw a sidewise glance
at him, but his form and features were only a
part of the zig-zag lines that made up the kaleido-
scopic scenery.

"The speed-cops will get you if you don't watch
out !" she shrilled at him presently.

"If I land you in jail you'll be safe from kid-
nappers, anyhow," he roared back.

"My goodness 1" chuckled Doris to her suddenly
enlightened self. "Of course! He thought I was
really being kidnapped ! He doesn't know I'm an
actress. He thinks I'm somebody's pampered
darling being carried off for ransom! He thinks
poor old Jimpsey was a desperate villain. He
thinks he's a bold hero who has saved me !"

Instantly her mind was made up. He had been
a hero — in intent, and in deed. He had been quick,
resourceful, superbly daring. Well, he shouldn't
be made to feel ridiculous. She would not en-
lighten him.

"What an awful anti-climax if I said to him,
'Oh, that was only a movie melodrama you inter-
rupted,' " she mused. "No, he's my hero. I
wonder if I ought to sob on his shoulder. Well.
I couldn't while we are going so fast, anyhow."

But the cycle was slowing down. A moment,
and it stopped. He threw a quick glance back at
the long stretch of road, miraculously empty of
all traffic for a moment.

"Here's where we rest," he said, and lifted her
from the seat. "Run up there behind that clump
of shrubs and keep still. Quick!"

Obediently, Doris whisked herself out of sight
behind a huge bunch of rhododendrons that topped
a green bank a few feet back from the bou'e-
vard. An instant later a car came into sight,
another, another. He fussed with the brakes while
they passed without a glance at him. When the
road was clear again he lifted his cycle and came
with it to the shelter of the rhododendrons.

"I don't think there's any chance of that scamp
following us," he said, "but it's just as well t~>
lay up for a spell and make sure. Jove! You
took it well. Most gir's would have veiled their
heads off. You'd have been a wonder in France '"

"But they wouldn't take me." she sighed. "I
even told a lie. and I'm truthful, really. I said
I was twenty-six, but the Red Cross didn't believe
me, and the Y. M. C. A. just jeered at me !"

"How discerning of them !" he laughed. "Of
course you looked at least forty! Oh, well, I'm
glad you didn't get across." His eyes were moody
again and the deep lines had settled around his
mouth, ageing him twenty years. "It's good to
have someone left in the world who can shut
their eyes without seeing horrors !"

"Don't shut your eyes." she said. Impulsively
her hand went out to lie for an instant on his
sleeve. "Look at me. I'm not a horror exactlv.
Think what you've done for me, and I haven't
even tried to thank you."

"Don't! It wouldn't be right, really, when I'm
thanking Fate, over and over, in my heart, for
giving me a chance. I thought I'd never see you
again. My mind was made up not to follow you.
But my feet just walked themselves in the direc-
tion you took— and there was my chance. Hush-
sh-sh !'*

Abruptly, his hand closed over hers. As they
talked he had been breaking away twigs until he
had a little space through which he could look
up the ro^sd they had come. And now the yellow
car had flashed into sight, coming on at a furious
pace. Doris had a glimpse of the man at 'the
wheel, his face grotesque in its makeup, set and
determined. Just abreast of them he slowed,
suddenly, and came to a resounding^ stop. For a
moment his eyes scanned everything in sight.

SECOND INSTALMENT

iiiiMti>*i>tmiiiiiiimii>!imi;tiiiiiii!iiiiiiiir

SYNOPSIS

Doris Dalrymple, beautiful screen star, out
with her company on location 'wanders away
during a lull in the work and meets a young man,
Jerry Griswold, former soldier, who is now out of
work. He tells her of his ambitions and she sym-
pathizes with him.

She then starts back to where the company are
staging the next scene and Jerry, following her
with his eyes, sees her picked by a man in a
yellow racer and thinks she is kidnapped. In
reality, she is merely taken up by one of the
players in a scene they are working on but Jerry,
not knowing this, steals a motorcycle standing
near follows the yellow car,

Doris and her companion stop their car and
the man, Jimpsey, the villian of the company, goes
into a store, while Jerry following on his ma-
chine, perceives his advantage and, swooping
down on the motionless car, snatches Doris and
dashes away just as Jimpsey comes out of the
doorway. He also thinks Doris is being kidnapped

and, in turn follows the fleeing motorcycle.

When they lingered an instant on the clump of
rhododendrons her heart began to thump as if
real danger threatened, and the pressure on her
fingers tightened reassuringly.

"He can't help seeing my light frock," she
thought, and realized in the same instant that the
rose color of it would be only a part of the
masses of pink and white bloom, from Jimpsey's
viewpoint.

How clever the man beside her was to have
seen that and hidden her there instead of in
the clump of yellow gorse a few yards away !

It seemed an hour to Doris before Jimpsey
humped himself over the wheel'and the yellow
car darted ahead again. Promptly, yet with an
impression of reluctance, the man released her
fingers.

"Now we know where we are at," he said. "I
wonder what the brute thought he coukhdo if
he found you. Take you away from me, T sup-
pose. Well, anybody'd have to go some to get
you away from me, now."

Her laughter rippled out. He flushed, and fell
back to earth with a jar. "I must get you home,
right awav." he satd almost brusquely. "Your
fami'y will be frantic. Someone was with you
at the park, of course. Do they realize what
happened ?"

A swift vision of. Tony Valentine, ranting up
and down on the green grass plot, wondering
why his star and his heavy man took so long about
their elopement shot through Doris' mind and she
laughed again.

"I had just slipped out of sight of — of my
maid," she said, "It's not the first time. She'll
think I went, home by subway. She'll go storm-
ing back with. the chauffeur. They won't worry
at home, as long as I'm not too late. They'il
only be awfullv angry."

"There. I did that very well !" she told herself.
"I never knew I had so much imagination. Maybe
I could write scenarios !"

"Well, I suppose we must start," he said: but
he made no move. It was cool and pleasant there,
with the breeze just stirring the clumps of pink
and' white bloom and the sun bringing up a- faint,
spicy fragrance from the warm earth all around.
Doris knew she should rush to a telephone, get a
message to the studio, to Tony Valentine, to
poor Jimrjsey. But instead she "turned her brown
eyes on her caveman, reducing him to utter help-
lessness.

"Tell me about yourself," she demanded. "What
can you do, and what kind of job do you want,
and — and everything."

"My name is Gerald Griswold, commonly
known as Jerry," he answered promptly. "Like
Lochinvar I came out of the west, with high

ambitions, but unlike him, my steed was not
the best through all the wide border. It didn't
carry me anywhere — only as far as the chorus.
Then the war came, and — and that's all."

"That's just the beginning. But of course you
won't tell about the war — none of the nice men
will. So we'll get down to the present. What
can you do?"

He threw back his head with a joyous aban-
donment of mirth that she had not seen in him
before. "For a daughter of luxury, you've got
a practical turn of mind," he declared. "I bet
vour dad made his money himself! Well, I can
sing, but I won't! I'm through with that kind of
stuff. And I can run anything that has an
engine it it."

"Engineering is a good profession," she mused.

"It is. But I- don't know engineering. I just
have a knack of making anything go, you know."

"How wonderful! The only thing I can make
go is a rocking chair. Can you fly? Were you
in aviation?"

"I wasn't— worse luck ! Or worse judgment,
rather. I joined up with the first thing at hand,
which happened to be the signal corps. But there
were chances to fly with other fellows, odd times,
and of course I took 'em. I could handle the
things all right. If the armistice had held off
I might have got a transfer to aviation."

"I see. Well, there are some awfully good jobs
for men who can handle plapes and motors and
all engine-y things. With the right introductions
. . ." She was thinking aloud now, wrinkling
her nose in the absurd little way she had when
considering a thing seriously. He stiffened at
once.-

"Thank you." But I'll find something soon. .In
fact, I have two or three rather good prospects.
Which reminds me that I must call on one of
them this evening. Where shall I take you?"

"Proud and independent. Won't have a girl
helping him get a job. Just the same I'll tell
Tony about him. He's so good-looking and maybe
he would think doing studio thrillers was a man-
size job," thought Doris, approving even while
she regretted. Aloud she said, "If you are going
into the city suppose you drop me anywhere that
won't take' you qut of your way. I can get a
car or a cab. or walk. I live in the East Sixties."

"I'll take you there, of course," he insisted. "I
don't intend to leave you until I know you are
safely home."

But in the end he was persuaded to let her
down on the Avenue. In truth she was afraid
Jimpsey might be hovering in front of the very
small and exclusive hotel where she lived. Then
the truth would come out. It hadn't occurred to
her that Timpsey would think she had been kid-
napped. She expected him to scold her furiously
for a mad prank and a wasted afternoon. And
Tonv — what would Tony say?

But the reason she invented for not letting
Terrv take her home sounded improvised and
bungling to him and hurt him bitterly. She didn't
want him to know just where she lived, h.e
thought ; she was af raid he would presume, would
ask to call ! He became suddenly very cold and
formal, standing on the curb, hatless. hand out-
held to say goodbye. The heart of Doris sank,
desolately. How could she manage another meet-
ing without taking from him the glow of hero-
ism? And he was so good-looking, and so real!

