Hq «* •-Tr,-' aP ■*P sI^L'* ^ v »iV« <^ -*P »i^> ^ v »'aa*. °* a* a>«* aV *$v ^ ,,^X /,&*>- yV^X <<;^^y«X^™-^ 'bV 4 o > Jp^ 4 O 4^ >o , \-^-'/* \.-^^*»° V-^\^ %'^?%.°' v^'/ ^••^z-^. S.xvkX A-m>-.%. ,1*v.-;i 0 • rW^s.>«.'_ o> ^» c5> 4-V V> *0^ *v V V*' W ■ r-*& 'bV v*ov *P -*,. \S^V °V^V %;• •<* < ***** "1 o Av % *«T7^ A ^o5 4 o « ay o * A*v** J^^»- ^, ^°- % % V \ V \ % <#*_ Scanned from the collections of The Library of Congress AUDIO-VISUAL CONSERVATION at The LIBRARY of CONGRESS Packard Campus for Audio Visual Conservation www.loc.gov/avconservation Motion Picture and Television Reading Room www.loc.gov/rr/mopic Recorded Sound Reference Center www.loc.gov/rr/record i jm Ttye Magazine mf fjLa Heart, Soul and Character JULY 919 20* A COP EVELYN MARTIN AMERICA'S FINEST AND FOREMOST MIRROR OF THE GREAT CINEMA ART Paramount and Artcraf t Stars' Latest Productions Listed alphabetically, released up to June 30th. Save the list! And see the pictures'. Paramount John Barrymore/n"THE Test of Honor" ♦Enid Bennett in "Stepping Out Billie Burke in "Good Gracious Annabelle Marguerite Clark in "Girls' Ethel Clayton i i "Men, Women and Money ♦Dorothy Daltonm"OTiiER Men'sWives" Dorothy Gish in "I'll Get Him \ ET Lila Lee in" A Daughter of the \\ olf "Oh You Women" A John Emerson- Anita Loos Production Vivian Martin it "An Innocent Adventuress Shirley Mason in "The Final Close-Up" ♦Charles Ray i>i"Hay Foot. Straw Foot' Wallace Reid in "You're Fired'^ Bryant Washburn in "Putting It Oves Paramount-Artcraft Specials "Little Women" {from Louisa M. Alcolt's famous book) A William A. Brady Production Maurice Tourneur's Production "Sporting L'fe" "The Silver King" starring William Faversham "The False Faces" A Thomas H. Ince Production "The Woman Thou Gavest Me" Hugh Ford's Production of Hall Caine's Novel Maurice Tourneur's Production "The White Heather" "Secret Service" starring Robert Warwick Artcraf t Cecil B. de Mille's Production "For Better, For Worse" Douglas Fairbanks in "The Knickerbocker Buckaroo" Elsie Ferguson i i "The Avalanche"' D. W. Griffith's Production "True Heart Susie" "William S. Hart in "Square Deal Sanderson" Mary Pickford in "Captain Kidd, Jr." Fred Stone in "Johnny Get Your Gun" ♦Supervision of Thomas H. Ince Paramount Comedies Paramount-Arbuckle Comedy "A Desert Hero" Paramount-Mack Sennet Comedies "Hearts and Flowers" "No Mother to Guide Him" Paramount-Flaeg Comedy "The 'Con' in Economy" Paramount-Drew Comedy "Squared" Paramount-Bray Pictograph One each week Paramount-Burton Holmes Travel Pictures One each week What's the brightest spot in town? THE spot where hearts heat faster. The spot where the audience becomes one living unit of hap- piness. The spot where no man or woman can remain isolated. The spot where the spirit of Paramount-Artcraft catches everyone happily up. lou know where the better theatre is in your locality, don't you? Then you know where Para- mount-Artcraft Pictures are. You are happy there because you are in touch with the pulsing heart of all humanity. Famous Players-Lasky Corpo- ration is out to see that there is at least one spot in every tiny section of this country where every human being can get in quick touch with the best fun in the world. That's Paramount -Art- craft Pictures. — and they're yours I ^aramount<^Urtwxi£t Jiothon (pictures " These two trade-marks are the sure way of identifying Paramount- Art cm ft Pictures — and the theatres that show them. {ifflS: FAMOUS PLAYERS -LASKY CORPORATION (A a *^5r"IST=7» ADOIPH ZUKOR P-fi JESSE LLASKY t*re Prra CECIL B DE MaiX fonworijc/iprn/ Wj^rTiTl I ' ' PMma The photoplay art is exceedingly busy growing, and, oh, how it would help if some of the inartistic producers would get busy going! "Film exporters in this country are making money hand over fist," declares a trade journal. We trust said exporters will not spoil it all by getting their foot into it. A fellow who was imitating Charlie Chaplin was recently run over by an automobile in Philadelphia. This is one more proof of the fact that it does not pay to imitate. Now that Champion Jess Willard has gone through the harrowing experience of being a movie actor, he should be able to withstand any terrorism Jack Dempsey may have to hand out. Mme. Nazimova has signed a contract for another two years of cinema effort under the Metro banner. It's the sign of a continuation of a series of great pictures of which the screen always needs more. Give every man, woman and child plenty of chances to see all the good motion pictures and humanity will take less chances on a surfeit of a lack of education. The cinema is one of the greatest educational institutions and it is to be hoped it will be kept properly "instituted." It was not widely known that Carl Laemmle, president of the Uni- versal Film Corporation, claimed Oshkosh, Wisconsin, as his home until he paid the old burg a visit recently and was accorded a remarkable demonstration. Oshkosh has been "kidded" so much, we'll pass up the chance! Having asked about as many questions as any member of the gentle sex possibly could and having gleaned all the news we could find, we'll call this paragraph FINIS with a fervent prayer that when fall returns, there'll be frost on the pumpkins only and none of said frost on the screen. 9 Max Marcin, one of America's most successful playwrights, is now at the head of the Goldwyn scenario department. Max wrote such well- known plays as "The House of Glass," "Cheating Cheaters," "Eyes of Youth" and "The Woman in Room 13." May his contributions to the silversheet become ever better known! As a result of his truly wonderful artistry in "Broken Blossoms," Richard Barthelmess, who has not yet attained the age of twenty-five years, is being proclaimed as one of the greatest geniuses of the screen. And, he is a true genius. Now, don't let anyone ever hear you say again that anyone else is too young to make a start which would do credit to the much older! m Li'l ol' Noo Yawk is worrying because the picture magnates are doing most all of their producing in California. It seems eminently "up to Noo Yawk" to overcome the situation by producing some weather and scenic conditions comparable to that which the Sunny Golden State sports so consistently. This miracle being barred, the bars are insur- mountable and some bars are strictly non est now. If Senator Borah is permitted to run the United States Senate to suit himself, it is certain it will not be run to suit anyone else. Practically all the film producers are constantly looking for new stars, but all too generally their astronomy is astoundingly bad. Since the starless picture is becoming a policy with certain pro- ducers, is it to be expected that the jig (or moon) is up so far as fabulous salaries are concerned? The fellow who was going to organize that big film trust seems to have wound up in a big bust. Never was the field so filled with independent concerns as now. If they ever do succeed in inventing a machine that will shoot mov- ing pictures all the way to Mars, what we want to know is who is going up there and collect the admission fees? There is a veritable influx of so-called eminent authors in the world of screen literature nowadays. And, may we not intimate that there is something of the infesting idea in vogue too? "The Volcano" is the title of a new photoplay written by Augustus Thomas and in which Leah Baird is starred. Here's our best wishes that it may not erupt to the extent of a bankrupt for anyone. There is not much of a lull anticipated for the warmer months of summer so far as the movies are involved. And, after all, why should a little perspiration be allowed to stand in the way of having a wholesome good time? One of Sessue Hayakawa's latest starring vehicles is called "The Courageous Coward." It's pretty difficult to reconcile the adjective as a descriptive of the noun, but of course it is not much of a habit among film folks to do much reconciling with consistency. It is announced that there is a very extensive market for stories in the film world. Anyone who has a good story to tell well is wanted. Anyone suffering from literary hallucinations is not welcome. The great point is, how's a fellow a-going to tell whether he's loony or talented? Virginia Pearson now has her own company, too. Ere long the star who hasn't a private company will be declared out of the game if this present tendency continues. After all, what is to be lost by it? Very little, so long as the company-owners persist in doing big things for the screen. Several of the American film magnates have been looking things over in Europe recently. It's a cinch many of the foreign producers are wishing these same magnates would devote all their time to look- ing things over in America exclusively. The competition we're offering offers little of consolation to the other side of the pond. PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, IQ19 a m KATHLEEN O'CONNER Leading Lady For James J. Corbett In His Universal Serial, "The Midnight Man' ffl 6 July, 19 19 PHOTO- PLAY JOURNAL EE E 3 m WHEN THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN ! Here We Have Douglas Fairbanks As the Strong Man, Charlie Chaplin As the Clown, and Mary Pickford As the Bareback Rider a PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL £ald |)erinetP in •TEPPIAKj our » braves rfiar pkc can step ia, as well .-..into Xke \itcnen, dT lea^C Siae cocks, irons ^mends ana plays trie Ros flasks , all in one jfiorT "film [jteracori -jM* niH 1 oCm N km > y 1* v** -"» £?$ < '•■ \ ■*>■. ^ \ JUL ICIB4338S0 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL i SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 A Year in the United States and Mexico The Magazine with, a Heart, Soul and Character Edited by DELBERT E. DAVENPORT Entered as second-class matter, April 20, 1916, at the Post Office at Phila., Pa., Act of March 3, 1879 Copyright, 1917, by CENTRAL PRESS COMPANY PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY CENTRAL PRESS COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA, PA. Business Offices; Land Title Building R. F. di MARTINO, President E. D. HANEY. Treasurer S. M. GOLDBERG, Eastern Representative 303 Fifth Avenue. N. Y. JOHN A. TENNEY, Western Representative 920 S. Michigan Ave., Chicago, 111. CONTENTS FOR JULY, 1919 Page The Editor's Views of the News , i Kathleen O'Conner (Full-page Portrait) ... 2 "When the Circus Comes to Town" 3 Enid Bennett in "Stepping Out" (Page of Illustrations) 4 Contents 5 A Day of Mixing With Tom Mix (Illustra- tions) . 6 The Art of Elsie Ferguson (Illustrated). By Gwen Sears 7 The Spark Divine. Fictionized by Lillian Beatrice Miller 8 Ince Studio Patter (Illustration) 8 Monroe Monologues (Illustrated). By Martha Groves McKelvie 9 The Innocent Adventuress (Fiction. Illus- trated.) By W . Emory Cheesnian 10 Interviewing Ruthie Stonehouse Un- awares (Illustrated.) By Adele Whitely Fletcher 12 Up the Directorial Terrace With Tom Terriss (Illustrated.) By Mauric Meyers 13 Schenck Gets a Corner on the Talmadge Talent (Illustrated.) ,...-; 14 Bryant Washburn on Clothes (Illustrated.) By Roger Starbuck 15 Enter Lila Lee Laughingly (Illustrated.) By Media Mistley 16 Charlie Chaplin Stories (Illustrated) .... 17 Back to the Theatre for Motion Picture Ideas (Illustrated.) By Paul Herbert C onion 18 The Self-Possessed Cameraman (Illustrated) By Ernest A. Dench 19 Mrs. Sydney Drew Collects Hatpins for Soldiers J9 SUBSCRIPTION $2.50 in Canada $3.00 in Foreign Countries Single Copy, 20 Cents Page Love of Laughter (Poem) 19 Margarita, Flying Fisher (Illustrated).... 20 Screen Criticism. By Maurice Tourneur . . 20 A Cinema Bouquet (Illustrated) 21 Mary McLaren (Full-page Portrait) 22 A Limb From the Birch Tree (Compiled by W. Emory Cheesman) 23 A Fashion Setter is a Fortune Upsetter ( Illustrated) 23 Ask the Photographer (Illustrated.) By J. Stewart Woodhouse 24 A Matinee Idol Who Hates to Dress Up ( Illustrated) 24 Our Gallery ( Full-page Portraits of Madlaine Traverse, Elinor Fair, Elsie Fer- guson, Enid Bennett, William Farnum, Gladys Brockwell, Dorothy Dalton, Agnes Ayres 25-32 A Week-End With the Holubars (Illus- trated.) By Alma Sierks 33 A Daughter of the Mist (Novel.) By John Berry 34 Screen Stories. By Jack Winn 43 For You and For Me. (A department con- ducted by Madame Olga Petrova) 44 Interesting Facts About the Clan that Acts 45 Madge Evans Has Callers (Illustrated)... 45 The Silent Trend. By Bert D. Essex 46 Cinema Truth in Flashes 50 Priscilla Dean's Hobby of a Thousand Points (Illustrated) 50 Fools and Their Money (Illustrated). Fic- tionised by William Emory Cheesman 51 A Bicycle Famine 56 k50 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 m — m A DAY OF MIXING ^== .WITH TOM MIX IN FRISCO ffl The picture above shows Tom Mix imme- diately after his arrival in San Francisco. He's looking the city over from the hack of "Tony," his trusty pony. In the larger pic- ture to the left we see Tom posing with Acting Chief of Police Daniel O'Brien of that city. P.elow stands Bill Lynch of the District Attorney's office ; Tom Mix, "Cof- fee Dan" Davis, a popular San Franciscoan, Police Chief O'Brien again and Arthur Rosson. Tom's director. They are watch- ing a parade of Chinamen. July, igig PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL SEAR ffl .GUSOjN a HEN you first meet and talk with Elsie Ferguson, you are probably likely to be fancifully reminded of the old legends of princesses and castles — you feel that weird, mysterious sensation that arises from reading- an old, romantic tale. Then after you know her a bit better, she seems to melt — not a great deal, but she is no longer the snow princess that she was when you met her. Each moment of your acquaintance with her, you long for the time to come when she will gradually let you in on a confidence or two, and you dare not hope for more. She is reticent, retiring, and there is a better word to describe her, but it seems unpardonable to use it — she is shy ! Miss Ferguson, the great mistress of poise, grade and artistry is very shy. She does not dislike strangers, but she does not enjoy meeting persons who are strange to her. She suffers when she is obliged to speak before a large gathering of per- sons, and she would rather go through the floor than to have strange persons watch her while a scene is being made in the studio. This is not temperament, as some folks might call it. It is that little bugaboo fear that pos- sessed her when, as a small child, she ran away and hid under the bed whenever her mother had visitors. Let no one believe that Elsie Ferguson is merely a Dresden doll because she has blue eyes and and fluffy blonde hair and a shy disposition. Beneath the smooth surface of her white skin, there is another Elsie Fergu- son, a dominant, forceful woman, both in thought and action. Here is the supreme woman who can match her wits with those of any well informed person. Miss Ferguson has her moments of frivolity, when she romps with the little Angora kitten in her apartment and sings a foolish little song at the piano, and Elsie Ferguson In An Artistic Scene In "The Witness For the Defense" puts funny clothes on to see how she will look ; but these are only rare occasions, when the mood of mischievous pursuit captures her. "I have remarked on various occasions that I do object to interviews," Miss Ferguson the question had been put to face, "and the reason I object do not feel that anyone cares think and what I do outside replied after her, face to is because I about what Miss Ferguson and One of Her Favorite Pets of my work on the screen. What does it matter if I prefer chocolate for breakfast in- stead of coffee, or blue house gowns instead of pink ones, and Angora cats to Chow dogs ? What has all this to do with an actress's ability and charm from the stage or screen?" When she was told that the motion picture fans all wish to know the secret things about a favorite star, she replied, "Ah, but that is the reason that they become disillusioned and cynical. If they never were to know anything about the favorite's private life, and it was all to be kept a myth, like Santa Claus is to children, then they would never cease to love their favorites, and the glamor of the stage would have a greater appeal. Familiarity with stage craft, and the private lives of the play- ers, robs the theatre-goers of a great deal of the fun, don't you think so?" I could not say that I agreed with her, be- cause I felt that I would have been robbed of a great deal had I never met her, and all the illusions that I had of her were strength- ened rather than weakened by personal con- tact. To know her is to love her, and to talk with her an hour and not be fascinated and completely lost, would mean that you were not human. Miss Ferguson has been