reatened to overwhelm him。 He would cross no bridge until he came to it。 He even combated this undercurrent of sanity by wording part of an interview with himself some day to appear in Photo Land：
〃Clifford Armytage smiled that rare smile which his admirers have found so winning on the silver screena smile reminiscent； tender； eloquent of adversities happily surmounted。 'Yes；' he said frankly in the mellow tones that are his； 'I guess there were times when I almost gave up the struggle。 I recall one spell； not so many years ago； when I camped informally on the Holden lot； sleeping where I could find a bed and stinting myself in food to eke out my little savings。 Yet I look back upon that time'he mischievously pulled the ears of the magnificent Great Dane that lolled at his feet'as one of the happiest in my career； because I always knew that my day would come。 I had done only a few little bits； but they had stood out； and the directors had noticed me。 Not once did I permit myself to become discouraged； and so I say to your readers who may feel that they have in them the stuff for truly creative screen art'〃
He said it； dreaming above the barren tray； said it as Harold Parmalee had said it in a late interview extorted from him by Augusta Blivens for the refreshment of his host of admirers who read Photo Land。 He was still saying it as he paid his check at the counter； breaking off only to reflect that fifty…five cents was a good deal to be paying for food so early in the day。 For of course he must eat again before seeking shelter of the humble miner's cabin。
It occurred to him that the blankets might be gone by nightfall。 He hoped they would have trouble with the fight scene。 He hoped there would be those annoying delays that so notoriously added to the cost of producing the screen dramalong waits； when no one seemed to know what was being waited for； and bored actors lounged about in apathy。 He hoped the fight would be a long fight。 You needed blankets even in sunny California。
He went out to pass an enlivening day； fairly free of misgiving。 He found an abundance of entertainment。 On one stage he overlooked for half an hour a fragment of the desert drama which he had assisted the previous day。 A covered incline led duskily down to the deserted tomb in which the young man and the beautiful English girl were to take shelter for the night。 They would have eluded the bad sheik for a little while； and in the tomb the young man would show himself to be a gentleman by laying not so much as a finger upon the defenceless girl。
But this soon palled upon the watching connoisseur。 The actual shots were few and separated by barren intervals of waiting for that mysterious something which photoplays in production seemed to need。 Being no longer identified with this drama he had lost much of his concern over the fate in store for the girl； though he knew she would emerge from the ordeal as pure as she was beautifula bit foolish at moments； perhaps； but good。
He found that he was especially interested in bedroom scenes。 On Stage Four a sumptuous bedroom； vacant for the moment； enchained him for a long period of contemplation。 The bed was of some rare wood ornately carved； with a silken canopy； spread with finest linen and quilts of down； its pillows opulent in their embroidered cases。 The hide of a polar bear； its head mounted with open jaws； spread over the rich rug beside the bed。 He wondered about this interestingly。 Probably the stage would be locked at night。 Still； at a suitable hour； he could descreetly find out。 On another stage a bedroom likewise intrigued him； though this was a squalid room in a tenement and the bed was a cheap thing sparsely covered and in sad disorder。 People were working on this set； and he presently identified the play； for Muriel Mercer in a neat black dress entered to bring comfort to the tenement dwellers。 But this play； too； had ceased to interest him。 He knew that Vera Vanderpool had escaped the blight of Broadway to choose the worthwhile； the true； the vital things of life； and that was about all he now cared to know of the actual play。 This tenement bed had become for him its outstanding dramatic value。 He saw himself in it for a good night's rest； waking refreshed in plenty of time to be dressed and out before the tenement people would need it。 He must surely learn if the big sliding doors to these stages were locked overnight。
He loitered about the stages until late afternoon； with especial attention to sleeping apartments。 In one gripping drama he felt cheated。 The set showed the elaborately fitted establishment of a fashionable modiste。 Mannequins in wondrous gowns came through parted curtains to parade before the shop's clientele； mostly composed of society butterflies。 One man hovered attentive about the most beautiful of these； and whispered entertainingly as she scanned the gowns submitted to her choice。 He was a dissolutelooking man； although faultlessly arrayed。 His hair was thin； his eyes were cruel； and his face bespoke self…indulgence。
The expert Merton Gill at once detected that the beautiful young woman he whispered to would be one of those lightheaded wives who care more for fashionable dress than for the good name of their husbands。 He foresaw that the creature would be trapped into the power of this villain by her love of finery； though he was sure that the end would find her still a good woman。 The mannequins finished their parade and the throng of patrons broke up。 The cameras were pushed to an adjoining room where the French proprietor of the place figured at a desk。 The dissolute pleasure…seeker came back to question him。 His errant fancy had been caught by one of the mannequinsthe most beautiful of them； a blonde with a flowerlike face and a figure whose perfection had been boldly attested by the gowns she had worn。 The unprincipled proprietor at once demanded from a severe…faced forewoman that this girl be sent for； after which he discreetly withdrew。 The waiting scoundrel sat and complacently pinched the ends of his small dark mustache。 It could be seen that he was one of those who believe that money will buy anything。
The fair girl entered and was leeringly entreated to go out to dinner with him。 It appeared that she never went out to dinner with any one； but spent her evenings with her mother who was very； very ill。 Her unworthy admirer persisted。 Then the telephone on the manager's desk called her。 Her mother was getting worse。 The beautiful face was now suffused with agony； but this did not deter the man from his loathsome advances。 There was another telephone call。 She must come at once if she were to see her mother alive。 The man seized her。 They struggled。 All seemed lost； even the choice gown she still wore； but she broke away to be told over the telephone that her mother had died。 Even this sad news made no impression upon the wretch。 He seemed to be a man of one idea。 Again he seized her； and the maddened girl stabbed him with a pair of long gleaming shears that had lain on the manager's desk。 He fell lifeless at her feet； while the girl stared in horror at the weapon she still grasped。
Merton Gill would not have lingered for this。 There were tedious waits； and scenes must be rehearsed again and again。 Even the agony of the girl as she learned of her mother's passing must be done over and over at the insistence of a director who seemed to know what a young girl should feel at these moments。 But Merton had watched from his place back of the lights with fresh interest from the moment it was known that the girl's poor old mother was an invalid； for he had at first believed that the mother's bedroom would be near by。 He left promptly when it became apparent that the mother's bedroom would not be seen in this drama。 They would probably show the doctor at the other telephone urging the girl to hurry home； and show him again announcing that all was over； but the expense of mother and her deathbed had been saved。 He cared little for the ending of this play。 Already he was becoming a little callous to the plight of beautiful young girls threatened with the loss of that which they held most dear。
Purposely all day he had avoided the neighbourhood of his humble miner's home。 He thought it as well that he should not be seen much around there。 He ate again at four o'clock； heartily and rather expensively； and loafed about the stages until six。 Then he strolled leisurely down the village street and out the lower end to where he could view the cabin。 Work for the day was plainly over。 The director and his assistant lingered before the open door in consultation。 A property man and an electrician were engaged inside； but a glance as he passed showed that the blankets were still in the bunks。 He did not wait to see more； but passed on with all evidences of disinterest in this lowly abode。
He ascertained that night that the fight must have been had。 The table was overturned； one of the chairs wrecked； and there were other signs of disorder。 Probably it had been an excellent fight； probably these primitive men of the woods had battled desperately。 But he gave little consideration to the combat； and again slept warmly under the blankets。 Perhaps they would fight again t