So because of her real sweetness and sincerity,
she bungled the matter still more! "I want to
see you again," she declared frankly, "I'm just
wondering how, or where. You see it's different,
oecause "

And then Jerry Griswold touched the heights of
the decent instincts and good breeding which
really were his by birth and training. For,
though his heart was sick with longingto see
this darling of fortune again, and again, and
again, he compelled his lips to say clearly and
crisoly :

"Don't wonder, or trouble. I quite understand.
It has been a pleasure, to know, you, even for a
few hours. Good-bye, Miss Rose-Girl."

So final was his tone, so definitely was she dis-
missed that her eyes filled with tears, like a
scolded child's. "I haven't told you my name,
have I?" she faltered. "I didn't mean not to."

Page Twenty-six

"I'll just remember you — always! — as Miss Rose-
girl," he said, and though his eyes yearned his tones
were firm.

"Then good-bye," she said, and turned quickly.
Terry's eyes followed her with longing, but he held
himself there until she rounded a corner. Then he
followed, wheeling the cycle beside him. It was no
part of his plan to let her out of his care until she
was safe, but he would keep so far behind she could
not know.

There was a high iron fence encircling this corner
lot and back of the fence 1 a tall green hedge. Jerry,
rounding the corner onto the side street, saw a blue
limousine standing a tew rods down, beside the curb.
A very smart chauffeur, touching his hat civilly, was
just speaking to Doris. She turned, rather surprised
and undetermined apparently, toward the car. The
chauffeur, hurrying her along a little, it seemed,
flung open the door.

"Her chauffeur and maid beat her home 1 ," Jerry
thought, amusedly. "Good sports to wait for hef
and not tell. I'll bet they worship the ground her
little feet walk on."

And then, with her foot on the step, Doris sud-
denly gave a little scream — a scream that was promptly
stifled by someone inside who put out a hand that
covered her lips while the chauffeur thrust her into
the car and banged the door.

For the second time 1 that day Jerry fell onto the
motorcycle and dashed forward, but with one spring
the chauffeur had taken the wheel and the blue car
was running swiftly eastward.

"That was a man's hand," Jerry told himself, riding
close behind the speeding car. "That wretch evi-
dently knew where she lived. He left the yellow car,
got the blue closed one, and hung 'round. He used
his bean while I like a fool let her go like that. He's
got her now, the dirty scoundrel. But if I keep them
in sight he can't "

His reflections ceased abruptly. For there, standing
on the curb beside his yellow roadster, in front of
a smart little hotel, was the' man whom Jerry was
anathematizing. His eyes were open very wide, his
mouth, too, was open. In short he was staring in the
manner commonly known as pop-eyed at the fleeting
limousine and the 1 pursuing motor cycle.

As they passed, Jerry out of the tail of his eye
saw the man spring into the yellow car and step on
the gas.

"It's an accomplice of his in the blue car," Jerry
decided. "He was waiting for it. Well, he'll find
I'm in the game to stay 1"

"He maneuvered her into that blue machine some-
how," Jimpsey was deciding as his car took up the
task of trailing Jerry. "IPs plain as day. Closed
car, curtains all drawn tight. And him following
along behind. Well, he'll find I'm in the game to
stay !"

The smart chauffeur whirled his blue car around
a corner, turning south. Jerry whirled his red
Indian around the corner, keeping close behind. Jimp-
sey essayed the same whirl with the 1 yellow roadst-r.
A taxicab whose driver was running under a bribe.
to make the Seventy-second Street subway by five-
fifteen, shot out to pass another car. Jimpsey
swerved to one side sharply. He escaped a collision.
But right there the street had been torn up for one
of the never-ending repairs to New York's sewage
system. A red flag warned of danger, but that didn't
help Jimpsey.

Two wheels of the yellow roadster went into the
excavation, which fortunately was too narrow to take
it all in. Jimpsey was hurled out, landing in the 1
heap of soft dirt that had been thrown up by the
excavators. Even with that good luck, he was stunned
by the shock and the car had two tires punctured.
Jerry, who had slowed down to watch, grinned glee-
fully and uncharitably.

"He's out of it for a little" while, anyhow," he ex-
ulted, and spurted ahead to regain his position next
to the blue car, which was just edging into the tangle
of traffic at the Queensborough Bridge.

"Here, you ! You 1 You with the Indian !"

Jerry heard the 1 voice, sharp, authoritative, but it
conveyed nothing to him. He had to dodge ahead of
two Fords, a Pierce Arrow and a mail truck, and
regain his position bv the blue car. They were going
across. Over into Long Island. Well, he would be
with them. All this in one 1 distracted minute, while
the voice boomed on.

"You, there! Stop!"

A shrill whistle, a sudden, confusing stonpage of
the tide of traffic all around him. A hand on his
shoulder. A heavy hand.

"Say. where' d' you think you're going ? Know enough
to stop when you're told, or don't you? Ever hear of
traffic laws ?"

Sickeningly, his predicament dawned on Jerry. He
had broken a traffic rule. He had not sensed that
the voice was bawling at him, so he had not heeded.
Thus his transgression was magnified !

.And as he waited miserably beside the uniformed
giant whose lifted finger could send him on his way
or point him to a trip to the station house, the
whistle blew again. The blue, car moved out on the
bridge', pushing smoothly on* with scores of other
cars packing in, a solid, swiftly moving mass, behind
it

DORIS, finding herself on the softly cushioned
seat of the blue limousine, quite comfortable
except for the firm pressure of a man's strong
fingers on her red lips, subsided instantly.
What was the' use of struggling? It was undignified
and could get her nowhere. Truly, a long experience
in perilous predicaments has its advantages. The
eyes that she turned on her captor were blazing with
indignation rather than fear. The man was well-
dressed, in a serge suit and cap, but a mask concealed
all his face except a pair of very dark eyes which
were regarding her with evident admiration.

"Terribly sorry to hold you like this," he 1 said
quietly. "I beg a million pardons. But I can't take
a chance on your screaming, right here in the busy
streets, you see. I assure you it won't be long."

An electric bulb was burning over their heads, so
it was quite light in spite of the closely drawn cur-
tains Doris scanned the man beside her. He returned
her gaze steadily and in a moment he felt the muscles
of her mouth twitch beneath his fingers, as if the
girl's inclination was to laugh.

"She may be a pampered darling, but she's got
oodles of nerve," he thought amazedly.

And suddenly Doris put up her hands — -such pretty,
slim hands they were, with only one old-fashioned
ring, set with a curiously tinted cameo.

Deliberately, glancing first at her fingers, then at
the man to see if he was following her, then back to
her hands again, she began to spell slowly, in the old
two-handed alphabet that every school child has at
some time used :

"I p-r-o-m-i-s-e o-n m-y h-o-n-o-r," went the pink-
tipped fingers. The brown eyes went up to his and
he nodded. The fingers went to their task again, "I
w-o-n-t m-a-k-e a-n-y n-o-i "

Before the word was finished he had removed his
hand. "Good girl !" he approved. "I'll say you're
game! Anybodv'd think you got kidnapped eveTy
day!"

"And they'd think quite right," snapped Doris.
"Kidnapped or something worse ! _ But I'm usually
given a chance to read up the part in advance. Now
may I ask what this is all about?"

Amazedly, his eyes regarded her. With a little 1
shrug he gave it up. The younger generation talk a
queer lingo!

"I'm afraid I can't explain just yet," he said. "But
you are perfectly safe 1 . Keen that in mind, no matter
what — er— -what queer experiences you may have."

"How nice of you !" Again there was no fear in
face or voice, only a thinly veiled sarcasm. "And
may one ask where this chariot is taking me?"

"One may ask, but unfortunately one may not be
answered," he smiled. "Better just let your mind
rest."

Into their talk cut a shrill whistle and the car came
to a halt. The girl's lips opened, and the 1 man's hand
flew up instantly, to bt arrested by her look of cold
scorn.

"My word means something," she said ouiet'y.
"Your chauffeur tricked me into this car with a lie
that I wouldn't have paid the slightest attention to
if my mind hadn't been completely occupied with
something important. He said something about my
friend Barbara wanting to see me, I believe. I hardly
noticed — like a little fool ! I'd be perfectly justified
in breaking my word, but I never did it yet, and you
shan't compel me to do it."

The whistle rang cut again. They moved ahead
rather slowly.

"The Queensborough Bridge," she murmured,
wrinkling her nose in her funny little' way. "Long
Island — now why should anybody want me on Long

Island ? Is Tony going to " She turned sharply

toward her companion, a question on her lips, but
thought better of it, and sank back against the cush-
ions, her mouth closing with a determined little snap.
For the next half hour she did not speak. The man,
thankful to be relieved of reproaches or questioning,
was silent, too.

When they came tc a stop, the chauffeur spoke
through the tube:

"Everything's all right."

There was real regret and reluctance in the voice
that said to the girl, "I'm terribly sorry, but I've got
to cover your eyes. It'll only be for a little while,
and you're perfectly safe. And I may as well tell
you that there's nobody to hear you if you screamed
your head off."

"I have no intention of screaming my head off.
And of course I cannot stop you, whatever you choose
to d"." said the girl. Her face was quite white now,
but the defiance' still lived, in eyes and voice. "My
strength would be nothing beside yours."

"You're a game little girl," he said, rather huskily.
and produced from his pocket a long silken scarf. She
did no*/stir as he wrapped it closely about her eyes.