interested in social service work for a great many years. She is too modest to let the public know of her gifts to charitable organizations. The working girl's problem has always been a source of interest to this great actress. But not until you have seen her eyes fill with tears and her effort to check them, can you begin to know the heart that beats in her body for all humanity. Speaking of her work, Miss Ferguson said : "I love it for many reasons, first because I am told that it gives pleasure to many millions of persons who could not afford to go to a more expensive entertainment, and then again it gives me the opportunity to portray many characters a year, and to analyze human nature and to commercialize the frailties and strong (Continued on Page 53) PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, igig m\nm sUAU^ lyJjl Villi NlIEa Adapted From the Vitagraph Photoplay Starring Alice Joyce % LILL1AM BEATRICE MILLER El CAST Marcia Van Arsdale Alice Joyce Her Mother Eulalie Jensen Her Father Frank Nor cross Robert Gardhic William Carlton, Jr. His Mother Mary Carr HERE is a charm about social functions that lures society to its portals. The Van Arsdales were noted for their hospitality and for springing surprises with "that little something different." Their friends anxiously awaited the coming of their reception, which was scheduled for the follow- ing week in honor of Marcia's debut. Grand festivities were anticipated. Noticeable about the atmosphere on these occasions were the warmth, fragrance and a pot-pourri of interest- ing side-attractions which kept the spirits of the party in a veritable whirl of merriment. The interest never lagged at any activities maneuvered by the Van Arsdales and this debutante affair was to exceed any previous attempt at entertainment. The appointed evening arrived, and beneath a latticed archway laden with wistaria tastily blended with evergreens, the hostess received the guests who were ushered into the ballroom, gorgeously decorated. From their conceal- ment behind closely arranged palms, the or- chestra sent forth sweet strains of enchanting music wholly ideal for the dancers. When all guests had arrived and were chat- ting gaily, the moment for the grand entrance of Marcia arrived, and all eyes centered in the direction of the slow approaching form garbed in white satin and tulle. Marcia descended the stairs with head erect and with a haughty poignancy truly significant of her class. She had long since been elevated to the highest shrine in her circles and she was vainly wooed by a coterie of eligibles who possessed wealth. This night's reception meant a great deal to Marcia's mother, who cherished the hope that this would begin a series of romances culmi- nating in the acquisition of a wealthy son-in- law. For months past, the Van Arsdales had arrived at the startling realization that their largest holdings of stocks were rapidly di- minishing in value and Marcia was the only avenue of retrieving their fortune. But Marcia was not very conciliatory to the prop- osition of bartering her soul for wealth; in fact, she even detested the thought of matri- mony. She was thoroughly embittered against the world dating from the end of her school year when she became hardened as the result of an unpleasant ordeal, wherein her school companion and she were caught playing pranks and betrayed by a town sport. In vain, they both had pleaded with the young man to keep silent, but he boasted to his friends their coveted secret, which resulted in her girl friend taking her life. The incident had im- pressed her mind so deeply that she vowed to accept men as nonenities. Mrs. Van Arsdale's "prospect" was Bob Jardine, a young self-made man who had be- come known as the "Copper King" in financial circles, and she was very particular about having him accept her invitation to the recep- tion. He was the first person whom she presented to her daughter. "Permit me to present my daughter, Mr. Jardin," she announced, politely. Bob bowed and shook hands. "I am delighted to meet you," he said im- pressively. "The pleasure is mutual, I assure you," re- plied Marcia in a cool tone. Bob noticed the rigid formality in her re- marks, but paid little heed to the custom which usually accompanies initial introductions. "I trust I won't infringe on your time by suggesting a short stroll on the porch, will I ?" he asked suavely. "No, indeed," she assured him. "The idea is very welcome and more preferable than to become overheated by dancing." They casually promenaded from one end of the porch to the other, drinking in the cool breezes from the bay. Bob at various intervals mildly endeavored to enlist her attention on the subject of matrimony, for looking far back into those black eyes, he saw the light of a true heart beating beneath her icy exterior and needed only awakening to the full realization that all mortals are not of the same calibre as the Judas of her school days had been, and when she unfolded the story, he more than ever wanted to convince her of the true fidelity of real manhood. Bob seemed to possess the keynote to her disposition, and before she realized it, she was telling him about her good times at school, how she had become embit- tered against man because of one scoundrel's tactics, and blushingly confessed that Bob was the first man whom she could trust with the secrets of her heart. "There is only one way which will prove that you can trust me, — and—that is — Be my wife!" He faltered on the words, but her intelligent face grasped the meaning. "Before I give my answer, I want to tell you the conditions. . . . There is a considera- tion— and I want to go into this thing with a clear conscience. My heart does not yet actuate my accepting, for there is a sore spot against man in general that must be healed. Your coming into our family brings with you your vast fortune which my parents hold as an essential factor to be considered before I get married. I want luxury, and lots of it!" "I will agree to all that," he interrupted. "As you are willing to pay the price, I'm prepared to take your name, run your house, etc. . . . " and be a wife and mother?" he cut in. "It's not being done nowadays," Marcia re- plied with a shrug of her shoulders. "But I insist !" he rejoined. {Continued on page 56) Ince Studio Patter llllllli iiiii;i;;ii;:!['iii|iii!i:':'i!;:; minim 1111 B f Am • - p-J— !. „*' _...„. J H A * 1 fa 1 ml ■ ' ■■■■ S^J __ — fe-,.,1 , . 7 . / / 1 V \ Enid Bennett — What's your part in your new picture? Charles Ray — I'm a prize-fighter, what are you? Enid — I'm starting out as a scrub-woman, Charlie — Gee, those two pictures ought to be a clean-up for Mr. Ince. July, 19 19 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL Monroe Salisbury as a Strong Man of the North HEN I asked Monroe Salisbury to show me how he made up for the wonderful Indian char- acters he has given us on the screen, I think he was secretly amused Like his Indian friends, he frequently smiles with his eyes, while he keeps the rest of his face quite straight. Just now, his eyes were undoubtedly laughing at the ignorance of some people. Haven't you always supposed that he made up especially for these charac- ters? Well, that's what I thought! Listen folks, he DOES NOT! Ting-a-ling-a-ling ! Hel-lo ! Are you there, Fans? All right, Monroe Salis- bury speaking. "Strange as it may seem, I merely use a straight make-up for an Indian character. A slightly darker color, that it all ; but my Indian make-up (so far as grease paint is concerned) is iden- tical with the one I use as 'That Devil Bateese' and nearly all my characters. "Many are kind enough to say I am different, not only in looks but in action, in all of my pictures. It's the greatest compliment they can pay me. I want to be different in all of them. The difference they notice is not, how- ever, in my LOOKS. It is not my face that has changed when I interpret different characters. It's my SOUL. And, for the time being, / AM the character I portray. Therefore, my features take on the moods and tones that are felt and I become the Indian, the French-Canadian or the Italian. I play entirely by FEELING the part I'm acting. "My long experience on the stage with such artists as Mrs. Fiske, John Drew, Richard Mansfield, Nance O'Neil, Kathryn Kidder and many others, taught me technique, and now. in photoplay work, that comes naturally and I do not have to think of it. "Before playing a new role, I study the character from every angle and thoroughly visualize it. Then it be- comes real to me and soon I am that character, in feeling and in looks. I take on. as I have said, the expres- sions of the character I FEEL. "I'd hate to think that I had to use make-up to get my characters across with an audience. To me that is not art." Having settled the make-up question, the reporter dares to cut off the fans for a moment to ask Mr. Salisbury if he intends specializing in Indian and Western characters. Said reporter, unintentionally, stirs up the star on his pet subject. "Certainly NOT!" says Monroe. (Don't cut us off central, this is going to be interesting.) "I believe that it is FATAL to play one line of parts ! I am trying to show the public just how I feel about this, by appearing in a different char- acter each time. I do not want the people, as they pass a theatre where I am playing, to say, 'Oh, Monroe Salisbury! Lets go in and see him.' (Know- ing exactly WHAT they are going to see.) But, instead, 'Oh, Monroe Salisbury ! Let's go and see WHAT he will be in this picture.' "I learned what I know of characterization from the most wonderful actor of recent times, also, the most successful, Richard Mansfield. Such a great artist ! "It was while I had the honor of acting under his direction that I made up my mind to follow in his foot-steps as nearly as possible. "Some of our Picture Players are absolutely the same in all of their pictures. No matter what the story is, the part they play must conform to their personalitv instead of sinking their personality in the role they are playing. This I cannot under- stand. There are times when I think it may be what the motion picture public wants, for some of these stars are wonderfully successful ; but I still think and believe that they would be doubly so if they characterized the roles they play. "Take Mrs. Fiske (on the stage), her 'Tess of the D'Ubervilles' was one of the greatest perform- ances I have ever seen. Also, her 'Becky £*k«.Tp. Yet these two roles were in such marked contrast ' :.t -m- Salisbury on His Ranch at Hermit, California. Only Indians Employed as His Helpers on This Ranch Are The Same Salisbury as a Virile Westerner that it is hard to believe the same j woman was capable of such varied, j emotions. Now in each of these plays, : Mrs. Fiske LOOKED the same; BUT, \ she felt her characters and she : SEEMED different. "There are many other cases with : which to illustrate my point, but this one is sufficient. "My last two pictures will prove that I am trying very hard to give my pub- lic something new. Trying to vary my characterizations. "In March, 'The Light of Victory' appeared. In this I play a man who is his own worst enemy. He sinks lower and lower until the very end — there is, so it seems, no hope for him; but, just before he is killed, he has a very beautiful soul reformation. "In contrast, the story I have just finished is founded on 'Reincarnation.' It is a high-class satirical comedy, with odd twists and is unconventional in every way. "Another belief of mine is that every story and character presented to the public should carry a message, and, above all, a CLEAN one. So that, when the performance is over, the story that has been unfolded upon the screen, has left a memory that will be a pleasant one and WORTH remem- bering. "I do not believe, as many do, that some things are TOO good and go 'over the heads' of the audience. I think the trouble lies in the fact that they are not GOOD ENOUGH to reach the hearts of the public. "If a play, a book, an opera, or a motion picture fails, it is certainly not the public's fault. I find the public always hopeful and inclined to be great camblers where their entertainment is concerned. They take all kinds of chances, always hoping for the best and are, to the stars they like — won- derfully constant." Outside of loving people and having a great faith in them — Monroe Salis- bury has another great love. The West ! He is not a native son, having been born on the Salisbury Homestead on Lake Erie, near Buffalo, N. Y. He 10 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 letter, which Mrs. Bates was expecting. Knowing that it would only add to her worry by showing her the letter, she concluded to withhold it a few days believing that Jim would be fortunate enough to secure work and meet the indebtedness. Concealing it in her waist, she offered to aid Mrs. Bates any way she could and departed. She didn't fully ap- preciate the enormity of her crime in con- fiscating the letter until the postman the next day related to her the story of a crook who had been caught robbing the mails and "been jailed for felony." What would her aunt Heppy say to see her behind the bars ! Lindy could see it all in her mind's eye — ball, chains, prison bars and everything ! The thought of it appalled her, yet she determined to protect her neighbor at almost any sacrifice. When Dick Ross arrived in town to assume his new duties as private secretary for Mrs. Cribbley, his journey to her home necessitated his passing Lindy's house and he was attracted by her sweetness, truthfulness and beauty. His first impression of the town was at least gratifying and he thereupon concluded that he was going to like his new position. On his way to Mrs. Cribbley's house, Dick was met by a ruffian by the name of Brogan, whom he had formerly associated with in divers crimes back in the big city, and try as he might, he could not rid himself of him. Bro- gan saw that Dick was a good "find" for him and determined not to let him go the straight path as he had planned. "I want to warn you now. Brogan," Dick said vehemently, as he moved on, displaying From the Paramount Photoplay, Starring Vivian Martin BY W. EMORY CHEESMAN CAST OF CHARACTERS Lindy VIVIAN MARTIN Dick Ross Lloyd Hughes Aunt Heppy Edythe Chapman Mrs. Cribbley Gertrude Norman Mrs. Bates Jane Wolff "Chilowee Bill" Tom D. Bates "Doc" Brogan Hal Clements Brogan' s Accomplice James Farley Meekton Spottiswood Aitken LD Mrs. Cribbley owned half of the Village of Pinkerdale. She was an aggressive old lady, but her walking stick was an almost inseparable companion. Scorned by all who knew her, she was the most despised person in the whole town. She was feared more than ever by Jim Bates, who was a tenant in one of her properties. Jim had always worked hard to support his family, but not being skilled in any particular trade, his weekly earnings did not go far toward defray- ing expenses. He was suddenly surprised one day at his workroom to be laid off, and being offered no other job for weeks, his rent money was long overdue, and each day he expected to be turned out by the eccentric Mrs. Crib- bley. Located directly opposite the Bates' house was the tidy little cottage of Lindy and her Aunt Heppy. Reared under the careful surveillance of Aunt Heppy, Lindy was won- derfully cultured and exceedingly prim and duitful, and never told the tiniest bit of a wrong story. One bright and sunny morning, Lindy called on Jim Bates' wife and listened to the sad tale of Jim being out of work and about hav- ing no funds with which to pay the rent. Her childish heart was touched with sympathy and she consoled the worried woman the best she could. A few moments before entering the heuse, the postman handed her the dreaded When She Learned of the Seriousness of Tampering With the Mails July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 11 Dick Wanted To Go Straight After Meeting Lindy "By Whom Are You Hunted?" the Tramp Asked a clinched fist, "I am through with the old life forever, and I don't want you to hound me any longer. If you do, I am going to show you that I can be just as insistent on being straight as you are on being crooked." "So !" Brogan growled as Dick moved away, "You are going to be a goody-goody boy, eh ! You'll find the temptation mighty hard to com- bat and you'll fall sooner or later." But Dick merely shrugged his shoulders and moved on. At Mrs. Cribbley's house there was a wild disorder when he arrived. Her safe had been robbed and the sheriff had been summoned to find the culprit. Dick was the least disturbed about the theft, because he believed he could place his hands on the thief, sensing that Brogan was up to some of his old tricks and his new employer was one of his victims. Mrs. Cribbley