"IWw strong and brave you must feel," she jeered,
but he made no reply except. "Now if you'll just give
me your hand and walk along for a moment, I shan't
have 1 to carrv you."

Disdainfully, she put her hand in his. She felt
herself helped from the car, led carefully across a
smooth space that felt sandy, over some rather jagged
rocks, guided to a seat in something that rocked a
little.

"A boat." she thought.

"Remember, you're quite safe," said the familiar
voice, and as she felt the boat shoot through the water
she realizeid that she was leaving the man of the

MOVIE WEEKLY

blue car on the shore. For the first time real fear
. clutched at her heart. She bit her lips and felt her-
self turning faint. With a little, shudder she lifted
both hands to her lips, determined not to let them
cry out.

"Nothing ain't going to hurt you, miss," said a
man's voice. "It's only a short run. Keep your
nerve up. You're safe."

The voice was rough, the soeech uncultivated. What
would this new captor be like, she wondered. He
would not be a gentleman in appearance, like the
other one ? Where 1 was she going ? What for ? What
possible object could anyone have in stealing her?
Would Jimpsey and Tony look for her, or would they,
maybe, think she had really eloped with the man of
the motorcycle? Was she 1 simply going out on a
new location and was the director doing this to
punish her for her afternoon's madness ?

The boat seemed lo be making good speed. She
could hear the engine 1 purring, and now and then a
slight movement from the man whom she knew must
be at the wheel. Desperately she fought, and con-
quered her panic. By the time' she heard the engine
shut off and the boat came to a stop she had herself
well in hand.

"Tust set perfectly still for a minute, if you please,"
said the man. "I'll pull the boat up and have you out
of there' in a jiffy."

He seemed to be bringing the boat alongside a land-
ing place now. In a moment she heard, to her im-
measurable relief, a woman's voice, full-throated and
rather pleasant.

"Well, you've brought our guest, haven't you? Let
me get in there and take that scarf off her. I guess
she'd like to be able to see about her again. There,
my dear, -everything's all right."

Doris felt deft hands wrestling capably with the
knot in the scarf. An instant and it fell from her
face. A woman, with a pleasant face and kindly
twinkling eyes, was bending over her, stretching a
hand from the rock on which she stood.

"Come." she said, "don't worry. Nothing's going
to hurt you. And supper's all ready for you."

D^ris glanced about her for an instant. The boat
had been run into a narrow inlet, and was shut in by
rocks. So there was nothing to see but the rocks,
the woman, tall and blonde and rather splendidly
built, and the man, short and dark, with snapping
black eyes and a cool, almost expressionless face.
"Come on," urged the woman again.
Doris rose, rather stiffly, glad to accept the aid of
the friendly hand. From the point where the woman
stood a flight of rough steps had been cut in the
stones. These they ascended, the woman keeping her
reassuring grasp on the girl's hand. At the top,
Doris stopped, with a little cry.

"Oh, a lighthouse I" she gasped. "I never saw one
close at hand before. Do you live here? Are we
going to have a scene here?"

The man and woman exchanged quick, puzzled
glances before the woman spoke. "No scenes, I hope,
miss. You're just going to make us a little visit and
rest up a bit. See, we have to go up the ladder. Are
you afraid to climb?"

Doris glance'd at the ladder, a narrow one, of iron,
painted red. It ran straight up, probably a hundred
feet, to a balcony surrounding the tall circular struc-
ture.

"Me, afraid of a little stunt like that?" she laughed.
"I wish I never had anything worse 1 to do." Lightly
she ran up, ahead of them both, while they looked
at each other in puzzled surprise.

"Lord, if she'd get hurt here," growled the man,
and the woman hurried up the ladder. Doris was
standing on the narrow balcony, looking at the" toss-
ing waters that stretched away on every side. Off to
the west the sun was dropping into the waves, turn-
ing them to molten Rold, and a blaze of glory ran
up the sky, melting off into vivid crimsons that paled
into rose and amber. From the 1 east twilight came
creeping, dulling the biueness of the waters. The girl
had forgotten all fear, all uneasiness. Her eyes were
like twin stars as she 1 turned to her new hostess.

"I never saw anything, so beautiful," she .cried.
"Do you live here all the time? It makes one feel
so — so clean, somehow, and holy,_ doesn't it ? And so
glad to be alive !"

Beside her the man spoke, civilly enough.
"I've got to report back to mainland before I eat,"
he said. "You two needn't wait. And IVe got to have
something of yours to take back with me, miss.
Something that can't be mistook. I reckon that ring
will do as well as anything."

"Mv ring?" Her eyes had widened and darkened.
"But I can't give that up ! Why should you take my
ring from me?"_

"You'll get it back, miss," put in the woman
reassuringly.

"But I can't let it go. It — it' was my mother's
ring."

"Well, what of it?" demanded the man. "Your
mother won't care. She'll be glad enough to see it.
Don't keep me waiting, nlease, miss."

"Glad to see it ? You don't understand. My mother
is d^ad. She's been dead three 1 years."

"She's been " abruptly, the woman broke off,

staring at the man who returned her gaze, his jaw
dropping foolishly. They seemed to be 1 asking each
other silent questions :o which they found no answers.
And suddenly Doris stamped her foot imperiously.
{Continued en page 31)

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Twenty-seven

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE

" The Business of Life "

{Continued from page 10)

"I'm not in the habit of leaving a sinking ship/' he
said curtly. .«*''' j

"Then — you will marry me— when She stopped

short and turned very white. After a moment the door-
bell rang again.

Desboro glanced at the clock, then shrugged

"Wh— who is it?" she faltered

"It's probably somebody after you, Elena"

"It can't be. He wouldn't come, would he?"

The bell sounded again.

"What are you going to do?" she breathed.

"Do? Let him in."

"Wha do you think it is?"

"Your husband of course."

"Then— why are you going to let him in?"

"To talk it over with him."

"But — but I don't know what he'll do. I don't know
him, I tell you. What do I know about him — except
that he's big and red? How do I know what might be
hidden behind that fixed grin of his?"

"Well, we'll find out in a minute or to," said Des-
boro coolly.

"Tim! You must stand by me now I"

"I've done it so far, haven't I? You needn't worry."

"You won't let him take me back! He can't, can he?"

"Not if you refuse to go. But you won't refuse — if
he's man enough to ask you to return."

"But — suppose he won't ask me to go back?"

"In that case I'll stand for what you've done. I'll
marry you if he means to disgrace you. Now let's see
what he does mean."

She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go.
The steady ringing of the bell was confusing and ter-
rifying her, and she glanced about her like a trapped
creature, listening to the distant jingling of chains and
the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door.

Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps com-
ing nearer, nearer; and she dropped stiffly on the sofa
as Desboro entered, followed by Car^ Clydesdale in fur
motor cap, coat and steaming goggles.

Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the
man stood looking at his wife through his goggles, with
a stlly, fixed grin stamped on his features. Then he
drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled in
his overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she
had left for him, laid it on the table between them, and
sat down heavily, filling the leather armchair with his
bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After a moment's
silence, he pointed at the note.

"Well," she said, with an effort, "what of it! It's
true — what this letter says."

"It isn't true yet, is it?" asked Clydesdale simply.

"What do you mean?"

But Desboro understood him, and answered for her
with a calm shake of his head. Then the wife under-
stood, too, and the deep color dyed her skin from throat
to brow.

"Why do you come here— after reading that?" She
pointed at the letter. "Didn't you read it?"

Clydesdale passed his hand slowly over his perplexed
eyes.

"I came to take you home. The car is here."

"Didn't? you understand what I wrote? Isn't it plain
enough?" she demanded -excitedly.

"No. You'd better get ready, Elena."

"Is that as much of a man as you are — when I tell
you I'd rather be Mr. Desboro's "

Something behind the fixed grin on her husband's
face made her hesitate and falter. Then he swung
heavily around and looked at Desboro.

"How much are you in this, anyway?" he asked, still
grinning.

"Do you expect an answer?"

"I think I'll get one."

"I think you won't get one out of me."

"Oh. So you're at the bottom of it all, are you?"

"No doubt. A woman doesn't do such a thing un-
persuaded. If you don't know enough to look after
your own wife, there are plenty of men who'll apply
for the job— as I did."

"You're a very rotten scoundrel, aren't yon?" said
Clydesdale, grinning.

"Oh. so-so. '

Clydesdale sat very still, his grin unchanged, and
Desboro looked him over coolly.

"Now. what do you want to do? You and Mrs.
Clydesdale can remain here to-night, if you wish. There
are plenty of bedrooms "

Clydesdale rose, bulking huge and menacing in his
furs; but Desboro, sitting on the edge of the table, con-
tinued to swing one foot gently, smiling at danger.

And Clydesdale hesitated, then veered around to-
ward his wife, with the heavy movement of a perplexed
and tortured bear.

"Get your furs on," he said, in a dull voice.

"Do you wish me to go home?"

"Get your furs on I" "

"Do you wish me to go home, Cary?"

"Yes. Good God ! What do you suppose I came
here for?"

She walked over to Desboro and held out her hand:

"No wonder women like you. Good-bye — and if I come
again — may I remain?"

"Don't come," toe said, smiling, and holding her coat
for her.

Clydesdale strode forward, took the fur garment from
Desboro's hands, and held it open. His wife looked up
at him. shrugged her shoulders, and suffered him to
invest her with the coat.

After a moment Desboro said:

"Clydesdale, I am not your enemy, I wish you good
luck."
■ "You go to hell," said Clydesdale thickly.

Mrs. Clydesdale moved toward the door, her husband
on one side, Desboro on the other, and so, along the
hall in silence, and out to the porch, where the glare
of the acetylenes lighted up the frozen drive.

"It feels like rain," observed Desboro. "Not a very

gay outlook for Christmas. All the same, I wish you a
happy one, Elena. And, really, I believe you could have
it, if you cared to.".

"Thank you, Jim. You have been mistakenly kind to
,me. I am afraid you will have to be crueller some day.
Good-bye— till then."

Clydesdale had descended to the drive and was con-
ferring with the chauffeur. Now he turned and looked
up at his wife. She went down the steps with Desboro,
and he nodded good-night. Clydesdale put her into
the limousine and then got in after her. ,

A few moments later the red tail-lamp of the motor
disappeared among the trees bordering the drive, and
Desboro turned and walked back into the house.

"That," he said aloud to himself, "settles the damned
species for me! Let the next one look out for herself!"

He sauntered back into the library. The letter that
she had left for her husband still lay on the table, ap-
parently forgotten.

"A fine specimen of logic," he said. "She doesn't get
on with him, so she decides to use Jim to jimmy the
lock of wedlock! A white man can understand the Ori-
entals better."

He glanced at the clock, and decided that there was
no sense in going to bed, so he composed himself on the
haircloth sofa once more, lighted a cigarette, and began
to read, coolly using the note she had left, as a book-
mark.

It was dawn before he closed the book and went away
to bathe and change his attire.

While breakfasting he glanced out and saw that it
had begun to rain. A green Christmas for day after
to-morrow! And, thinking of Christmas, he thought of
a girl he knew who usually wore blue, and what sort
of a gift he had better send her wtien he went to the
city that morning.

But he didn't go. He called up a jeweler and gave
directions what to send and where to send it.

Then, listless, depressed, he idled about the great
house, putting off instinctively the paramount issue —
the necessary investigation of his finances. But he had
evaded it too long to attempt it lightly now. It was
only a question of days before he'd have to take up in
deadly earnest the question of how to pay his debts.
He knew it; and it made him yawn with disgust.

After luncheon he wrote a letter to one Jean Louis
Nevers, a New York dealers in antiques, saying that he
would drop in some day after Christmas to consult Mr.
Nevers on a matter of private business.

And" that is as far as he got with his very vague
plan for paying off an accumulation of debts which, at
last, were seriously annoying him.

The remainder of the day he spent tramping about
the woods of Westchester with a pack of nondescript
dogs belonging to him. He liked to walk in the rain;
he liked his mongrels.

In the evening he resumed his attitude of unstudied
elegance on the sofa, also his book; using Mrs. Clydes-
dale's note again to mark his place.

Mrs. Quant ventured to knock, bringing some "magic
drops," which he smilingly refused. Farris announced
dinner, and he dined as usual, surrounded by dogs and
cats, all very cordial toward the master of Silverwood,
who was unvaryingly so just and so kind to them.

After dinner he lighted a pipe, thought idly of the
gfr! in blue, hoped she'd like his gift of aquamarines,
and picked up his book again, yawning.

He had had about encugh of Silverwood, and he was
realizing it. He had had more than enough of women,
too.

The next day, riding one of his weedy hunters over
Silverwood estate, he encountered the daughter of a
neighbor, an old playmate, of his when summer days were
half a year long, and yesterdays immediately became
embedded in the middle of the middle ages.

She was riding a fretful, handsome, Kentucky three-
year-old, and sitting nonchalantly to his exasperating
and jiggling gait.

The girl was one Daisy Haramerton — the sort men
call "square" and "white, and a "good fellow"; but
she was softly rounded and dark, and very feminine.

She bade him good morning in a friendly voice; and
her voice and manner might well have been different, for
Desboro had not behaved very civilly toward her or
toward her family, or to any of his Westchester neigh-
bors for that matter: and the rumors of his behavior
in New York were anything but pleasant to a young
girl's ears. So her cordiality was the more to her
credit.

He made rather shame-faced inquiries about her and
her parents, but she lightly put him at his ease, and
they turned into the woods together on the old and
unembarrassed terms of comradeship.

"Captain Herrendene is back. Did you know it?"
she asked.

"Nice old bird." commented Desboro. "I must look
him up. Where did he come from — Luzon?"

"Yes. He wrote us. Why don't you ask him up for
the skating, Jim?"

"What skating?" said Desboro, with a laugh. "It
will be a green Christmas, Daisy — it's going to rain
again. Besides," he added, "I shan't be here much
longer."

"Oh, I'm -sorry."

He reddened. "You always were the sweetest thing
in Westchester. Fancy your being sorry that I'm going
back to town when I've never once ridden over to see
you as long as I've been here!"

She laughed. "We've known each other too long to
let such things make any real difference. But you have
been a trifle negligent."

"Daisy, dear, I'm that way in everything. If any-
bodv asked me to name the one person I would not
neglect, I'd name you. But you see what happens —
even to you! I don't know — I don't seem to have anv
character. I don't know what's the matter .with me "

"I'm afraid that you have no beliefs, Jim."

"How can I have any when the world is so rotten

after nineteen hundred years of Christianity?"

"I have not found it rotten."

"No, because you live in a clean and wholesome
circle."

"Why don't you, too? You can live where you please,
can't you?".

He laughed and waved his hand toward the horizon.

"You know what the Desboros have always been.
You needn't pretend you don't. All Westchester has
it in for us. But relief is in sight," he added, with
mock seriousness. "I'm the last of 'em, and your chil-
dren, Daisy, won't have to endure the morally painful
necessity of tolerating anybody of my name in the
county."

She smiled: "Jim, you could be so nice if you only
would."

"What! With no beliefs?"

"They're so easily acquired."

"Not in New York town, Daisy."

"Perhaps not among the people you affect. But
such people really count for so little — they are only a
small but noisy section of a vast and quiet and whole-
some community. And the noise and cynicism are both
based on idleness, Jim. Nobody who is busy is desti-
tute of beliefs. Nobody who is responsible can avoid
ideals."

"Quite right," he said. "I am idle and irresponsible.
But, Daisy, it's as much a part of me as are my legs and
arms, and head and body, I am not stupid; X have
plenty of mental resouices; I am never bored; I enjoy
my drift through life in an empty tub as much as the
man who pulls furiously through it in a rowboat loaded
with ambitions, ballasted with brightly moral resolves,
and buffeted by the cross seas of duty and conscience.
That's rather neat, isn't it?"

"You can't drift safely very long without ballast,"
said the girl, smiling.

"Watch me."

She did not answer Miat she had been watching him
for the last few years, or tell him how it had hurt her
to hear his name linked with the gossip of fashionably
vapid doings among idle and vapid people. For his
had been an inheritance of ability and culture, and the
leisure to develop both. Out of idleness and easy virtue
had at last emerged, three generations of Desboros full
of energy and almost ruthless ability — his great-grand-
father, grandfather and father— but he, the fourth gener-
ation, was throwing back into the melting pot all that
his father and grandfathers had carried from it — even
the material part of it. Land and fortune, were
beginning to disappear, together with the sturdy mental
and moral qualities of a race that had almost overcome
its vicious origin under the vicious Stuarts. Only the
physical stamina as yet seemed to remain intact; for
Desboro was good to look upon.

"An odd thing happened the other night — or, rather,
early in the morning," she said. "We were awakened
by a hammering at the door and a horn blowing — and
guess who it was?"

"Not Gabriel— though you look immortally angelic
to-day "

"Thank you, Jim. No; it was Cary and Elena Clydes-
dale, saying that their car had broken down. What a
ridiculous hour to be motoring! Eelena was half dead
with the cold,too. It seems they'd been to a party
somewhere and were foolish enough to try to motor back
to town. They stopped with us and took the noon train
to town. Elena told me to give you her love; that's
what reminded me."

"Give her mine when you see her," he said pleasantly.

When he returned to his house he sat down with a
notion of trying to bring order out of the chaos into
which his affairs had tumbled. But the mere sight of
his desk, choked with unanswered letters and unpaid
bills, sickened him, and he threw himself on the sofa
and picked up his book, determined to rid himself of
Silverwood House and all its curious, astonishing and
costly contents.

"Tell Riley to be on hand Monday," he said to Mrs.
Quant that evening. "I want the cases in the wing
rooms and the stuff in the armory cleaned up, because
I expect a Mr. Nevers to come here and recatalogue the
entire collection next week."

"Will you be at home, Mr. James ? " she asked
anxiously.

"No. I'm going South, duck- shooting. See that
Mr. Nevers is comfortable if he chooses to remain here;
for it will take him a week or two to do his work in the
armory, I suppose. So you'll have to start both fur-
naces to-morrow, and keep open fires going, or the man
will freeze solid. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, . sir. And if you are going away, Mr. James,
I could pack a little bottle of 'magic drops'- "

"By all means," he said, with good-humored resig-
nation.