was excited and was madly pacing up and down the room. "It's that rough tramp, Chilowee Bill, who hung around here yesterday in quest of food," she moaned. "That's who it is — he looked burglar — every inch of him." The door opened and Lindy meekly walked in to beseech Mrs. Cribbley to be lenient with Jim. Picking up her walking stick, Mrs. Cribbley continued to rave . . . Addressing her remarks to the sheriff, she said: "I want you to find the thief . . . State's prison will be none too bad for the thief." Lindy stood aghast. These words rang through her ears. So Mrs. Cribbley knew she had stolen the letter ! In despair, she ran from the room leaving the bewildered trio amazed at her flight. Across the meadows, Lindy ran breathlessly, not stopping until she came upon a stack of loose hay. She sat down with a sigh of relief. Turning, she noticed a disheveled looking creature sitting nearby drinking out of a jug. "Who are you ?" she said excitedly and with "Just a little tremble in her voice, "and what are you doing here?" The tramp ceased drinking and laid the jug on the ground beside him. "Me?" he said with a chuckle, "I am only one of the many unfortunates whom the world owes a living." "And what are you drinking," she ventured to say. "Buttermilk !" He sighed deeply, drownin' me misfortunes, little Un!" "Misfortunes, eh?" she returned, "I know what that means all right." The tramp yawned and continued : "You sees before you, little Miss, a hunted and misfortunate man ! Lindy responded with earnest sympathy. "By whom are you hunted ?" The tramp, pleased at the attention he was receiving, stealthily glanced from left to right and leaned over to her and whispered : "I'm being hunted by the law!" {Continued on Page 55) Lindy Had Decided To Run Away and Start Life Anew Lindy Had Been Raised In Innocence and Was Without Guile 12 EB PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, lgig iratennewmg Retime s>i®iniejni©iin§ i==5^==^== By ADELE WHITELY FLETCHER unawares UTHIE Stonehouse is just the nicest sort of person imaginable. She's the sort of girl you would choose for a pal at boarding- school or college — that's why she's remained a favorite of the fickle public for such a very long time. Remember, it was back in the Essanay days that she first appeared and she's been with us ever since, always pleasing. An afternoon spent with her is a jolly after- noon always. There's innocent gossip, deli- cious chocolates, a bit of deep conversation which shows just how far into facts Ruth does delve, and last, but not least, an inspection of her spacious wardrobe, which always offers delights anew. "Ruthie" takes every bit as much pleasure in displaying her new treasures as one takes in seeing them. On this particular afternoon, I called upon her in her dainty and very Frenchy pink suite of rooms, which are most beautiful. Her tiny self was curled up on the lounge as she read the scenario of the serial, "The Masked Rider," on which she was then working. When I made my presence known, the manuscript was thrown aside and in an- other minute I was ensconsed in the most comfortable chair, my wraps whisked away to goodness knows where, while Ruthie stood before me gazing scornfully down on her very beautiful pink and orchid silk negligee, and explaining that she had meant to dress Ruth Stonehouse in Her Squirrel Cape and Silver Fox Collar before I came, but had lost track of the time. "One minute to change," she pleaded and darted into another room with a dress, snatched from the closet, over her arm. In almost the minute she returned a bit more formal in appearance in a pretty afternoon frock of grey silk with fluted ruffles about the oval neck and wing sleeves of pink chiffon. "Remember," she said, "you have come to visit, not to ask a thousand questions and then write everything I say in the magazine." I looked guilty, I'm sure, but Ruthie didn't seem to notice and we were soon exchanging bits of news and visiting to our hearts' content. Finally I managed to ask casually : "Any new frocks?" The plunge had been made — I knew I would get a fashion story after all, for she was on the way to the huge closet with nary a thought in her pretty head that I wanted to see the frocks in order to write about them. "Here's a little walking dress I had made for shopping and such things," she exclaimed, bringing forth a dark blue suede cloth fash- ioned with wide, gathered tucks in the back, a girdle of the crushed material, and otherwise quite plain and equally smart. "It looks great with my fur and I bought this queer little chapeau to go with it," exhibit- ing a small shaped hat, almost poke, which was of dark georgette crepe with a silver cloth cocky bow and faced in silver as well. "Like it?" she questioned, holding it from her and examining it. Of course I liked it! One couldn't have done otherwise and she replaced it upon the pink silk hanger and brought forth the most beautiful squirrel cape I've ever seen. It had a wide collar of silver fox and fell below her hips. "I love this," she explained, burying her face in the soft fur, "and it looks so pretty with my black satin dress, the one with all the fringe, you know. It's soft, don't you think?" Again I agreed with her — where Ruthie Stonehouse finds the things she finds, I'm sure I don't know. Her clothes are always beauti- ful, and so like her dainty self that one won- ders if she hasn't a bunk like we used to have in our kiddie days for four-leaf clovers. "Now comes a dinner dress," her face radiant, as she brought forth a creation in dull blue satin embroidered lavishly in old gold. The underskirt had a tiny band of gold lace about the bottom and the bands holding a dull blue chiffon cape over the shoulders were of gold cloth, while a heavy gold tassel hung from either side of the overskirt. With this she explained that she wears dull blue stockings and gold cloth slippers, and carries a huge fan of pale blue feathers. One could picture the tiny lady, with her big brown eyes and fair hair, in this frock, and hoped for an opportunity to see her thus. Placing that back on a hanger of orchid satin, she brought forth another gown, a guilty look upon her expressive face. "This is my very grown-up dress, and it makes me look delightfully tall," she hastened to say, for she had a feeling I would scold her for getting a dress with such lines. She is such a child that it did seem a pity until she tried it on to prove her point. She won the day for she did look charming in the gown of silver cloth, with its empire waist fashioned of silver spangles, a band of them Miss Stonehouse in a Dinner Gown of Dull Blue Satin Embroidered in Gold over one arm. The other shoulder had a band of crushed black net, which fell into a long tight sleeve and extended over the back in a full cape, bordered in silver spangles. "With this," Ruthie explained, jubiliant now that she had proved her point, "I wear silver slippers." While she was changing again into the little silk frock, her maid wheeled in a cream wicker tea wagon with the tea things of a delicate pink china, a pink vase in the center of the plates with their delicacies, holding orchids and lilies of the valley. Presiding over the tea things, Ruth chattered brightly and I left, feeling very guilty when I thought of how I was going to write the whole thing — but I know Ruthie'll forgive me, she's such an adorable, forgiving little thing. And I just had to do it, for with all her sweetness, Ruthie has a strong will of her own and the interview just had to be written. July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 13 ftihe Directorial Terrace Wif By MAUME MEYERS Tom Terriss IRST they gave him office number thirteen, and now he is making his thirteenth picture. Almost enough to f eaze anybody ! The gentleman I have reference to is Mr. Tom Terriss, Vitagraph director for Alice Joyce. During his eighteen months' affiliation with Vitagraph, whom he joined in 1917, Mr. Ter- riss has exclusively directed Miss Joyce, and now they have come to the "turn in the road," the thirteenth picture. Mr. Terriss's life reads like fiction. He hails from London, but is now an American citizen. That much I knew before seeing him, but a call on the 'phone brought forth an invitation to meet him at the Friars' Club and there he started to tell me a little about himself. "First I wanted to explore — see what the world looked like — so I started out as a sailor, traveled around the world twice before I was twenty-one, and it was at that time that I had some of the most thrilling experiences of my life. Once I figured in a mutiny, and at another time we were swept overboard during a storm in mid-Atlantic. During one of the voyages we docked at Melbourne, Australia, and a sudden idea came over me that I would like to try sheep-raising, (but that proved as bad as a Sunday in Philadelphia), so I invaded America and thought I would startle the world with the fortunes I could make at silver min- ing. Destination — Silverton, Colorado. That lasted only a few months before I started on another tour of the world, in which I made every country of importance." "That's enough for any man," I commented. "That isn't all, however. We got up a party of three and crossed the Sahara Desert on bicycles, and Lord Northcliffe's English Daily Mail requested a series of articles concerning our adventures, which were published under the title of 'Three Men On a Wheel Through Algeria.' "Then I came back to London, and since my father was in the theatrical profession, I became an actor-manager. I was particularly fond of Dickens and an offer to produce his works was accepted by me with great alacrity. I appeared at the head of my own company and played at the leading theatres all over Terriss Directing Alice Joyce in the Art of "Safe Cracking" the Kingdom, and we certainly established an enviable reputation. The news of my success must have come to America, for we received an offer to bring our company over, and we made a tour of the principal cities in United States and Canada. "William Morris, the theatrical manager, offered me a three-year contract to produce these Dickens sketches in a condensed version (Continued on page 48) Left: Terriss Directing a Scene in "The Lion and the Mouse." Below: Doing an Exterior in "The Third Degree." 14 PHOTO-PLAY IOURXAL July, igig Joseph M. Schenck, president of the Norma Talmadge Film Corporation, has signed a con- tract with Norma's sister, Constance Talmadge. whereby he becomes her producer for the next two years, and Mr. Schenck to have a further option on her services at the expiration of the two years. The new organization will be known as the Constance Talmadge Film Cor- poration, and will be located in the same building as the Norma Talmadge Film Cor- poration, at 318 East Forty-eighth Street. New York City. Coincident with the formation of the Constance Talmadge Film Corporation, comes the announcement from Mr. Schenck that The First National Exhibitors' Circuit, Inc., has signed a contract for the distribution of the Constance Talmadge features. W h i 1 e the details of the contract are not made known to the public, it is understood that First National will distribute a minimum of six Constance Talmadge productions per year, and that the amount that will be paid by First National for the negative rights to each pic- ture totals in the aggregate one of the biggest sums ever involved in a contract of this nature. It means, according to both Mr. Schenck and First National officials, that the Constance Talmadge pictures, like the Norma Talmadge pictures, soon to be made under the First National banner, will, as a consequence of the increased latitude given Mr. Schenck in pro- duction, take on a proportionate increase in box-office value, apart from the exhibitors' advantage in booking them independently. "As soon as it was rumored that Constance Talmadge might not continue with Select Pic- tures," says Mr. Schenck, "she received offers from practically all the large motion picture producers and distributors, and the great increase in her box-office value in the last year is well demonstrated by the fact that the low- est estimate placed on her services was exactly double the salary she has heretofore been receiving. But no possible contract would have pleased me more than the arrangement with the First National, as it has ever been my cherished ambition to have the two sisters' releases under the same banner." In accordance with Mr. Schenck's policy of sparing no expense to make his pictures the best possible finished products, Constance, like Norma, will keep two directors constantly employed, and a minimum of eight weeks' time will be devoted to each feature. But quite the most important revolutionary measure announced in connection with the new plans for Constance is the signing up of John Emerson and Anita Loos to write all the stories, continuities and titles for the Constance Talmadge productions and to have the final say and general supervision of each picture before it is allowed to go out of the studio. "This means," says John Emerson, "Mr. Schenck is the first producer to realize that the time has at last arrived when the writer for the movies is to come into his own. Here- tofore, such large prices have been paid for the rights to a Broadway play or a popular book that when it came time to put the story into working shape for the screen, the really vital and important part of the picture was handed over to an inexpensive hack-writer, who, in nine cases out of ten, diffused his own Norma Talmadge — Drawn by Bilicick negative personality into the very manuscript which had been purchased at an almost, pro- hibitive figure because of the author "s person- ality in his work. One reason for this state of affairs has been that authors have not been sufficiently well paid to find it worth their while to put their stories into proper shape for screening, and the other reason is that very few have the necessary technical knowledge of details of motion picture production to do so. It is one thing to write fiction and quite another thing to write a workable continuity. But if authors are sufficiently encouraged by financial appreciation, certainly, the man who has the brain to create the idea can learn the technique of the hack-writer, who so often ruins a good story by lack of understanding and appreciation of the intention of the orig- inal author. "Now Mr. Schenck has recognized the value of engaging writers at a sufficiently large financial return to justify them in making their own continuities, and, as it were, living day by day with their stories, watching their pro- duction, and making sure that their stories are screened as they were written and passed upon by the producer. In this way the writer for the pictures will, as he should, take exactly the same place in relation to his work as the writer for the stage. "As for myself, I am giving up directing entirely, and shall, in collaboration with Anita Loos, devote my energies altogether to writing." July, igig PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 15 a m Iryant Washbiuini ©i [©noes Paramount Star Discusses Fashions — Past, Present and Future sr start N the West — and for the matter of that, almost everywhere — the discussion of masculine and fem- inine attire is engrossing much time and attention. The war brought into the mat- ter of clothing the ideas of economy to such an extent that had the conflict lasted a year or so longer the probability is that Adam and Eve would have had nothing on us. Happily the worst of the troubles are over, but even yet, if one consult the tailors or modistes, it will be found that the good old days of "befo' the war" are still a mere memory. We can now get pretty near any kind of clothing we want if we are willing to pay the price. So that, after all, the great middle-class is still more or less in a quandary. I happened to meet Bryant Washburn, Para- mount star, the other day. As he is always immaculately attired, it occurred to me that he might have some good ideas to impart on the subject of clothes. Mr. Washburn smiled at me quizzically : "You know," he observed, "in most of my pictures I play roles that demand my wearing suits that are distinctly hand-me-down in appearance ; so why pick on me as an arbiter of fashions?" "Well, that's only on the scree n," I explained. "On the street you are one of our best little dressers." "I might be able to give you a few thoughts on men's clothes," he admitted, "but as to the feminine fashions — why not seek discourse with some of the fair maidens who decorate our screens so successfully ? "I wanted the masculine point of view, for one thing. As an example — up in Frisco they are having a great deal of controversy over the subject. 