He spent the evening fussing over his guns and am-
munition, determined tc go to New York in the morn-
ing. But he didn't; indecision had become a habit; he
knew it, and wondered a little at himself for his lack of
decision.

He was deadly weary of Silverwood, but too lazy to
leave ; and it made him think of the laziest dog on
record, who yelped all day because he had sat down on
a tack and was too lazy to get up.

Sc it was not until the middle of Christmas week
that Desboro summoned up sufficient energy to start for
New York. And when at last he was on the train, he
made up his mind that he wouldn't return to Silverwood
in a hurry.

But that plan was one of the mice-like plans men
make so confidently under the eternal skies.

DESBORO arrived in town on* a late train. It was
raining, so he drove to his rooms, exchanged his
overcoat for a laincoat, and went out into the
downpour again, undisturbed, disdaining an
umbrella.

In a quarter of an hour's vigorous walking he came
to the celebrated antique shop of Louis Nevers, and
entered, letting in a gust of wind and rain at his heels.
Everywhere in the semi-gloom of the place objects
loomed mysteriously, their outlines lost in shadow except
where, here and there, a gleam of wintry dayfight
touched a jewel or fell across some gilded god, lotus-
throned, . brooding alone.

When Desboro s eyes became accustomed to the ob-
scurity, he saw that there was armor there, complete

Page Twenty-eight

suits, Spanish and Milanese, and an odd Morion or two;
and there were jewels in old-time settings, tapestries,
silver, ivories, Hispano-Moresque lustre, jades, crystals.
The subdued splendor of Chinese and Japanese armor,
lacquered in turquoise, and scarlet and gold, glimmered
on lay figures masked by grotesque helmets; an Ispahan
nig, softly luminous, trailed across a table beside him,
and on it lay a dead Sultan's scimitar, curved like the
new moon, its slim blade inset with magic characters,
the hilt wrought as delicately as the folded frond of a
fern, graceful, exquisite, gem-incrusted.

There were a few people about the shop, customers
and clerks, moving shapes in the dull light. Presently
a little old salesman wearing a skull cap approached
him.

"Rainy weather for Christmas week, sir. Can I be
of service?"

"Thanks," said Desboro. "I came here by appoint-
ment on a matter of private business."

"Certainly, sir. I think Miss Nevers is not engaged.
Kindly give me your card and I will find out."
"But I wish to see Mr. Nevers himself."
"Mr. Nevers is dead, sir."

"Oh I I didn't know "

"Yes, sir. Mr. Nevers died two years ago." And,
as Desboro remained silent and thoughtful: "Perhaps
you might wish to see Miss Nevers? She has charge of
everything now, including all our confidential affairs."
"No doubt," said Desboro pleasantly, "but this is an
affair requiring personal judgment and expert ad-
vice "

"I understand, sir. The gentlemen who came to see
Mr. Nevers about matters requiring expert opinions
now consult Miss Nevers personally.

"Who is Miss Nevers?"

"His daughter, sir." He -added, with quaint pride:
"The great jewelers of Fifth Avenue consult her; ex-
perts in our business often seek her advice. The
Museum authorities have been pleased to speak highly
of her monograph on Hurtado de Mendoza."

Desboro hesitated for a moment, then gave his card
to the old salesman, wno trotted away with it down the
unlighted vista of the shop.

The young .man's pleasantly indifferent glance rested
on one object after another, not unintelligently, but
without particular interest. Yet there were some very
wonderful and very rare and beautiful things to be
seen in the celebrated shop of the late Jean Louis
Nevers.

So he stood, leaning on his walking stick, the up-
turned collar of his raincoat framing a face which was
too colorless and worn for a man of his age ; and pres-
ently the little old salesman came trotting back, the
tassel on his neat silk cap bobbing with every step.

"Miss Nevers will be very glad to see you in her
private office. This way, if you please, sir."

Desboro followed to the rear of the long, dusky shop,
turned to the left through two more rooms full of
shadowy objects dimly discerned then traversed a tiled
passage to where electric lights burned over a doorway.

The old man opened the door; Desboro entered and
found himself in a square picture gallery, lighted from
above, and hung all around with dark velvet curtains to
protect the pictures on sale. As he closed the door be-
hind him a woman at a distant desk turned her head,
but remained seated, pen poised, looking across the
room at him as he advanced. Her black gown blended
so deceptively with the hangings that at first he could
distinguish only the white face and throat and hands
against the shadows behind her.

"Will you kindly announce me to Miss Nevers?" he
said, looking around for a chair.

"I am Miss Nevers."

She closed the ledger in which she had been writing,
laid aside her pen and arose. As she came forward he
found himself looking at a tall girl, slim to thinness,
except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose
crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged
untidily, curling across her cheek.

He thought: "A bluestocking prodigy of learning, with
her hair in a mess, and painted at that." But he
said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in
his voice which often sounded through his speech with
women;

"Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this
antique business, and who writes monographs on Hur-
tado de Mendoza?"

"Yes."

"You appear to be very young to succeed such a dis-
tinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers."

His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did
the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She
waited quietly for him to state his business.

He said: "I came here to ask somebody's advice about
engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my col-
lection."

And even while he was speaking he was conscious
that never before had he seen such a white skin and
such red lips — if they were natural. And he began to
think that they might be.

He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek
once more:

"I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence —
just as I would have spoken to your father."

She was still looking at him with the charm of youth-
ful inquiry in her eyes.

"Certainly," she said.

She glanced down at his card which still lay on her
blotter, stood a moment With her hand resting on the
desk, then indicated a chair' at her elbow and seated
herself.

He took the chair. ' ■

"I wrote you that I'd drop in sometime this week.
The note was directed to your father. I did not know
he was not living."

"You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection
of armor?" sne asked.

"I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silver-
wood," he said. "Evidently you have heard of the
Desboro collection of arms and armor,"

"Everybody has, I think."

He said, carelessly: "Museums, amateur collectors,
and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in
antiques have heard of it."

"Yes, all of them, I believe."

"My house," he went on, "Silverwood, is in darkest
Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the
collection, built a wing to contain it. It's there as he
left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor," he

added, "have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot
of those things have not increased in value since my
grandfather' s day ? "

"No doubt."

"And # the t collection is valuable?"

"I think it must be — very."

"And to determine its value I ought to have an expert
go there and catalogue it and appraise it?"

"Certainly."

"Who? rhat's what I've come here to find out*"

"Perhaps you might wish us to do it."

"Is that still part of your business?"

"It is."

"Well," he said, after a moment's thought, "I am
going to sell the Desboro collection."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, under her breath;
and looked up to find him surprised and beginning to
be amused again. .

"Your attitude i3 not very professional — for a dealer
in antiques," he said quizzically.

"I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro." She had
flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone.

"I am very sure you are?' he said. "Those who
really know about and care for such collections must
feel sorry to see them dispersed."

"I had hoped that the Museum might have the Des-
boro collection some day," she said, in a low voice.

He said: "I am sorry it is not to be so," and had the
grace to redden a trifle.

She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue;
and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was
in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something
about her face that had been interesting him — an ex-
pression which made hiin think sometimes that she was
smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled
corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by ^er
Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety
of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips.

To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered
what her smile might be like — all the while pretending
an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity.

She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some
conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her
lips were perhaps just a trifle too full — that there was
more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he
remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any
saint. Perhaps a course of banquets— perhaps a regime
under a diet list warranted to improve '

"Did you ever see the Desboro collection, Miss
Nevers?" he asked vaguely.

"No."

"What expert will you send to catalogue and appraise
it?"

"I could go."

"You!" he said, surprised and smiling.

"That is my profession."

"I knew, of course, that it was your father's. But
I never supposed that you **

"Did you wish to have an appraisement made, Mr.
Desboro?" she interrupted dryly..

"Why, yes, I suppose so. Otherwise, I wouldn't know
what to ask for anything."

"Have you really decided to sell that superb collec-
tion?" she demanded.

"What else can I do?" he inquired gayly. "I sup-
pose the Museum ought to have it, but I can't afford to
give it away or to keep it. In other words — and brutal
ones — I need money."
She said gravely: "I am sorry."

And he knew that she didn't mean she was sorry be-
cause he needed money, but because the Museum was
not to have the arms, armor, jades and ivories. Yet,
somehow, her "I am sorry" sounded rather sweet to him.
For a while he sat silent, one knee crossed over the
other, twisting the silver crook of his stick. From mo-
ment to moment she raised her eyes from the blotter to
let them rest inquiringly on him, then went on tracing
arabesques over her blotter with an inkless pen. One
slender hand was bracketed on her hip, and he noticed
the fingers, smooth and rounded as a child's. Nor
could he keep his eyes from her profile, with its deli-
cate, short nose, ever so slightly arched, and its lips,
just a trifle, too sensuous — and that soft lock astray
again against her cheek. No, her hair was not dyed,
either. And it was as though she divined his thought,
for she looked up suddenly from her blotter and he
instantly gazed elsewhere, feeling guilty and imperti-
nent—sentiments not often experienced by that young
man. '

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Nevers," he con-
cluded, "I'll write> you. a letter to my housekeeper,
Mrs. Quant. Shall I? And you'll go up and look
over the collection and let me know what you think
of it!"

"Do you not expect to be there?"
"Ought I to be?"

'I really can't answer you, but it seems to me rather
important that the owner of a collection should be pres-
ent when the appraiser begins work."

"The fact is," hfe said, "I'm booked for a silly shoot-
ing trip. I'm supposed to start to-morrow."

"Then perhaps you had better write the letter. My
full name is Jacqueline Nevers — if you require it. You
may. use my desk."

She rose; he thanked her, seated himself, and began a
letter to Mrs. Quant, charging her to admit, entertain,
and otherwise particularly cherish one Miss Jacqueline
Nevers, and give her the keys to the armory.
' While he was busy, Jacqueline Nevers paced the
room backward and forward, her pretty head thought-
fully bent, hands clasped behind her, moving leisurely,
absorbed in her cogitations.

Desboro ended his letter and sat for a moment watch-
ing her until, happening to glance at him, she discov-
ered his idleness.

"Have you finished?" she asked.

A trifle out of countenance he rose and explained that
he had, and laid the letter on her blotter. Realizing
that she was expecting him to take his leave, he also
realized that he didn't want to. And he began to spar
with Destiny for time.

"I suppose this matter will require several visits from
you," he inquired. .

"Yes, several." .

"It takes some time to catalogue and appraise such a
collection, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

She answered him very sweetly but impersonally, and
there seemed to be in her brief replies no encourage-

MOVIE WEEKLY

ment for him to linger. So he started to pick up his
hat, thinking as fast as he could all the while; and his
facile wits saved him at the last moment.

"Well, upon my word!" he exclaimed. "Do you know
that you and I nave not yet discussed terms?"
"We make our usual charges," she said.
"And what are those?"
She explained briefly.

"That is for cataloguing and appraising only?"
"Yes."

"And if you sell the collection?"
"We take our usual commission."
"And you think you can sell it for me?"
"I'll have to — won't I?"
He laughed. "But can you?"
"Yes."

As the curt affirmative fell from her lips, suddenly,
under all her delicate, youthful charm, Desboro divined
the note of hidden strength, the self-confidence of capa-
bility—oddly at variance with her allure of lovely im-
maturity. Yet he might have surmised it, for though
her figure was that of a girl, her face, for all its sott,
fresh beauty, was a woman's, and already firmly
moulded in noble lines which even the scarlet fulness
of the lips could not deny . For if she had the mouth of
Aphrodite, she had her brow, also.

He had not been able to make her smile, although the
upcurled corners of her mouth seemed always to prom-
ise something. He wondered what her expression might
be like when animated— even annoyed. And his idle
curiosity led him on to the edges of impertinence.

"May I say something that, I have in mind and not
offend you?" he asked.
"Yes— if you wish." She lifted her eyes.
"Do you think you are old enough and experienced
enough to catalogue and appraise such an important
collection as this one? I thought perhaps you might
prefer not to take such a responsibility upon yourself,
but would rather choose to employ some veteran expert.' 1
She was silent.
"Have I offended you?"

She walked slowly to the end of the room, turned,
and, passing him a third time, looked up at him and
laughed — a most enchanting little laugh — a revelation
as delightful as it was unexpected.

'I believe you really want to do it yourself!" he
exclaimed.

"Want to? I'm dying to! I don't think there is
anything in the world I had rather try!" she said, with
a sudden flush and sparkle of recklessness that trans-
figured her. "Do you suppose anybody in my business
would willingly miss the chance of personally handling
such a transaction? Of course I want to. Not only
because it would be a most creditable transaction for
this house — not only because it would be"* a profitable
business undertaking, but" — and the swift, engaging
smile parted her lips once more — "in a way I feel as

though my own ability had been questioned "

"By me?" he protested. "Did I actually dare ques-
tion your ability?"

"Something very like it. So, naturally, I would seize
an opportunity to vindicate myself— if you offer it—"
"I do offer it," he said.
"I accept."

There was a moment's indecisive silence. He picked
up his hat and stick, lingering still; then:

"Good-bye, Miss Nevers. When are you going up to
Silverwood?
"To-morrow, if it quite convenient."
"Entirely. I may be there. Perhaps I can fix it-
put off that shooting party for a day or two."
"I hope so."
"I hope so, too."

He walked reluctantly toward the door, turned and
came all the way back.

"Perhaps you had rather I remained away from
Silverwood."
"Why?"

"But, of course," he said, "there is a nice old house-
keeper there, and a lot of servants "

She laughed. "Thank you very much, Mr. Desboro.
It is very nice of you, but I had not considered that at
all. Business women must disregard such conventions,
if they're to compete with men. Id like you to be there,
because I may have questions to ask."
"Certainly — it's very good of you. I— I'll try to be

there "

"Because I might have some very important questions
to ask you," she repeated.
"Of course. I've got to be there. Haven't I?"
"It might be better for your interests." ■
"Then I'll be there. Well, good-bye, Miss Nevers."
"Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."

"And thank you for undertaking it," he said cordially.
"Thank you for asking me."

"Oh I'm really delighted. It's most kind of you.
Good-bye Miss Nevers.
"Good-bye Mr. Desboro."

He had to- go that time; and he went still retaining
a confused vision of blue eyes and vivid lips and of a
single lock of hair astray once more across a smooth,
white cheek.

When he had gone, Jacqueline seated herself at her
desk and picked up her pen. She remained so for a
while, then emerged abruptly from a fit of abstraction
and sorted some papers unnecessarily. When she had
arranged them to her fancy, she rearranged them.
Then the little Louis XIV desk interested her, and she
examined the inset placques of flowered Sevres in detail,
as though the little desk of tulip, satinwood and walnut
had not stood there since she was a child.

Later she noticed his card on her blotter; and, face
framed in her hands, she studied it so ldng that, the
card became a glimmering white patch and -vanished;
and before her remote gaze his phantom grew out of
space, seated there in the empty chair beside her^-the
loosened collar of his raincoat revealing to her the most
attractive face of any man she had ever looked upon in
her twenty-two years of life. * * ,'-.-, - *

Toward evening the electric lamps were lighted in
the shop; rain fell more heavily outside; few people ,
entered. She was busy with ledgers and files of old
catalogues recording auction sales, the name of the
purchaser and the prices pencilled on the margins in
her father's curious handwriting. Also her card index
aided her. Under the head of Desboro" she was able
to note what objects of interest or of art her father
had bought for her recent visitor's grandfather, and the
prices paid— little, indeed, in those days, compared

MOVIE WEEKLY

with what the same objects would now bring. And,
continuing her search, she finally came upon an un-
completed catalogue of the Desboro collection. It was
in manuscript— her father's peculiar French chirography
— neat and accurate as far as it went.

Everything bearing upon the Desboro collection she
bundled together and strapped with rubber bands; then,
one by one, the clerks and salesmen came to report to
her before closing up. She locked the safe, shut her
desk, and went out to the shop, where she remained
until the shutters were clamped and the last salesman
had bade her a cheery good night. Then, bolting the
door and double-locking it, she went up the stairs, where
she had the two upper floors to herself, and a cook and
chambermaid to keep house for her.

In the gaslight of the upper apartment she seemed
even more slender than by daylight— her eyes bluer,
her lips more scarlet. She glanced into the mirror of
her dresser as she passed, pausing to twist up the un-
ruly lock that had defied her since childhood.

Everywhere in the room Christmas was still in evi-
dence—a tiny tree, with frivolous, glittering things
still twisted and suspended among the branches, calen-
dars, sachets, handkerchiefs still gaily tied in ribbons,
flowering shrubs swathed in tissue and bows of tulle —
these from her salesmen, and she had carefully but
pleasantly maintained the line of demarcation by pre-
senting each with a gold piece.

But there were other gifts— gloves and stockings, and
bon-bons, and books, from the friends who . were
girls when she too was a child at school; and a set of
volumes from Cary Clydesdale whose collection of
jades she was cataloguing. The volumes were very
beautiful and expensive. The gift had surprised her.

Among her childhood friends was her social niche;
the circumference of their circle the limits of her social
environment. They came to her and she went to them;
their pastimes and pleasures were hers; and if there
was not, perhaps, among them her intellectual equal,
she had ben satisfied to have them hold her as a good
companion who otherwise possesed much strange and
perhaps useless knowledge quite beyond their compass.
So, amid these people, she had found a place pre-
pared for her when she emerged from childhood. What
lay outside of this circle she surmised with the inter-
mittent curiosity of ignorance, or of a bystander who
watches a pageant for a moment and hastens on, pre-
occupied with matters more familiar.

All young girls think of pleasures; she had thought
of them always when the day's task was ended, and she
had sought them with all the ardor of youth.

In her, mental and physical pleasure were whole-
somely balanced; the keen delight of intellectual ex-
perience, the happiness of research and attainment,
went hand in hand with a rather fastidious appetite for
having the best time that circumstances permitted.

She danced when she had a chance, went to theatres
and restaurants with her friends, bathed at Manhattan
in summer, when gay parties were organized, and did
the thousand innocent things that thousands of young
business girls do whose lines are cast in the metropolis.
Since her father's death she had been intensely lonely;
only a desperate and steady application to business had
pulled her through the first year without a breakdown.
The second year she rejoined her friends and went
about again with them. Now, the third year since her
father's death was already dawning; and her last prayer
as the old year died had been that the new one would
bring her friends and happiness.