'Do modern girls dress inde- cently.' Why isn't that a good line of thought ?" "Now, you're trying to get me into trouble, I can see that. Do you suppose I want to have an encounter with those representatives of the fair sex with whom I must associate in my pictures? Or my wife? What mere man should attempt to decide on a question of such delicate import ?" "Well, look at it this way : Here is a man writing to a San Francisco paper. He says. T remember when the opposite sex were loaded down with as much clothing per capita as an army mule . ,. . now presto, all is changed and to my mind for the better.' How do you feel about that?" "Oh, if you put it that way," smiled the star, "I may say that I agree with the writer. What could be more hideous than the half dozen overskirts, the crinolines, the — the bustles — and similar contrivances of our grandparents' days. Yet, if they were the style I suppose it was all right — then. Surely one prefers that the ladies should dress in a common-sense way. One thing I do notice, however, is that it is often the least attrac- tive woman who wears the most conspicu- ously scant attire. .That I object to. Do you remember the days of the bicycle ? I recall them, as a boy. The girls started wearing what they called 'rationals' — in other words, bifurcated skirts or bloomers. Some of them looked pretty well — others were monstrosities. I remember a story I read about a judge who was deciding on a case when a woman — one of the first to dare the new idea — was arrested for wearing the bloomers on the public streets. The judge looked her over and said: 'If the lady in question weighed two hundred pounds, if she were so homely as to frighten horses ; if she had one foot in the grave — I should say she ought to be fined. As it is — ' he paused for an admiring glance at the fair and trembling culprit — 'as it is, she shall go free with my blessing.' That's my idea. If it looks well — all right." "But suppose it looks too well?" "You mean if it makes other people look too well, don't you? Well, of course there's a limit — or should be. Modestly is a becom- ing quality. Still, I think our views are broader nowadays and often it is a case of honi soit qui mal y pense " "Meaning?" "Evil be to him who evil thinks. Don't you remember the story of King Edward III {Continued on Page 54) 16 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, igig WILL confess that when the edi- tor wired me in his coy way, "get interview Lila Lee," I was not without misgivings. The lofty disdain of the average telegram for prepositions irritated me, and the more I thought, the less able I seemed to figure out anything that would be suitable as the subject of an interview with this much- written-about little Paramount star. It's easy enough for an editor just to lean back in his Louis XV easy chair and dictate those succinct little telegrams, I thought, bit- terly, but how would he like having to get out and corral these stars and NAIL THEM DOWN TO facts! And how did he expect a fifteen-year-old girl would be able to talk to me anyway? I imagined the inane sort of conversation we would hold and took a queer mournful sort of pleasure in talking to myself as Lila Lee and then answering as my distraught self. "Qh, so you're the interviewer," she would Say. "Yes," modestly from me. "I like interviews," from her. "So do I," from me — with hngers carefully crossed. "I like movie work," from her. "Ah," from me, — and so on, a weary twenty minutes drag of banalities. "Why, I shall probably have to talk to her about dolls and playhouses," I said to myself. "She's under sixteen — and it makes me feel a hundred at least. . . ." But this absurd idea of mortals that they must eat to live, drove me forth upon my quest. It wouldn't do to keep the editor wait- ing— or he might return the compliment to me. I found that little Miss Lee Lad just returned from New York and, luckily, though not yet working on her new picture, was at the Lasky studio when I called. I was taken to her dressing room, which is really quite a cozy little place, with a chaise longue, or whatever you call it, of wicker, and nice paper on the walls. The cretonne was very artistic — not at all the nursery variety — I had expected the kind with figures of Mother Goose and Mary's Little Lamb on it, you know. Instead, it was of the pastel colors carefully blended — not a jarring note. There were flowers on the dressing table and a canary hung by the window — a few good Japanese prints were the only pic- tures, except one on her table — which I was told afterwards was Miss Lee's mother — one of her most cherished possessions. Minnie was with Lila when I went in. Minnie, be it known, is inseparable from her charge, being a pleas- ant, middle-aged lady with a watchful eye against any attempt of an outsider to become over-familiar with Miss Lee. Lila is a slender slip of a girl, dark, with masses of black, glossy hair and an oval face that is all lovely curves and contours. She has that olive complexion through which the ruby shows upon her cheeks in delicate shades like old Burgundy wine. Her lips, too, are full and red and she has the most deliciously retrousse nose imaginable. Her eyes are big and have those "unfathomable depths" of which our best little writers love to speak. Were she some ten years older she would be known as the girl with the Madonna face — as it is, she is just "pretty Lila Lee" — typical American girl of the best type. I didn't see that picture of her mother, — it was turned away from me and somehow I hadn't quite the courage to ask to see it, but I knew intui- tively that it was the face of a beautiful woman. Gus Edwards, the well-known song writer and vaudeville producer, must have realized the beauty she would become when he discovered her as a little tot playing in the streets of a small New Jersev town, some years ago, and placed her at once in one of his revues. . . . Lila Lee She entered the room from another apart- ment, with her lips parted over perfect and pearl-white teeth : "Enter Lila Lee, laughingly," she observed. So I took that as a heading for my story — not because it means anything, but because it sounded rather apt. "That sounds quite — theatrical," she went on. "But then I've been on the stage a good part of my life, you see." "Which couldn't be a very long time," I suggested. "About eight vears — I started vounsr." "I can see that," I returned, reclining upon the wicker thing with its Gallic title, while Lila dropped into a pile of cushions. "What shall we talk about? New York?" she asked. "What about New York ?" I asked, hopefully. "Ooh ! I've just come from there. I was glad to go and glad to get back. So glad I just — cried. California gets into your system, you know." "So the Chamber of Commerce reports," I muttered. But Lila Lee was still in New York, in the spirit at least. "I haven't forgotten those days on the stage," she reminisced, "and that means New York, of course. So many people I used to know before ever we went out on the road are there, and it was such fun seeing them all. "It was because of the 'flu' that I was able to take the trip at all and I had expected to get to New York much before the epidemic. It got ahead of me, though, so when we arrived the city was fairly quiet. It seemed a whirlwind of excitement, though, after Cali- fornia. There was a lot of shopping to be done, and I was kept pretty busv running around to the shops. "Oh, there's no place like it — California is wonderful, but it's New York that I like best. It's so gay and big." Just then her big eyes grew serious and after a moment she said: "But it is sad, too. The wounded men from over there. Oh, it brings tears to your eyes all the time, but also it makes you so proud to be an American. We can't ever do enough for those boys, can we ?" "No," I agreed, fervently, "we can't." "Wonderful, wonderful boys," she mused, her eyes just a little moist. "Such fine, clean fellows and some of them looked so lonely. It makes me happy when I think — well, some of them are going to like my pictures and be amused by my acting — and I will be doing a little something for them — very little, maybe, but something. Don't you think so?" "Decidedly," I affirmed. "You're doing a lot. All the picture people are and the theatri- cal people. They've been doing a lot — ever since war began. There's a mighty big medal coming to the show folk for their generositv and loyalty and kind heartedness. I can tell you." "It's strange how New York had changed just in the few months while I was away. It wasn't the same. And those wonderful davs when peace was declared — or the armistice was signed — I am so happy I was there then." "See here. Miss Lee," I said, suddenly, "You don't talk like a child." "I'm not a child," she retorted indignantly. "I'm a star and I'm all grown up. See?" She got up and twirled about. "Don't I look grown up ?" "You do and you don't," I replied, ambigu- ously. Indeed Lila is a paradox. She's a big girl and she's a little one ; a young lady and — a very young girl. Withal she is charm, the charm of youth personified, as others have said before me. "So you're happy in pictures?" "Who wouldn't be ?" she looked at me out of her big eyes, naively. "I'm happy because (Continued on page 48) July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL Chaplin Dog Jumps Through Movie-Screen Most every morning at the Charlie Chaplin studio in Hollywood, Bill, the studio dog, stands on guard at the big gate waiting for his master. As the car pulls up, faithful Bill invariably makes a leap and never fails to land by the side of the little comedian. One day last week Charlie and his staff were in the projection room, viewing the scenes of the previous day's work. A scene showed Charlie in the front seat of his car, racing toward the camera. On this particular morning Bill had tres- passed, having gone to the projection room for a little nap. The mechanism of the projection machine aroused Bill just in time to catch one glimpse of his master's approaching car. Before the dog's unruly presence was known, he leaped bodily through a hundred and fifty dollar silver-nitra screen and landed in a dark and unfriendly corner. Being thoroughly dis- gusted with himself for having failed in his usual easy trick, he pulled himself together and started off on a dead run in the direction the car was seemingly going. Before the lights could be turned on Bill had made the charming acquaintance of a perfectly solid wall, and we found him draped across the floor, down and out. Under the affectionate stroke of his master's hand, Bill opened his big eyes and wagged his tail : "This is one on me, Charlie." When a Barber "Cuts It Out" There is a little barber shop on Catalina Island which is doing an unusually good busi- ness. (They say it is the only one in the town.) The other day a young man passed the shop who had a little more than the ordinary cheerful face. The in- quisitive barber being naturally interested in faces, was sufficiently impressed to ask of a patron who the gentle- man might be. "O h, he works around one of the pic- ture studios in Los Angeles,'' was the an- swer of the dry-faced patron. The following night the smiling young per- son dropped in for a shave, and as there was was one in the chair and one waiting, h e leisurely removed his coat, hat and collar, glanced in the mirror at his week's growth, and took a seat. He waited until his pa- tience was about ex- h a u s t e d, but as he turned to express him- self, the barber beat him to it with : "You're next." The young man who works around one of the studios hastened to the chair, but the barber evidently de- Charlie Chaplin and Tom Davies, Manager Western Import Co., London, Who Handle Chaplin Films On British Isles cided he didn't really need the money, for just as the patron was about to seat himself, he remarked : "Gettin' kinda late, young feller; guess I'll go home. Come back tomorrow." And the world-famous Charlie Chaplin hustled into his collar and coat and took his whiskers back to his hotel. Chaplin Directing Tom Wilson (In Bed) In a Scene of "Sunnyside' Popularity Proves Destructive Charlie Chaplin delivered the goods, but according to one E. J. Kramer, who runs the Rialto Theatre at Stanton, Nebraska, they were not altogether satisfactory. It seems that Mr. Kramer's showing of "Shoulder Arms" brought about such a sur- prising conclusion, which he describes in the following manner : "My town is a small town, and my theatre is not a great big house. When I ran (Continued on Page 54) 18 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 AIN or shine William S. Hart can now work 365 days a year. A solid roof stage makes this accomplishment possible. Bill Hart, screen star, has gone back to the theatre, where he received his artistic schooling for ideas in stage construction to incorporate with the essentials of a motion picture studio. His studio in Hollywood has been entirely reconstructed. The happy combination of motion picture and theatre craftsmanship has resulted in working facilities far more practical and efficient than those of the usual picture studio. Previous to this highly successful experi- ment, motion picture producers relied upon glass studios to a great extent. In fact, E. H. Allen, the manager of William S. Hart Pro- ductions, Inc., who is chiefly responsible for the innovation, was the man who built the huge glass studio for Thomas H. Ince at Cul- ver City some three years ago. It was the first glass studio ever constructed, and today still is the largest of its kind although its builders are elsewhere. Always a practical dreamer in his work, Mr. Allen hit upon the idea of going back to the theatre for studio improvements. He carried his plans to a far greater extent than were ever deemed possible before from a motion-picture production view- point. Primarily, William S. Hart and E. H. Allen are men of the theatre, each having gained considerable distinction and success in their respective professions before engaging in motion picture work. The art director of the studio, Thomas Brierley, is a graduate of the thorough school of stage management. In this art there is no argument between the stage and the motion picture. Where the real- ists of the theatre whose artistic souls demand consistent realism succeed in creating two or three remarkable stage sets in the production of a play, the art director of a motion picture studio is free to create enough sets in one production to suffice ten large and successful Broadway plays. Incidentally, the motion picture sets are REAL from the solid lumber construction to the flowers in the boudoir vase. And, it is the consistent realism of the leading screen pro- ductions that has contributed chiefly to the uplift of the stage in the art of set construc- tion. Motion pictures have taught the amuse- ment audiences to laugh at the imitation wall that quivers gently when an actor makes an entrance or exit through an imitation door. Bill Hart is a hard working individual. He is under contract to furnish Artcraft with eight pictures a year and the demand brooks no delay. The big Western screen star strives for consistent realism. Therefore, he requires the assurance of 365 working days a year. "Motion pictures must not look like motion pictures," says Mr. Hart. Therefore, the studio was conceived and executed in such a successful manner that the completed work is a prediction in future studio construction. • The Hart studio in Hollywood is not a large studio. In fact, the stage space is only 60 by no by 26 feet — width, length and height. Ordinarily there would be room for only two large sets. But, with the reconstruction work completed there is room for ten such sets — and the studio space has not been enlarged one foot. Why ? The solid roof stage is the answer. Going back to the theatre for ideas in stage construction has resulted in the introduction of the familiar rigging lofts and portable sheave blocks of the theatre to the motion picture studio. As in the rigging loft of some theatres there are runways above the set space, so arranged that sheave blocks can be used any- where. From these five runways, clearing space is secured when the stage is honey- combed with sets. Thus it is possible to put an entire screen production on the stage at once by use of the rigging loft. Any set can be taken up in the air to clear the needed act. This is also possible because Bill Hart doesn't use sunlight in shooting interiors. Bill Hart Believes in Realism Which fact brings about a very important point in favor of the solid roof stage. Sunlight and electric light cannot be mixed successfully because grainy stock results. Why use a glass roof if tarpaulin must also be used in covering the sets to darken the scene