Seated before the wood fire in her bedroom, leisurely
undressing, she thought of Desboro and the business
that concerned him. He was so very good looking —
in the out-world manner— the manner of those who
dwelt outside of orbit.

She had not been very friendly with him at first.
She had wanted to be; instinct counselled reserve, and
she had listened— until the very last. He had a way
of laughing at her in every word — in even an ordinary
business conversation. She had been conscious all the
whtie of his half-listless interest in her, of an idle
curiosity, which, before it had grown offensive, had
become friendly and at times almost boyish in its
naive self-disclosure. And it made her smile to re-
member how very long it took him to take his leave.
But— a man of that kind— a man of the out-world—
with the something in his face that betrays shadows
which she had never seen cast — and never would see —
he was no boy. For in his face was the faint imprint
of that pallid wisdom which warned. Women in his
own world might ignore the warning; perhaps it did
not menace them. But instinct told her that it might
be difficult outside that world.

She nestled into her fire-warmed bath-robe and sat
pensively fitting her bare feet into her slippers.

Men were odd: alike and unalike. Since her father's
death, she had had to be careful. Wealthy gentlemen,
old and young , amateurs of armour, ivories, porcelains,
jewels, all clients of her father, had sometimes sent for
her too many times on too many pretexts; and some-
times their paternal manner toward her had made her
uncomfortable. Desboro was of. that same caste. Per-
hpns he was not like them otherwise.

When she had bathed and dressed, she dined alone,
not having any invitation for the evening. After din-
ner she talked on the telephone to her little friend,
Cynthia Lessler, whose late father's business had been
to set jewels and repair, antique watches and clocks. In-
cidentlly, he drank and chased his daughter about
with a hatchet until she fled for good one evening, which
afforded him an opportunity to drink himself, very com-
fortably to death in six months.
"Hello, Cynthia t" ca41ed Jacqueline, softly.
"Hello! Is it you, Jacqueline, dear?"
"Yes. Don't you want to come over and eat choco-
lates and gossip?"
"Can't do it. I'm just starting for the hall."
"I thought you'd finished rehearsing."
"I've got to be on hand all the same. How are you,
sweetness, anyway?"

"Blooming, my dear. I'm craxy to tell you about
my good luck. I have a splendid commission with which
to begin the new year."
"Good for you I What is it?"
"I can't tell you yet" — laughingly — "it's confidential

business "

"Oh, I know. Some old, fat man wants you to cata-
logue his collection."

Page Twenty-nine

"He isn't fat, either. You're the limit, Cynthia!"
"All the same , look out for him," retorted Cynthia.
"I know man and his kind. Office experience is a lib-
eral education; the theatre a post-graduate course. Are
you coming to the dance to-morrow night?" '
"Yes. I suppose the usual people will be there ?"_
"Some new ones. There's an awfully good-looking
newspaper man fiom Yonkers. He has a car in town,
too."

Something — some new and unaccustomed impatience
— she did not understand exactly- what — prompted Jac-
queline to say scornfully:
"His name is Eddie, isn't it?' *
"No. Why do you ask?"

A sudden vision of Desboro, laughing at her under
every word of an unsmiling and commonplace conver-
sation, annoyed her.

"Oh, Cynthia, dear, every good-looking man we meet
is named Ed and comes from places like Yonkers."

Cynthia, slightly perplexed, said slangily that she
didn't "get" her; and Jacqueline admitted that she her-
self didn't know what she had meant.
They gossiped for a while t then Cynthia ended:
"I'll see you tomorrow night, won't I? Listen, you
little white mouse, I get what you mean by 'Eddie.'"
"Do you?"

"Yes. Shall I see you at the dance?"
"Yes, and 'Eddie,' too. Good-bye."-

Jacqueline laughed again, then shivered slightly and
hung up the receiver.

Back before her bedroom fire once more, Grenville's
volume on ancient armour across her knees, she turned
the illuminated pages absently, and gazed into the
flames. What she saw among them apparently did not
amiise her, for after a while she frowned, shrugged her
shoulders, and resumed her reading.

But the XV century knights, in their gilded or sil-"
vered harness, had Desboro's lithe figure, and the lifted
vizors of their helmets always disclosed his face. Shields
emblazoned with quarterings, plumed armets, the golden
morions, banner, pennon, embroidered surtout, and the
brilliant trappings of battle horse and palfry, because
only a confused blur of color under her eyes, framing
a face that looked back at her out of youthful eyes,
marred by the shadow of a wisdom she knew about—
alas — but did not know.

The man of whom she was thinking had walked back
to the club through a driving rain, still under the. fas-
cination of the interview, still exicted by its novelty and
by her unusual beauty. He could not quite account for
his exhilaration either, because, in New York, beauty
is anything but unusual among the hundreds of thou-
sands of young women who work for a living — for that
is one of the seven wonders of the city — and it is the
rule rather than the exception that, in this new race
which, is evolving itself out of an unknown amalgam,
there is scarcely a young face in which some trace of it
is not apparent at a glance.

Which is why, perhaps,' he regarded his present ex-
hilaration humorously, or meant to; perhaps why he
chose to think of her as "Stray Lock," instead of Miss
Nevers, and why he repeated confidently to himself:
"She's thin as a Virgin by the 'Master of the Death of
Mary'." And yet that haunting expression of her face .
—the sweetness of the lips upcurled at the corners — these
impressions persisted as he swung on through the rain,
through the hurrying throngs just released from .'hops
and great department stores, and onward up the wet
and glimmering avenue to his destination, which was
the Olympian Club.

In the cloak room there were men he knew, being di-
vested of wet hats and coats; in reading room, card
room, lounge, billiard hall, squash court, . and gym-
nasium, men greeted him with that friendly punctilious-
ness which indicates popularity; from the solashed
edge of the great swimming pool men hailed him;
clerks and curb servants saluted him smilingly as
he sauntered about through the place, still driven into
motion by an inexplicable and unaccustomed rest-
lessness Cairns discovered him coming out of the
billiard room:

"Have a snifter?" he suggested affably. "I'll find
Ledyard and play you 'nigger' or 'rabbit' afterward,
if you like."
Desboro laid a hand on his friend's shoulder:
"Jack, I've a business engagement at Silverwood to-
morrow, and I believe I'd better go home to-night."

"Heavens! You've just been there! And what about
the shooting trip?"
"I can join you day after to-morrow."
"Oh, come, Jim, are you going to spoil our card
quartette on the train? Regge Ledyard will kill you."
"He might, at that," said Desboro pleasantly. "But
I've got to be at Silverwood tomorrow. It's a matter of
business, Jack."

"You and business! Lord! The amazing alliance!
What are you going to do— sel la few superannuated
Westchester hens at auction? By heck! You're a fake
farmer and a pitiable piker, that's what you are. And
Stuyve Van Alstyne had a wire fo-night t^at the
du-'s are coming in to the guns by millions "

"Go ahead and shoot 'em, then! I'll probably be
along in time to pick up the game for. you."
"You won't go with us?"

"Not to-morrow. A man can't neglect his own busi-
ness every day in the year."

"Then you won't be in Baltimore for the Assembly,
and you won't go to Georgia, and you won't do a thing
that you expected to. Oh, you're the gay, quick-change
artist! And don't tell me it's business, either," he
added suspiciously.
"I do tell you exactly that."
"You mean to say that nothing except sheer, dry

keep me busy tomorrow "

The color slowly settled under Desboro's cheek bones:
"It's a matter with enough serious business in it to

keep me busy to-morrow *

"Selecting pearls? In which show and which row
does she cavort, dear friend — speaking in an exquisitely
colloquial metaphor!"

Desboro shrugged: "I'll play you a dozen games of
rabbit before we dress for dinner. Come on, you sus-
picious sport 1"

"Which show?" repeated Cairns obstinately. He did
not mean it literally, footlight affairs being unfash-
ionable. But Desboro's easy popularity with women
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and his name was often connected harmlessly with that
of some attractive woman in his own class — like Mrs.
Clydesdale, for instance— and sometimes with some
pretty unknown in some class not specified. But the
surmise was idle, and the gossip vague, and neither the
one nor the other disturbed Desboro, who continued to
saunter through life keeping his personal affairs pleas-
antly to- himself.

He linked his arm in Cairns's and guided him toward
the billiard room. But there were no tables vacant for
rabbit, which absurd game, being hard on the cloth, was
limited to two decrepit pool tables.

So Cairns again suggested his celebrated "snifte»,"
and then the young men separated, Desboro t» go
across the street to his elaborate rooms and dress, al-
ready a little less interested in his business trip to
Silverwood, already regretting the gay party bound
South for two weeks of pleasure.

And when he had emerged from a cold shower which,
with the exception of sleep, is the wisest counsellor in
the world, now that he stood in fresh linen and evening
dress on the threshold of another night, he began to
wonder at his late exhilaration.

To him the approach of every night was always
fraught with mysterious possibilities, and with a be-
lief in Chance forever new. Adventure dawned with
the electric lights; opportunity awoke with the evening
whistles warning all laborers to rest. Opportunity for
what? He did not know; he had not even surmised;
but perhaps it was that something, that subtle, evanes-
cent, volatile something for which the world itself waits
instinctively, and has been waiting since the first day
dawned. Maybe it is happiness for which the world
has waited with patient instinct uneradicated ; maybe
it is death; and after all, the two may be inseparable.

Desboro, looking into the coals of a dying fire, heard
the clock striking the hour. The night was before him
— those hours in which anything could happen before
another sun gilded the sky pinnacles of the earth.

Another hour sounded and founft Htm listless, absent-
eyed, still gazing into a dying fire.

{Continued nest week)

Page Thirty

MOVIE WEEKLY

Finish This Y icture

Fill in the missing lines. See how close
you come to the original drawing. The
above picture was drawn by Student
Wynn Holcomb. We have a great num-
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work appears in magazines and news*
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Room 1819 Marden BIdg.

Washington, D. C

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Be a "Movie" Yourself

"Doug" as a Physical Culturist. He is a member
of the National Physical Culture Week Committee

It's all right to go to the movies but it's still better to be a "movie."
If you're in a mental or a physical rut, move out of it and make your
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Character follows self control, and the man or woman who practices real
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National
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May 1st to 8th

will be observed all over the United States.

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morning full of fight, and to go to bed at night fit for a good night's sleep.

You may be able to help promote National Physical Culture Week in
your own locality.

If you are interested, tell us what you think you can do.

Write for the Physical Culture Program — exercises. — ideal menu.

NATIONAL PHYSICAL CULTURE WEEK COMMITTEE

William Muldoon, Chairman

119 West 40th Street, New York City.

MOVIE WEEKLY

Page Thirty-one

ji Intimate Story of the Qish

Qirls' Triumphant Careers

(Continued from page 7)

trips she has been remarkably surprised at the spon-
taneous enthusiasm which their appearance has evoked,
especially in these times when members of the film
industry have been under fire.

As Dorothy said before she left for Louisville the
attacks upon picture actors and actresses have affected
her keenly: "When I walk down the street nowadays
and someone recognizes me, I feel like turning my
head so that I won't hear them say : 'Oh, there's an-
other one of those picture actresses. I wonder when
her story will be told on the front pages of the news-
papers.'

"When we went to New Orleans," Lillian related,
"we were fairly swept off our feet by the greeting
extended us. Our train stopped at some little station
en route and we heard some voices outside. It was
early in the morning and we did not want to rise but
we received a beautiful bouquet of flowers from an
old gentleman who had heard that the Gish sisters
were on board and wished to send them a mark of
his esteem.

"North of New Orleans an advance agent of the
theatre in which we were to appear boarded the
train. He looked a little shamefaced and we' won-
dered what was the matter with him. When w;e
reached New Orleans we discovered the cause of his
embarassment. There was a mob at the station ;
a brass band to escort us to our hotel, the mayor
greeted us and gave us the keys to the city, and
whenever we went to the theatre we had to storm
our way through the crowds. We 1 were dripping wet
by the time we reached the hotel the first day. and
Dorothy said, 'Now I know how it feels to be Presi-
dent,' for we were so busy standing up in the car so
the people could see us and nodding greetings to
them that we were worn out by the time we ended
our stay in the south."

This evidence of their popularity was deeply app-
preciated by both Lillian and Dorothy especially as it
occurred during the very week when the Hollywood
wires were busy bearing the reports of the Taylor
mystery. They were both eager to assert that they
believed the self-respecting members of the theatri-
cal and motion picture profession ought to make
some effort to reply to the! scandalous attacks to which
the newspapers have given so much publicity.

In their long career both of the Gish girls have
made many friends among the members of their pro-
fession. They have moved in the more social-mindrd
group of film players of the cast. In addition to their
friendship with the Pickfords born of the early days
of the film industry, they count the Talmadges among
their old friends. There is a spontaneity, a freshness
and youthfulness about them which is rare among
those devoted to the drama. They are unaffci ted,
genuine persons, with simple tastes. Real girls as so
many of their friends testify.

The kid company of "Oh Jo !" was so happy a vaca-
tion up Mamaroneck way as any party of young fclk
could conceive. "Oh Jo !" was one of Dorothy Gish's
comedies. It was taken on Long Island Sound, in
the Mamaroneck studio. The members of the com-
pany, Dorothy, Mildred Marsh, sister of Mae, Glenn
Hunter, Tom Douglas and others, were all youngsters
and they enacted the film with the vigorous enthusiasm
of youngsters. Playing in pictures, playing on the
beaches, tea-time dances, it was a glorious vacation
combined with glorious interesting work. And Dor-
othy's infectious laughter, her gay spirits, dominated
this business of playing. Only Dorothy Gish could
caintain such a spirit and keenly enjoy picture play-
ing in this manner, this sane, clean and peppy way of
working.

So it is with the other aspects of Dorothy's work.
She enjoys working as much as she enjoys living,
and that is a very great deal. Her husband, an actor

of note himself, returned recently from the coast, to
engage in a play on Broadway. She lives with him
on East 19th Street, New York, and theirs is a happy
menage 1 , indeed. When she has spare time, she spends
it with her beloved sister and her beloved mother.

Perhaps the shadow of this mother's illness saddens
the girls somewhat at this time. She has been seri-
ously ill for many months now. A trained nurse is
with her constantly, and it is pleasant to record that
she is gaining appreciably in health, although she is
still too ill to greet her many friends. Mrs. Gish is
a frail woman ; she has spent a difficult life. Those
who are acquainted with her are eager to express
their hope that she will live a long time to enjoy the
fruits of her efforts and of those of her daughters.

Lillian Gish has had the more extensive experience
of the two sisters. Her peculiar wistfulness of
expression, her ability to portray the simple girl
struggling against the manifold difficulties of life
and her remarkable dramatic power have elevated her
to an enviable position as an actress. She has that
sort of intelligence' which is based upon the assimila-
tion of experience by a capable mind. She has at-
tained power through herself, and is thus the more
sure of expressing that power to others. She is an
eager reader : on her library table are to be found
many standard works, numerous of the better class of
recent novels, and other evidences of her interest in
the intellectual life.

She surprises you most by her combination of
knowledge and youthfulness. As you look at her now,
she is just a girl like many another girl you have
met. She might be plodding her way hme from market
in some little Middle Western town; she might be
sitting with you in the parlor of her home, the daughter
of a prosperous business man. But when she speaks
to you, you readily ncte her superiority, her some-
what precocious wisdom. She startles you from time
to time with her knowledge of pictures and picture-
making. She has taken her work seriously, she can
talk about everything from the camera lens to how to
direct mob scenes. And she has similarly taken li^e
seriously ; she maintains an active interest in public
affairs. She has been watching with interest the
struggle between the friends and enemies of bonus
legislation. She wonders whether the bonus bill, if
passed, will not affect business unfavorably. She
notes the difficulties of the present winter for the
average actor. She tells of her observations of busi-
ness conditions about the country, of soup lines in
Sandusky, of how Pittsburgh was the last city to feel
the business depression. She is, you note, keenly
observant.

Then with regard to her personal life, you find she
possesses warm friendships. She remarks that
Jerome Storm, who directed her for a time 1 in her
sole individual effort, has written that he is the
happy father of a "bouncing baby," arid laughs with
pleasure at Jerry's gocd luck. She bubbles over with
enthusiasm for Mr. Griffith. He is the king of direc-
tors to her ; she marvels at his ability, his versatility,
and breadth.

Best of all. she loves her mother and her sister.
There is perfect harmony between these two girls ;
that you know at once. Only such harmony cou'd
have created the delightful scenes of. the departure of
the two orphans from their village home, the vivid
pantomime of their first encounter with the world on
the road to Paris. And Lillian's mother, and Dor-
othy's mother, is a rock upon which both of their
lives are 1 founded.

"Come again, very soon," she calls, as you bid her
good-bye.

You know you'll come, as you close the door, and
hear her call : "By-by !"

— Lewis F. Levinson.

THE END.

A FIERY ROMANCE OF LOVE

(Continued from page 26)

"What's all the mystery?" she demanded. "I'm
tired of being treated like this. Tell me what it's
all about."

The woman leaned forward staring, her face gone
white beneath its coat of healthy tan.

"Miss," she said breathlessly, when you stand like
that — what's your name, miss?

"It's Doris Dalrymple, of course," said Doris and
paused, aghast at the effect of her words, for the
man's face had flamed to sudden rage.

"It is not !" he roared. "She's making up a name.
Cut out the nonsense."

"Wait !" gasped the woman. She darted into the
open door and came out with a magazine, leafing it
feverishly,

"There, look !" she trembled. "When she stamped
her foot and stood like that, it came over me. ' She is

(Continued

Doris Dalrymple!"

The man looked. Doris looked. There, smiling
up from the* page, slender, defiant, imperious, was a
full length portrait of Doris Dalrymple, filmdom's
fairest favorite, as the printed line beneath the pic-
ture declared.

"They've picked up the wrong girl !" declared the
woman.

"The - blundering fools!" choked the man. "What
we goin' to do now, I ask you? We can't keep 'er—
we can't let 'er go!"

Flaming, suddenly bloodshot, his beady eyes looked
Doris up and down ami there was something sinister
in their depths, a menace' that grew and deepened,
bringing a vague, nameless horror to the girl's heart

"We can't keep 'er; we can't let 'er go!" he
repeated.
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