enough to use lights ? All the top light needed for a set under a solid roof stage can be supplied at a nominal cost. And a canvas top is impractical. It is not durable. There is nothing above with which to work, as is available in the solid roof stage. However, the Hart studio is open on the sides, canvas being used for the purpose of proper ventilation. If sunlight is used in filming interiors in a studio the sets are featured and not the per- son. If the sets are properly constructed they will take care of themselves. Under a solid roof stage the electrician can work without any inconvenience or danger. There are no obstructions. The stills of the two huge sets used in "The Poppy Girl's Husband," reveal the realism of a William S. Hart picture. Both sets are exact replicas of the original scenes. Take McGinn's Hotel, an exterior scene, which represents a well-known crook resort on Barbary Coast, San Francisco. The old Barbary Coast is a thing of the past. When Bill Hart and his company went to San Francisco to film the scenes of Jack Boyle's famous convict story, they discovered that it was impossible to film the original mecca of the underworld. So, the art director hurried back to Hollywood and built the real thing on the stage. REAL! No man who knows his San Francisco would ever suspect that the dingy brick hotel with entrances below the paved street, the iron railings, the familiar lamp post, the cobblestone pavements, and hilly street, were other than the real scene. In this illustration the great advantages of the solid roof stage and the rigging loft are admirably depicted. Next, we have a replica of an interior scene in prison. It is the largest prison set ever used in a motion picture production. This set is 100 feet in length and there are three tiers of cells. It would have been next to impossible to construct a jail set with three tiers of cells without the use of a rigging loft. Both sets in "The Poppy Girl's Husband" are the last word in realism. They represent solid construction. "Never fake anything!" is the iron-clad rule at the Hart studio. Lumber, bricks, wallpaper, cement, etc., everything must be real. Which is the cheaper, realism or imitation? Contrary to the general belief, results show that it is much less expensive in motion picture production to have the real thing. Here is a rough comparison : Phoney bricks cost 20 cents a foot, while real bricks only costs 9 cents a foot. Real lumber costs 10 cents a foot, while the painted canvas imitation so familiar to the amusement world, is priced 20 cents a foot. The studio with a solid roof stage insures the producer 26^ working days a year. Watch the effect this innovation will have upon the future of motion picture studio construction. THOSE LOVE-SCENES I've a thought of great hilarity, And, it seems to me, of rarity — It occurs whene'er I think Of rhapsodies in printers' ink All about the real love scene That's enacted on the screen. How attractive, do you think, Lips well daubed in rouge so pink? Honeyed glances in bright flashes Underneath well-beaded lashes? (If my terms inaccurate be, All you actors, pardon me!) Cheeks, tho' damask fine they seem, May be redolent of cold cream! Brows, that look so smooth to kiss, Yield, at best, but powdery bliss. Curls that look so natural, really May come off if stroked too freely. Altogether, by and large, This, O fans, would be my charge — Give yourselves a "mental shake-up," No girl's lovely in her make-up! — Mary Nezvberry. July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 19 (O lif WJ) 5e!il° r o§sess< « % ERNEST A. DENCH "You have written up our players, our directors and our business executives," pointed out George Julian Houtain, President of Gray Seal Productions, to the writer, who was shy his regular weekly story, "so it's up to you to dope out something new." "I'll invent a story that will be a corker," the writer suggested enthusiastically. "That method may do for some companies, but not Gray Seal," the Big Boss said dis- approvingly. "There is plenty of honest-to- goodness material right in our own studio with- out having to manufacture it. There is the poor camera-man, for instance. You never give O. George Brautigan as much as a line. Just because the camera-man is in the back- ground is no reason for keeping him there." The writer saw the wisdom of the Big Boss's words and subwayed it to the Estee Studio, which the Gray Seal is using, on West 125th Street, New York City. It was near the end of a trying day for Camera-man Brautigan, and the writer found him sitting on a chair by his camera waiting for a set to be finished. He was a confiding mood and ready to tell his troubles, the poor abused fellow. He lit up a pipe — preparatory to speaking — but then remembered the "No Smoking" sign and pocketed the pipe. "The camera-man is the under-dog sure enough," he opened. "He may be compared to the chalk line in a tug of war game. But why crush him under the Cooper Hewitts? He is human like the rest of us — perhaps somewhat sensitive — but then artistically inclined folks are temperamental anyway. In the papers it is always the star's feelings, or the director's little whims, yet the operator has his feelings, too. "The director may lose his temper and the star may almost ball up a scene, but if the camera-man's nerves fall to pieces at the critical moment, the blessed whole outfit is canned for the rest of the day. It means concentration, more concentration — and then some more, on the work in hand. I am all in when the scene has been taken and then tell the director and the players exactly what I think of them. 'That's the stuff, George,' they say, for they are inclined to take my explosive remarks in a bantering manner. But I don't care so long as it relieves my feelings without laying up the whole darned company. "Those players who have to be humored with music in scenes get my goat. They insist they cannot play emotional stuff without an orchestra. They don't consider the distressing effect it has on the crank turner. He has to turn the crank at an even speed and this art — for art it is — is acquired only by long experi- ence. But that experience isn't worth a darn cent when a dreamy waltz begins to play. I feel like turning the crank at a snail's pace— and then the result is like a hurricane trick comedy — unless I pinch myself to keep my mind off the music. As for jazz music — oh, boy, I am tempted to manipulate the crank faster than any subway ticket chopper and you can imagine what a calling-down I would get if every actor in the scene went through his actions like a funeral service!" Mr. Brautigan knows of what he is speak- ing. He has filmed many of the famous play- ers that have passed through the old Edison Studio, and he was the cinematographer selected to accompany the Mary Fuller Com- pany to England in 1912, and is now "shoot- ing" Wheeler Dryden, Gray Seal Comedy Star, more popularly known as the "Joy After Gloom." And It's the Art Such as the Above That He Gives Us Mrs. Sydney Drew Collects Hat- pins for Soldiers Convalescent soldiers in the U. S. Army base hospital, at Camp Dix, New Jersey, have a real champion in Mrs. Sidney Drew, who is collecting hatpins for them. Yes, hatpins — those dangerous long ones that women dis- carded some time ago rather than risk piercing a neighbor's eyes. Buddies whose fingers need limbering, have found a new use and a good one for "woman's weapon." Heroes with cramped or partially paralyzed fingers, or only part of their fingers, spend hours making beads out of wallpaper and gay colored magazine covers. They wind the paper on the pins; then roll it into beads, which they dip into shellac or varnish for glossing. Necklaces of these beads sell for good money, which the soldiers welcome while waiting for pay day. Mrs. Drew just dotes on big hats, wonder- ful creations, and of course she has some long hatpins. Well, just as soon as Mrs. Drew read an item headed "Wounded Want Hat- pins," ever ready to -assist the boys, she imme- diately located her hat boxes. She found a number of pins which she sent to Camp Dix, together with a letter saying that she would collect and send them many more of the needed pins. To secure a large number of pins for the boys, Mrs. Drew asks all women readers to hunt up their old hatpins, or buy some. Packages of hatpins will be forwarded, if read- ers will send them to Mrs. Sidney Drew, 220 West 42nd Street, New York City. Many husbands will no doubt encourage their wives to send their hatpins to Mrs. Drew, which co-operation will greatly aid the soldiers' efforts to earn "pin money." LOVE OF LAUGHTER Amuse the world if you zvould win its praises, Make it laugh; It wearies of too much of moral preaching, Longs for chaff. Something light as foam, and fine and fairy, As the spray Of lovely little flowers that awaken With the May. Who can blame the world for love of laughter f As May-dews That wash the roses, it refreshes, as enchantment, And renews. Amuse the world, and ivin its hearty plaudits, Help it play; Give it humor, wit and unstinted laughter, It will pay! —Stella V. Keller man. 20 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 1 July, 1919 } m 0 1L m When the famous Flying Circus was staged at Rockwell Field, San Diego, Margarita Fisher — "Flying A" star — proved as good as her name by accepting two invitations to fly higher. One came from Captain F. O. Wilson and the other from Lieut. E. F. Wiley. When Captain Wilson, for extra induce- ment, offered her the job of mechanician pro tern., Miss Fisher scornfully, and, it must be admitted, not a little fearfully, turned down the honor. "Why not?" queried the birdman. "Well, what if we were a couple of miles up and — er — suddenly that engine of yours got balky, and — er — you ordered me to get out and crank 'er up ! Would I have any guarantee that there'd be a nice, solid cloud around handy to stand on? With my contract I can't afford to take any chances, you know." The captain must have convinced Miss Fisher that playing mechanician would be a job in name only, or else she decided that it wouldn't do to waste that perfectly appropriate outfit they had scouted up for her. For, as hereinbefore stated, she ascended twice. And she was ready for more, only a high wind blew up and the cautious airmen refuse to risk any lives but their own. Which is all in the dav's work for them. Margarita Fisher, Capt. F. O. Wilson (Left) and Lieut. E. F. Wiley (Right) Conferring On How To Make Flight Photoplay criticism? There is little or none. If ever a form of amusement needed criti- cism, it is the photoplay. Not so much the pictures as a whole, but each feature. Criticism of pictures as a unit gives but one or two men's views, and is, therefore, unhealthy. Criticism by a number of critics on a number of pictures forms the founda- tion of universal opinion, and is more sound. Persons who criticise pictures are divided into three classes, those who write laudatory notices in accordance with a set policy of not offending the theatre men (i.e., the adver- tisers) ; those who use scissors and paste on the notices furnished them by the manufac- turers ; publicity writers ; and those who indulge in occasional honest criticisms. The last named are few and far between, and even then some of them are often warped in their judgment by certain narrow views which they believe to be "moral." m m Screen Criticism BY MAURICE TOURNEUR H ffl Candid criticism is severely handicapped. It is hardly possible to take a man's money and decry his wares at the same time ; how can journals or papers carry the advertising for a certain film and then give it adverse criticism ? The maker of a film, as a gen- eral rule, does not zuant criticism, he wants applause, and here, I think, is one of the cry- ing evils of the industry, the fear of honest, capable criticism. Then again, most of the so-called critics are not entitled to criticise. Many of them have never been inside a studio, have no idea what- ever of dramatic construction and no dramatic instinct : they do not appreciate the scope or the limitations of screen work ; they are unable to distinguish the good from the mediocre. Many of them are biassed by cer- tain religious scruples and see evil where it does not exist. "/hat is the use of fooling ourselves? I have made pictures I like and ones I do not like at all, and when I make a mediocre pic- ture and read a laudatory criticism of it, I do not flatter myself that the feature must be better than I thought it was. I will probably be criticised for criticising the critics, but I am strongly in favor of capable newspaper criticism, and bear no resentment against those who have openly written they have not liked certain of my pictures : it does me good : honest opinions honestly expressed do us all good, and are far better for us than fulsome flattery and laudatorv comment when it is not deserved. July, igig PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 21 moua ^waa^oiv H* CJ^ Ctdel Clautdn jYtnia^aMeu, GLORIA SWAN SON- CHINESE LOTUS A starlit Oriental night, where, by the river's brim, Seductive poppies blow: anon a matin hymn From alien feathered throat Proclaims the coming dawn — / still my boat, And, mid the silken blossoms on the shore, I find a star — one fairy Lotus and no more. It is like you: Its petals fair Delicately wrought by God's own hand. No daintier than you — / leave it there, A prayer for those who un- derstand. LILA LEE—VIOLET Open your eyes, my sweet, daytime is dawning — Open your lips, my sweet, join in the song Sung by a thousand throats up in the treetops. Youth is your portion — you sleep overlong. Soft are your eyes, my sweet, soft as the violet, Sweet is your breath as the blossom's perfume. IVouldl might woo you with sonnet of triolet — Bury my heart in your soul's saintlv bloom. ETHEL CLAYTON— ROSE Somezvhere in my book of memory I've read the story of a mossy wall Beneath whose shade I sat in silent reverie, And heard the soft voiced woodbird's matin call. Upon the aged stones with moss entwining A single rose had blos- somed— fragrant, fair. I gazed into its heart as if divining The secret of its beauty hidden there. VIVIAN MARTIN- MARGUERITE Do you love me, lady mine? This blossom tells me that you do. Would you leave me here to pine, Just to go on loving you? She loves me, ah, she loves me not, Must I then believe the flower Leave you in this garden spot Though I love you ever hour? ANN LITTLE— CALI- FORNIA POPPY Upon a softly sloping hillside Whence I gaze upon the sea, You stand, arms filled with golden beauty. Will you give one flower to me? Poppies golden as the sun- shine Shining 'gainst your dusky hair Fair buccaneer, that I might call you mine, There's nothing that I ivould not dare! WANDA HAW LEY— PANSY Smiling lips and dimpled cheeks, Eyes where hidden laughter lies, To your heart my heart speaks, Seeks an answer in your eyes, Seeks an answer, finds it not, Cruel one, your lips beguile, For I am rooted to this spot. Blooming but a little while. Al Cinema ^Bouquet « By ADAM HULL SHIRK ELSIE FERGUSON- JASMINE White as thy brow, unclouded by a single care, Fragrant as the perfume from thy hair. I place these jasmine flowers at thy feet, My heart, fair one, long since have I laid there. MARGUERITE CLARK- BLUEBELL You may not come from Scotland, That matters not to be. There's something Scotch about you Like the heather of Dundee. You remind me of the blue- bell, Daintiest flower in the dell, And I ken there's no maid sweeter, An' indeed I ken it well! SHIRLEY MASON- DAISY Sparkling in the field of scented clover, Brightly shining through the day Kissed by vagrant bees — each rover Halts his flight to homage pay — Have you smiles for every sweetheart? Would that I might fly to you, Know the sweetness of your presence: Would your promise prove untrue? DOROTHY D ALTON- SUNFLOWER Radiant, joy-laden, symbol of gladness, Facing thy king enthroned upon high — Such beauty as thine might drive mortals to madness, Thy charms like the sun's rays quite dazzle the eye. ENID BENNETT- LILY CF THE VALLEY Daintily, modestly, why do you hang your head? What is the secret you fain would impart? Have you a lover, some bold, errant rover, Whose words of delight have sunk deep in your heart? Tell me your secret, trust me to keep it hid: None from my lips shall learn aught that thou tell. What? You are smiling! Ah, and your cheeks are red — No need to speak, for I know the tale ivell. ason, UfxA. DennetT SSafcf' 22 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL ffl E MARY MacLAREN Universal Star ffl e July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 23 ith a Glimpse of the Foreign Market for Films at Lisbon^ Portugal COMPILED WITH OFFICIAL PERMISSION BY W. EMORY GHEE NLIKE a bending- bough which is snapped from its tree of life, never to be replaced, Colonel Thomas H. Birch sailed from this country about Christmas in nine- teen thirteen, as Minister Pleni- potentiary for America to that far-off land of Portugal, and with him went the felicitations of his many thousands of friends who wished him godspeed in his journey and success in his mission. He realized that his departure meant the cessation of association with friendly faces of those with whom he had lived for years and that in the years to follow he would mingle with foreign diplomats, in whose affairs he was to take a prominent part. Departing from the land of the free for an indefinite period, to a country of which he knew little made him naturally feel that his location there would be monotonous and lacking in social activities, but when he arrived at his port of destiny, he was overwhelmed with the recep- tion accorded him there. Amid loud cheering and exultation, his ship entered the port, which had been dressed with wondrous beauty, with flags floating and guns roaring. He caught a glimpse of the cheering inhabitants, their beaming faces and their unbounded happiness. They knew America had sent them a man of personality, refinement and education. He had come to them as a shining star in their midst and with a full knowledge of American cus- toms and manners. They lauded President \\ ilson for his choice and their confidence in America strengthened from that moment. They besieged him with questions of far-off America, and one of their foremost demands was to tell them of the motion picture industry. The silent drama had just begun to invade their country, and the scant supply was insuffi- cient to satisfy their love of the film. They wanted more, and they beseeched him to make possible greater importations. W hen he assured these people that he would do all in his power to bring to that country more of this ever-increasing form of entertainment, he believed that his assurance would suffice for the nonce, for he saw the keen eagerness on their faces, and their anxiety to use him as their mouthpiece in their appeal to America. Colonel Birch knew full well that he had a greater mission on his hands, but when enter- ing a new field of duty, the natural proclivity is to show interest in your associates. Back in the States, he saw the rapid growth of the industry and how the films were received by the public, and had often himself stood in line to witness some special feature picture. When asked about the achievements of the silent drama in Lisbon, he replied: "If I could but tell you how infinitely grate- ful I am that the producers foresaw the possi- bilities in Lisbon and exported them to this country, you would know how pleased 1 was to find them here. It is a great consolation after a strenuous day to know that there is some place where the worries can be dispelled and the lingering hours may be passed pleas- antly. I never before realized how desolate a town could really be without a motion picture theatre. It fills the need of the rich and poor. Besides being interesting and entertaining, they are instructive with their weekly news reels and their exploitations of manufacturing developments. The people of Portugal do not have the facilities for education that they do in the States, and they depend a great deal on broadening their views through the means of the screen. American manufacturers should grasp the opportunity to advertise their prod- ucts in this manner and the scope is wide in the foreign markets. The Legation has the name of several reputable concerns on their files who are constantly on the alert for representation of American products, and the more information and insight they receive of American wares, the more eager they will be to contract for them. With the markets grad- ually opening as a result of the cessation of (Continued on page 48) V ■9 ^^M Kitty Gordon as She Appeared in "Playthings of Passion" Internationally famous as a fashion-setter, Kitty Gordon sets a new Gordon standard in the gowns she wears in her latest screen offering. The secret of the wonderful charm of the Gordon costumes lies largely in the fact that the famous star designs her stage and screen dresses herself. These are characterized by a simplicity and dignity most becoming to her personality. One of the most charming evening gowns ever worn in a ballroom set, designed and worn by Miss Gordon, shows an exquisite shade of turquoise, a blend of green and blue, with a foundation of heavy satin. A bodice of heavy silk fringe hanging straight at the back and in front caught at the waistline with a girdle of velvet flowers. The skirt has three rows of this deep fringe and clings to the figure when in repose. In movement its effect is most fascinating. Noteworthy is the large ostrich feather fan with tortoise shell frame. A rope of pearls and large pearl earrings. Illustrated is a distinctive dinner-frock. Over a foundation of white satin is hung a shirred skirt of black chiffon, with six rows of heavy silk fringe. The bodice is of black chiffon and is remarkable for the long heavy silken tassels which hang from each sleeve. Worn with this costume is a blue velvet hat with magnificant bird of paradise adornment. Miss Gordon wears in another scene a full length ermine coat, with deep collar, edged with a double row of ermine tails. The coat is lined with American Beautv velvet. While movie stars are notable for the big salaries they receive, a fashion-setter such as Kitty Gordon, must, of necessity, pay out large sums for wardrobe. In this connection the following figures are illuminating, represent- ing as they do the costs of some of the items in Miss Gordon's wardrobe in "Playthings of Passion": — Ermine Coat, $15,000; Ostrich plumes, $5,000; Rone of pearls, $100,000; Ear- Miss Gordon In the Music Room of Her Home rings $20,000; Bird of Paradise, $1,000; A barpin of fifteen diamonds of over two carats in size and thirty smaller stones; Sahle coat, $25,000; Gold mesh bag, $2,500. 24 m PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, igig = ffl nrsj L? PHOT lAPHE i::i!;:;in::i!!i: :' :; : :il:iii!:;i J. STEWART WOODHOUSE a HAT dress shall I lay out for your next scene?" interrupted the maid as I was talking to Dorothy Dal- ton, she so widely famed among movie lovers for her dimple and her wonderful clothes. "Oh, I don't know," she replied, "ask the photographer." "You know," said Miss Dalton, resuming her friendly little chat, "the camera-man is the greatest autocrat in the movie picture business. Just yesterday I saw a perfect dream of a dress down town and I was rav- ing about it on the set his morning. He overheard me and interrupted with the admonition that I better save my money as it would photograph 'rotten.' Every time I start to work in a new scene I have to ask this man what dress I may wear, and he is such an inconsiderate fellow, he doesn't think about style, pretty flounces, nifty bows and the like — his only interest is how the color will photograph against the color background of the scene. "My heart was nearly broken once before, I learned I had to consider this man at the camera crank. I bought a beautiful new dress at a startling price; it was changeable silk and I fairly reveled in the way it caught the light and threw back various colors. I just knew I would make the feminine world gasp with admiration when they beheld me in this ; I walked upon the stage as proud as a peacock and lights were ordered on for the scene ; the camera-man squinted through his finding glass, moved his camera one way, then the other, shifted lights, scratched his head and then called the director to his side. He, too, took a look through the camera. Then he approached me in an apologetic way and said, 'I'm sorry, Miss Dalton, you'll have to change your dress. It has too many high lights.' I think I staged a real sob scene right there. Several hundred dollars I handed over for that gown and my many feminine screen admirers never had a chance to get a peep at it. "Most women like to buy fine clothes. I really would enjoy it myself if I didn't have to continually think of what the camera-man might say. At best, it takes a great deal of time, and this photographic color question adds greatly to it. A picture actress must have so many clothes I think she spends a fourth of her time in a fit. Once they are decided upon, however, there is a great pleas- ure in wearing them. "Every man should supply his wife and daughters liberally with money for clothes. It is the best investment he can make. A well dressed woman will radiate sunshine and happiness and will.be a perpetual apostle of cheerfulness." "He says," quoted the maid, as she entered the dressing room, "to wear that green one that looks like cheese cloth with rope on the bottom." "Now isn't that just like a man?" rejoined the actress, and I bowed mvself out. A Matinee Idol Who Hates to Dress Up The public, like Little Rollo, wants to know if the matinee idol "dresses up" at home or whether — and how the matinee girls hang on the answer ! — he reserves these glories, like his romance, for the eager and enrapt audi- ences that greet him on the stage or screen? Here is one hero who, as soon as he leaves the cinema studio, divests himself of boiled shirt and silk waistcoat and calls for the "ol' clo's man." And dons — er — well, overalls ! Or maybe not — it's some kind of a cross between a nightshirt and an automobile duster that Thurston Hall wears in his domestic life — something he takes to like an indolent bit of femininity takes to lingerie. It's not stylish, except in the garage or in his rabbit hutches — and that's why Univer- sale leading man likes it. He reads over his screen roles clad in this dishabille. And this is the man who was Oliver Morosco's sartorial piece de resistance on the stage and who is one of the best dressed men on the screen today ! When he plays the Broadwayite in support of Mary MacLaren or Priscilla Dean, Hall is a modern Brummel. But at home Boy, call the ol' clo's man ! ► i f DOROTHY DALTON Thos. H. Ince AGNES AYRES Vitagrafh <^=^s g^gj^^^^ass^rfrftti^fc.^aA^^w^ July, 19 19 m = PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 33 m a Week-end with the holubar; ra m a Even Though Allen J. Holubar Has Quit Kissing 'Em On the Stage, He Still Kisses Wifie, Dorothy Phillips Leaving Alexandria at ten o'clock Saturday morn- ing, we reached San Juan Capistrano at about noon. It was one of those bright California spring days, with the air laden with fragrance of orange blossoms and spring buds which make a morning drive exhila- rating. Soon we could feel the nearness of the ocean, but the chief ob- ject of our interest was the mission of San Juan Capistrano. Here Fathers Sulli- van and John O'Con- nor greeted and wel- comed us to the hos- pitality of the Mission. The Father Superior explained the history of the famous old land- mark of the early days of California. Miss Phillips was especially interested in the re- markable state of pres- ervation of the Mission walls. This Mission, we were told, had been founded in 1776, and T was with alacrity that I accepted the invitation of Dorothy Phillips, the dainty Universal star, and her director husband, Allen Holubar, to join them on a week-end trip to San Diego, the Hotel at one time had housed, fed and clothed as many as 400 Indians. "Quite a hotel," remarked Mr. Holubar. "And I believe that it would take only about two hundred thousand dollars to restore it to its original magnitude and beauty." Demonstrating that a man is always look- ing with an eye to business. In the courtyard we took some pictures of the famous monument erected to the memory of Father Junipero Serra. After our inspec- tion of the mission, we all felt the pangs of hunger, which we appeased in a quaint little Spanish restaurant across the way. Miss Phillips found no difficulty in daintily carv- ing a tortilla, but hasty swallows of water betrayed the fact that eating one with com- posure was another matter. A merry twinkle in Mr. Holubar's eyes brought forth her dare : "You try it." Refreshed, we again resumed our drive. The ocean was now at our right all along the way. As we mounted the pass we saw stand- ing as line sentinels at the highest point the famed Torrey pines. Wind-swept and grim, the last of their kind they had alone withstood the elements of the post one hundred years. Miss Phillips suggested that we stop and inspect the historic trees at closer range. It was quite a climb to the top of the knoll, but Miss Phillips outsprinted us all, and showed her love of outdoor sports had made quite an athlete of her. From under the rugged pines we obtained a wonderful view of the ocean and the surrounding valleys. Leaving the trees, we soon came to Vista Del Mar, where we decided to stop for the re- mainder of the day. From the cozy sun par- lor of the Stratford Inn, Miss Phillips spied A Close-Up of Allen J. Holubar, the Director, and His Wife, Dorothy Phillips, the Star, During a Week-end Vacation At Del Mar, Cal. No, These Are Not All Dorothy Phillips' Kiddies — They're Just a Few of Her Friends j some youngsters playing in the gardens. Instantly she was out among the flowers with them and had three kiddies gathered in her arms. They invited her to join the game of "Drop the Handkerchief." Soon a dozen of the kiddies encircled Miss Phillips and we were also graciously invited to join in the game. When it came to dropping the handker- chief, Miss Phillips and her husband were the most frequently "honored." Miss Phil- lips rewarded the dimpled youngsters she caught with a kiss, and Mr. Holubar made himself popular by tos- sing them in the air. Following the game, the youngsters were invited to an ice cream party and to have their pictures taken with Miss Phillips on the hotel veranda. Sunday morning we arose early and took a brisk stroll along the beach. After break- fast, Mr. Holubar sug- gested we drive toward San Diego, stopping en route at the home of Ramona, the hero- ine of Helen Hunt Jackson's famous novel. Here we found many picturesque relics of the old days (Continued on page 55) B PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, igig ffl A Daughter of the Mist Awarded First Prize in American Ambition's First Novel Contest By JOHN BERRY SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS Guy Trevor, when motoring in the downtown section of New York City, meets Anne Grieve by rescuing her from a runaway, and they motor out to where she lives — a barren wasteland beyond the Bronx. There he learns that she knows many things concerning his past life and his eccentric father, who lives in a so-called Black House in Italy. He is amazed at her faculty for being able to tell him about his family, since he has never met her before, and he is so infatuated with her that he proposes marriage. She at first resents, but when he offers to take her to his father's home, she agrees, first telling him who she is and that she has selected this barren wasteland as her home to hide and to wander about unmolested in search of information concerning her past. Night after night and day after day Trevor motors to her hut, and together they roam about the wastelands. An elf-like creature by the name of Sal, who picks rubbish from the heaps of debris, is Anne's only real companion, and from a distance she craftily watches Trevor's love-making, and at the first opportunity teases Anne. One day when Trevor makes his daily visit to Anne's hut, he tells her of a telegram he received, announcing his father's death, and that he will be gone abroad a few weeks to attend to the funeral details. While he is absent, Paul Lester, who has treacherous designs, calls at the hut, and after a heated argument, Anne fells him with a blow on the head, for she has long determined to kill him on account of his constant hounding her. When Lester rallies a short time afterwards, a spot of blood is left on the rocks near Anne's door, and when Sal taunts her about murdering him, she really feels frightened and is glad when Trevor returns from his foreign trip. He learns of the attempted murder through Sal, who points to the spot of blood, and when Anne shakes Sal, Sal determines to have vengeance, and asserts she will follow her to the Black House across the sea. Trevor then tells Anne how his father made him take the name of Trevor in lieu of Tremaine, and also that his father was insane for years, and that the murderer of his father is not known. This does not concern Anne as much as her anxiety to cover up the spot of blood, which would reveal her crime to the authorities. When Trevor finally sees the blood he senses that Anne was the murderess as intimated by Sal. That night they decide to leave this place, and they .ride to the church, and the Daughter of the Mist becomes Mrs. Guy Trevor. Their trip across the ocean proves uneventful, and when they arrive at the Black House Anne is horrified at the gloomy, ebon-walled mansion on the barren hill. When eating their first meal a servant by the name of Simkins, who has been in the family for years, looks at Anne in such a strange way that Trevor remarks that she has made an impression on him, which mystifies Anne. While she composes herself from his searching glances, a letter arrives, addressed to her, and the contents frighten her. Trevor wants to know what it contains, and she tells him it means a visit to the neighboring suburb. He wants to accompany her on account of the roads being very dark, but she refuses, and leaves him. After she is gone, and Trevor anxiously awaits her return to learn the nature of the strange request, Paul Lester, disguised as a physician and using the name of Obadiah Rattray, M. D., sends a card in to Trevor by Simkins. Simkins tells Trevor that the strange caller keeps continually smiling and causes Trevor to wonder who this stranger might be, not suspecting that it was Lester. Rattray and a colleague enter the library and tell Trevor he is insane and proceed to take him to the madhouse. Trevor objects, and a con- flict ensues, with the result that Trevor is overpowered and strangled. Then they feel that Trevor is temporarily out of the way and proceed to carry his body from the room. In the doorway they find Anne, who senses that the note from Lester was only a ruse to absent her from the house. At the point of a pistol she commands them to stop. Amazed at her unexpected appearance on the scene, they halt and stand stupefied. Anne compels them to carry Trevor to the adjoining room. They at first demur, noticing the seriousness of her countenance. Despite his disguise, Anne recognizes Rattray as Paul Lester. Thwarted in his attempt to accomplish his purpose of putting Trevor out of the way, he pleads with Anne to aid him to get possession of the Tremaine fortune. She refuses, and Lester taunts her about being a murderess, but she stands firm in her loyalty to Trevor and tells him Trevor will never know what really happened on the wasteland. When Trevor awakes in the morning his head is ringing from the effects of the struggle the night previous, and in talking to Anne, he learns the designs of Rattray, and determines to prove that he is not hereditarily insane, by hunting for his family tree record, and concludes to be on guard whenever Lester again appears on the scene. Anne walks to the village to find the Imp of the Wasteland, but in vain. While at dinner, Simkin craftily passes her a note requesting her to meet him in the library. They walk through the woods, and only the weird cries of an owl could be heard. Simkin's revelations startle her and she determines to find out what he knows, but he is reticent. Even the questioning of all the house servants fails to throw any additional light on the subject. Later, from the window, Anne sees a man fall from a horse. When brought into the house, the man is found to be Lester, alias Osmund Fairbank. Trevor recognizes him despite his disguise and orders him to remain until recuperated. A doctor is summoned. A stranger arrives and gives the name of Dr. Wm. Darby. He explains that the regular physician is absent on a case and he came at his request. After attending the injuries of Lester, he departs. Later, Anne perceives a servant leaving Fairbank's room and questions her, but gains no satisfaction. Noticing a letter in her hands, she grabs it and reads contents. Finding a clue, she departs for London. She returns to the Black House brimful of information. Important discoveries follow, and a separation is intimated. After heated discussion, a visitor arrives on the scene and adds to the complex situation. CHAPTER XVIII Evening merged into night, and no events disturbed the seeming calm of the Black House. As the drug-habitue, after an enforced period of divorcement from his Lady of the Poppies, shows none of those wild longings that later, on resumed indulgence, change into gratified complacency with never a hint of preceding soul-sick torture — so the mansion of the ebon walls, after the terrible scene in the library when Trevor cast Anne from his heart, took on its wonted eerie quietude as though nothing had happened. Petite Virginia LePage, who, despite her French name, talked unaccented English, was shown to her apartment by Simkin, at whose strong and patrician face she flashed more than one furtive glance. She excused herself from appearing at dinner, pleading headache and thus secluding herself from view for the night. Trevor kept to his room also, returning untouched the dinner sent him by Simkin. Anne had no appetite; so the dining-room was deserted. Even the butler, whose poise was usually unaffected either by the blandishment or buffeting of circumstances, fell a victim to the melancholy lassitude that prevailed. His duties done, he said good-night to his mistress, although there were many things he wished to say to her, confidences that were almost of a confessional character and that were festering his soul. Anne, waiting — for what ? — in her room, heard the hall clock strike midnight, the hour sinister. She hurried to the door and glanced out. Down the hall in the leaden-colored semi-light of the shrouded night-lamp were two dim figures. In an instant one of them disappeared in Madame LePage's room. The other came down towards Anne, unaware that she was an onlooker. It was Johanna Lane. Anne stepped out and barred her way to the stairs. The stolid housemaid came to an unhurried halt. Only her greenish eyes seemed to widen. "What have you been doing, Johanna?" "I took Madame LePage a cup of hot water. She rang." "How did you happen to be in the kitchen at this hour?" "I went there to get a cup of hot water for myself." They looked at each other, the two women. Anne was baffled. She believed that Johanna was not telling the truth. But this was not disquieting. The disturbing question was this : Was the maid, like Madame LePage, an ally of Lester? "You may go, Johanna." There was a faint smile on the maid's white face as she vanished into the dimness of the lower hall — at least so it seemed to her mistress, whose senses, always acute, were doubly so tonight. Anne waited a moment, then went noiselessly towards Lester's room. She halted at his door and listened. There were voices — Lester's and Trevor's ! Only a low indistinguishable murmur could be heard, with now and then a detached word, and that half guess- work. Of these words, real and fancied, Anne caught "wasteland" — "money" — "blood" — "Sal!" Then came the phrase in Lester's voice: "murder of your father!" — after which Trevor gave a low horrified cry. Then the murmuring was resumed in softer tones ; and Anne, being unable to distinguish anything, returned to her own room. — And thus in the silent and underhand battle at the Black House ended Anne's midnight sortie. Weary from long wakefulness, she slept through the rest of the night and far into the morning. When, refreshed yet vaguely anxious, she hurried downstairs, she learned from Simkin that Madame LePage had breakfasted in the breakfast-room and that Trevor, taciturn and frowning, had gone for a spin in his roadster. "These are desperate days . . ." she said. "Our part is to wait," he answered. She noted his emphasis on the word "our." It gave her a slight start — and yet it imparted comfort. Simkin's help would be inval- uable to her in this combat in the mists now beginning at the Black House. She had not sought it, she was indeed somewhat averse to accept it, as his mysterious personality was an irritant in itself. But she could not deny his power, even if she could still defy his deft kindliness. She held out her hand. "My friend, I shall let you help me all you can. I trust you." His stoicism melted. He pressed her hand and half turned away. "In war," he said, smiling faintly, "no soldier fighting shoulder- to-shoulder with a recruit asks him his antecedents. Let us fight and then — fight." July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL She felt strengthened — strangely and suddenly. She had added a new intrenchment for retreat, a battery for attack, and an aegis for hand-to-hand conflict. Her gratitude, sincere and spontaneous as it was, almost instantly gave way to the involuntary vibrant admiration that swept through her, thrilling her and holding her captive even after he had kissed her hand and left her. There was the sound of Trevor's roadster on the driveway. She hurried to the window. By some trick of synchronism Trevor glanced at the window just as she reached it. Their eyes met. He, much agitated, turned away — not without tipping his cap, however. She felt grateful for that little courtesy, stiff and conventional as it was. Besides, his haggard face and dejected demeanor evinced how the dread revelation of yesterday had laid waste his heart — ■ and how stubbornly he still loved her. This fact — for fact she believed it to be — renewed her courage and quickened her energy. She would fight to save him from Lester's gossamer craftiness bit- terly, undauntedly, to whatever end the fortunes of war might decree. . . . But even if victorious, what then? They must eventually part forever, no matter what humiliating terms of peace Lester might be forced to sign. Her duty, however, as Simkin had pointed out, was to remain at the Black House until the conspirator's subtle tactics were matched with others as devious and deadly, and he himself exposed. Then, with her work done, she should have to go — even as Trevor in his first mad grief had bidden her. Her task was a difficult one. Lester, who was already in strategic position, was fighting under cover. In Madame LePage he had an ally, whose ability was indicated by his bold summoning of her to the Black House. Possibly in Johanna Lane he had another. But what part were they to play? Was Trevor, whose imagination made him especially vulnerable to delicate and insinuating attack, expected to fall in love with the little LePage? Anne had to smile. For Virginie, while a fairly good color-scheme with her hair and eyes, was decidedly passe and wizen. As for the stony Johanna, she was not to be considered as any agency for amorous conquest. Besides, Trevor loved his wife. Lester's plan, of course, was to make the master of the Black House hate Anne. This was his trump card, his last desperate attempt to gain possession of the immense Tremaine fortune. Trevor's hatred of his wife presupposed his literal casting her out of his life; and with her gone Lester's work would be easier. His direct object was the subjugation of Trevor to helplessness. He had already tried to bring this about twice, and failed. Elaborately disguised as Dr. Rattray and with the assistance of his confederate Mack, his desperate attempt to place Trevor in a private madhouse had been foiled and made to look farcical by Anne's cleverness. After this fiasco he had tried to persuade Trevor to believe himself insane. Anne had no proof of this, but regarded it as highly probable. In any event Trevor declined to go crazy even at the behest of his own transient fears. So Lester, as a last resort, was trying to set him against his wife — and, so far, succeeding alarmingly. The very brazenness of his forced entrance into the Black House and his subsequent gaining of Trevor's ear showed the deadliness of his determination to put the plot through. He would disgrace Anne and send her away, then make Trevor putty in his hands, or place him in a private asylum, or even kill him, and then, backed with proofs sufficient for his purpose, declare himself the sole living Tremaine, even the son of the late master of the Black House, going so far as to brand Guy Trevor — dead or mad, as the case might be — a usurper ! The stupendousness of it conduced to incredulity, but the plan was feasible. Its success depended on Lester's genius for craft — for nothing short of genius would suffice — and upon the apparent validity of his proofs. Anne, who knew him, knew that he had shaped almost his entire life towards the acquiring of the Tremaine name and estate. And he would die hard. But was Trevor to fall a stupid and unfighting victim to the wiles of this masterful spider? Was he already enmeshed? It was inconceivable. He was a man — with strength to match against Lester's own. Mentally, despite recurrent sick dreams, he was sound. And Lester, though he was psychologist enough to know the more or less powerful influence of suggestion, was yet no master of spells. Trevor's weak point was his imagination. That was his impres- sionable side. If Lester had already impressed it to the required degree, Anne was even now hopelessly defeated. If not, there was a chance for another and contrary impressment — Anne's own— if she could only secure the opportunity to communicate with him personally. This was practically impossible at present. He would neither consent to an interview nor read any letter she might write. So all she could do was to try to prevent any further communication between him and Lester. She at once rang for Simkin and informed him of her conclu- sion, with which he concurred, and then asked him to stand guard near Lester's door and bar Trevor's way into the room of the man of machinations, no matter if force had to be used. She then summoned Johanna and warned her not to carry any notes from Lester or Madame LePage to Trevor, or vice versa, under penalty of instant dismissal. Then in the reaction from this sharp and speedy procedure she wondered if she had gone too far. What, on the face of things, had happened — to warrant such drastic measures? Maybe — and her heart bounded in the wild hope of it — Trevor had designs on Lester quite to the extent that Lester had designs on him ! The master of the Black House had been outraged successively by the kidnapping plot and by the intrusion of "Fairbank" into his house- hold, and in fury had threatened revenge. Was he as docile now as Anne feared? Maybe with Lester he was matching strategy with strategy. It might be that he was planning some tremendous coup, some spectacular climax of wholesale betrayal of Lester, some master-move to crush him and extract his fangs. . . . But as Anne's heart had bounded, so now it sank. She remem- bered his terrible denunciation of her in the library, his wild demand that she take herself out of his life forever. It was only too plain that Lester had begun his work well. CHAPTER XIX The luncheon hour found no one in the dining-room save Anne. Lester, who claimed that his ankle was still too weak for walking, had his meal served in his room as usual — but not by Johanna Lane. Anne had assigned another maid to second-floor duty and transferred Johanna downstairs. Simkin had begun sentry work near Lester's door. His osten- sible excuse for remaining there so long a time was the repairing of some Gobelin tapestries that hung on the balustrade. Trevor, who had gone to his room after his morning spin, kept to himself. Virginie LePage had asked for the family car and had motored to Caermarthen on a shopping expedition, as she ironically explained to Anne — who wondered what her real reason could be. One thing seemed to be settled; the conspirators had decided not to appear at table or to take part in any social intercourse in the drawing-room. Of course, this odd behavior outraged etiquette; but Madame LePage seemed indifferent to appearances, while Lester had his eternal ankle to plead as justification for remaining in his room. What did they fear? Anne's fighting spirit? Her wit? Her genius of exigency? Had Virginie learned of her mysterious journey to London and of any investigations she might have made there ? Their secreting of their persons irritated Anne. Technically they were guests. Courtesy between a hostess and guests is recipro- cal. This hoary household platitude thrilled Anne with the possi- bilities created by its enforced observance. Virginie LePage, for instance, in accepting Anne's hospitality, tacitly agreed not to break those unwritten, unspoken, yet binding rules governing modern domestic establishments, one of the main ones of which is attendance at table for meals. And thus it came to pass that the mistress of the Black House, desperately searching for subtlety to match subtlety, wile to trap wile, innuendo to baffle innuendo, hit upon the most effective weapon of all — a prim little rule of etiquette ! She laughed gaily as she drank her lonesome tea. Until far into the afternoon affairs at the mansion of the ebon remained in statu quo. Trevor went out with his dogs, his favorite airdale walking beside him and sharing his dispirited mien. This gave Simkin an opportunity to rest awhile from sentry-duty at Lester's door; and he and his mistress had a conference in the library. The post brought a letter from Trevor's lawyers addressed to Anne, in answer to hers written directly after the Rattray kid- napping burlesque. They counseled Trevor to remain at the Black House, to be on the watch, not to be too anxious, and not to worry. The letter, while serious enough in tone, was somewhat serio-comic in undertone. It was apparent — at least to Anne — that the writers regarded the alleged conspiracy as a more or less grim joke. And their half-bantering offer to send down two or three detectives as a body-guard deepened this impression. But the letter had no deterrent effect on Anne's aggressiveness. If it had been written with knowledge of the present impossible state of things at the Black House it would have been more urgent in counseling precautionary measures and more exhortatory in specifying how certain perils and exigencies were to be met. As it was, it was valueless ; and as Anne burned it she dismissed it from her mind. The wintry sun, itself as pale as the moon, had sunk in wan weariness behind the Welsh hills when Anne, at the library window, saw Mamade LePage and Trevor arrive at the Black House at practically the same moment. Madame LePage agilely sprang from the car just as Trevor returned from his cross-country tramp with his dogs. The airdale still walked beside him, a picture of dignified integrity and reserve ; but was guilty of a breach of canine manners when Virginie, swirling in lingerie, and lashed by rich furs, ap- proached them smilingly. The dog growled and showed his teeth. Trevor, absent-minded, did not reprimand him. But Virginie. half-tumbling against them breathlessly, took no offense. One hand PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 she gave to the master of the Black House. The other she gave to his dog. Returning to the piazza with them, she petted the one and patted the other. Trevor was still absent-minded, and the airdale still growled. Virginie glanced down at the animal once, and Anne, who was still a half-amused and wholly interested spectator at the window, was surprised at the sudden glare of hate in her black eyes. The dog sullenly went off to the kennels, turning and giving the little witch-like woman a parting growl. Trevor, roused at last, rebuked him, then with a quick glance at Virginie as though just aware of her presence, tipped his cap stiffly and ran up the piazza- steps, leaving her standing in wrinkled bewilderment. Anne was woman enough to enjoy the comedy. She even laughed. But beneath her amusement was the satisfied conviction that Trevor had so far been abundantly able to resist whatever spells Madame LePage, after these many implacable years, might cast. Anne hurried into the hall just as Virginie was opening the door. "Welcome home," she said with an engaging smile. Virginie was obviously astonished. "Thank you — thank you very much." "Shall I see you at dinner tonight, Madame LePage ?" "My poor brother can't leave his room, as you know- "I understand that. But your ankle isn't sprained, too, is it?" Virginie was trying to control herself, but her own particular variety of snappy anger was gathering in her eyes. "I daresay this is your way of being nice to a guest ?" Anne smiled. "It is simply my way of insisting that you appear at dinner tonight." "But I'm used to dining in my own room. I've done so all my life." "But you're my guest, Madame LePage, and you must not demur at my wish to entertain you as every hospitable hostess should." The black eyes flashed angrily. "I don't care for any dinner at all tonight !" Anne laughed. "It's almost two hours till dinner — plenty of time to cultivate an appetite. I shall expect you, Madame LePage." "And what if I decline your invitation ?" "In that case I shall be forced to ask you to leave my house." The petite LePage was dumbstruck. Her lips trembled, but no sound same. She gazed up at Anne gloweringly, making no effort to hide her outraged feelings, then, with an inarticulate, malevolent muttering she turned abruptly and ran upstairs. Anne flushed with success, rang for Simkin. "Resume your guard at Lester's door," she said. She did not have time to say more, for at that moment Johanna approached from the rear end of the hall. Simkin caught Anne's glance and ascended the stairs. The maid followed stolidly. At the landing she turned and went in the direction of Madame LePage's room. Anne thought, then with a comprehending glitter in her eyes she softly ascended the stairs, sent Simkin down to wait in the lower hall, spied Johanna disappearing in Virginie's room, then hid herself behind a projecting wall near Trevor's door. In a few moments the maid emerged from Madame LePage's room and came down the hall. She carried a note, half crushed, in her hand. When she drew near, Anne sprang from her hiding- place and snatched the note. Then she quickly turned the dazed Johanna in the direction of the stairs. "You're dismissed," she said. "Get your wages from the butler and leave at once." Johanna turned and looked at her, then at Lester's door. Then she went quietly down the stairs. Anne read Virginie's note. It was an incredibly absurd one, an appeal to Trevor, as her host, to overrule Anne's dinner dictum as hostess. "I am really ill," the letter ran, "and my physicians insist on my remaining in my room even at meal-time, as table-talk makes me very nervous." Anne, laughing softly, hurried downstairs and showed the note to Simkin, who had just sent Johanna to her room to pack her trunk preparatory to leaving. The staid butler laughed with his mistress over Madame LePage's whimper, then started upstairs to resume his position near Lester's door. Before he reached the landing there was the swish of silken petticoats whirling down the upper hall, and like a figure in a moving picture tempo crescendo, Madame LePage waltzed by and disappeared in Lester's room. Anne, who stood at the foot of the stairs, saw this apogee of acrobatics — and laughed again. . "We have her worried at last," she whispered up to Simkin. "Don't flout the Furies," was his puzzling answer as he made ready to continue repairing the balustrade tapestry. Thus challenged, she was about to answer him with an anti- fatalistic banter, but the extreme gravity of his face reduced her to silence. She gazed at him quizzically, studiously, half-askance — as she had done so many times ; then suddenly — electrically — her eyes swept downward and rested on that ebony door that had never been opened since the night she had accompanied him to the lake — the door of Trevor's father's study. "You promised to give me the key to that room," she said slowly. "Please give it to me now." "It's . . . lost." "That is the first falsehood you have ever told me, Simkin." He turned and gazed down at her reproachfully. A tremor went through his powerful frame. "You are cruel." "There's something in that room you want to hide from me. Be kind enough to find the key by tomorrow morning." He did not answer. His face was bent low over the tapesty, but she could see that the blood had mounted even to his brow. She hesitated, then went to the servants' quarters and had the satisfaction of seeing Johanna Lane leave. The maid had never seemed so sluggish and so pale. Anne bade her good-bye. Johanna nodded, then silently left the house and vanished in the dusk. Anne, vastly relieved, went upstairs to her room to dress for dinner, passing Simkin, who was still bending over the tapestry, but who, as he walked down the hall, turned and watched her anxiously till she disappeared behind her closing door. Then with a nervous shiver — an emotional phenomenon for a man of his self- mastery — he leaned against the balustrade, sighing heavily. Anne made a careful toilet; and when, at the dinner hour, she entered the large and sombrely artistic dining room her delicate loveliness, under the stimulus of the impending climax at the Black House, had taken on a deepening glow. Certainly not for Virginie L«Page had the hidden springs of her being, fountain-like, sent up so much rich red beauty to her cheeks, so much radiance to her eyes — nor for Trevor, alas, who in his humbled pride and wounded love was doubtless still sulking in his own room. She herself did not quite know why she had dressed with such consummate effect. She simply knew that tonight — not a night of nights, but only one in the calendar's nondescript train — she wished to look her best. The table, a glittering thing with its silver and cut glass, was set for four, as it had been ever since the arrival of Lester and Madame LePage. In the deep fireplace as unusually loquacious pine log was cracking, sputtering and inviting to tete-a-tetes and tender chatter. Anne, in the dolour of spent happiness, sank upon the oaken seat in front of the blaze, and straightway the fire, in whimsical response to her mood, took to making marvelous pictures. Out from the shadows of the bay-windows where she had stood looking into a night blacker than her own hair, came Virginie LePage suddenly. Anne rose. She smiled and motioned her guest to a chair at the table. Virginie stood motionless, gazing at the tall woman in the shimmering silver gown. Then she broke into the softest and most musical of little laughs and pressed Anne's hand. "Mrs. Trevor," said said, "we're both silly in this little melo- drama of 'Woman against Woman.' I crave your forgiveness for not dining with you before — and you, surely, will not attribute my carelessness to any invidious motive?" This little speech sounded rehearsed. Lester was behind it. But that made it all the more amusing to Anne, who answered with something as dissimulative and meaningless. Then these two women, each scheming desperately against the other, sat down at the table to hide behind formality and convention their true selves. The dinner went well. Anne, whom the gods had dowered with a sense of humor, enjoyed the situation thoroughly. But, more than the situation, she enjoyed Virginie, whose gaiety, like Airy Fairy Lilian's, was without eclipse. Such amazing gamuts of vivacity, such tangents of delightful irrelevancies. such divertissements of impish caprice, such grotesque anecdotes, such outre paradox were in- credible— even in Anne's comprehensive humanistic experience. In a lull, the one lull allowed by the little witch, Anne tried to express her gratitude for so unique an entertainment. "Madame LePage, you really cannot blame me for asking you to dine with me. You are superb." Virginie gave a start and gazed shrewdly, suspiciously into Anne's frank eyes. Too wise herself not to know sincerity when she saw it, yet too proud to admit it, she called up from her dead soul that mirthless and metallic laugh that had never failed her. "Thank you," she said, rising. "May I go to my brother now?" "Yes" — and Anne sighed. "I am very unhappy, as you know — but your wit has made me forget it — for a time. I am truly grateful." The hard brilliance of the black eyes softened — but again that dry and barren soul yielded its disquieting laugh. "You flatter me, Mrs. Trevor." She went to the door, then turned. "My brother thinks we keep too much to ourselves — so he suggests that we meet in the music room tomorrow night and that I play for you and Mr. Trevor. I used to play rather well . . . long ago . . . ." A shadow crossed her face, but she smiled de- fiantly. "Shall we meet tomorrow night in the music room?" "Yes. . . ." "Good-night." "Good-night." She was gone — with her witchery, her mystery, her semi-oriental charm. Who was she? What was her heal relationship to Lester? — But, most of all, what was the meaning of the little musicale arranged for tomorrow nieht ? July, igig PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 17 Anne, wondering, stood motionless, gazing stupidly at the door. And even as she looked it was opened — and Trevor, pale yet com- posed, entered the room. "May I speak with you?" he asked. Unnerved, she sank limply upon the seat in front of the fire- place. Her lips moved, but no sound came. He repeated his ques- tion. She turned, gazed up at him and answered in the affirmative. It was now his turn to be unnerved. With the lifting of her magnificent gray eyes to his the full realization of her uncommon beauty swept over him. Her rather sharply defined cheek and chin, her mass of rare drab hair alive with dull little glints, her faultless brow, these supernal attractions almost overcame him. But he pulled himself together and set his lips for the saying of loveless words. "Anne, I am going to leave the Black House. You have owned half of it all these years. I now give you my half. I have always disliked the place . . and now . . . ." "Don't," she gasped, bending over the waning fire. "I had no right to — to ask you to leave. I know you will forgive me for that. . . ." He went to the door — but turned. "Anne . . . !" She rose and in the wild hope imparted by that intonation of despair started towards him. But he held up a deterrent hand. "Listen," he said unsteadily. "I ... I love you. Good- bye . . ." "Guy ... !" But he turned and went on towards the door. She hurried after him, reached him, clung to him, begged him to wait a moment. "If you love me you'll listen to me. . . . You must be just. You listened to what Lester said about me, and then you asked me those awful questions. I answered them truthfully — and since then I haven't troubled you, although my heart is breaking." "Good-bye. . . ." And he went on towards the door. But she threw herself in front of him. "You shall not go till you hear the few things I have to say. It is but simple justice that you listen to me." "That's true. ... Go on." "Do you remember the night on the wasteland when you asked me to marry you — ?" she asked. "I can never forget it " "You promised you would never ask me to tell you of my past- "I'm not asking you to tell me of it now- "No. You evidently preferred hearing it from Lester's lips." "Not at all. It came about quite by accident. That day you went to London Lester had a terrible attack of pain. He had rung and rung, and no one answered. I happened to pass his door and heard him groaning. I went in, of course, to do what I could for him. Your name was mentioned and then. . . ." "You listened to what he had to say !" "Certainly. It was so horrible, so undreamed-of. I was dazed. I . . . Well, as it was, I almost struck him, helpless there before me. I could have killed him — but most of all I could have killed myself. I rushed from him, hating him, myself, you. Even now it seems too terrible to be true. . . ." "Oh, Guy, it is too terrible to be true !" "But if it's not true you lied to me !" he cried bitterly. "There is no alternative." "There is one," she whispered, "and that is — love." He grew didactic. "Love can't thrive on falsehoods." "Listen, Guy. "I did dissimulate — but only for love of you. Who in this erring world has never sinned ? Why, even you hinted of dark periods in your past when you asked me to marry you " "But that is different " She smiled wanly. "Of course — you're a man !" "You don't understand. I did promise not to pry into your past, but when, only the other day, you confessed you had tried to impose yourself on my father as his daughter, and that you had the Tremaine fortune in mind when you consented to marry me. . . God ! that is unforgivable." "But . . even if I did have that in mind I learned to love you afterward. — Haven't I been a loving and faithful wife?" "Don't, Anne . . . You torture me " She dared to put a timid arm around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder. "Guy, I — I don't want the Tremaine money. I — • want you." He gazed searchingly into her eyes, then removed her arm from around his neck. "Anne," he said with repelling calmness, "you're incapable of the thing you accuse yourself of. . . ." She shrank from him. "You mean . . . ?" "You are neither an adventuress nor an impostor. You . . ." "But, Guy, I swear. . . ." "You didn't lie when you betrayed yourself into declaring your- self a Tremaine . . . Would to God you had !" Her eyes lit. "Then you could love me even if I were an adventuress?" "I could — perhaps — but I wouldn't. There is, you see, absolutely no alternative. We must part. I shall leave the Black House never to reurn." Shaking as if with a chill, she clutched the back of a chair to support herself. "What of the man who has brought this unspeakable sorrow upon us ?" she asked. "Lester?" He is simply Fate's instrument." " — So you do not hate him any more ? the wretch who plotted to take you to the madhouse — and who is plotting still to rob you not only of your money but your name?" He sighed wearily. "Who notices the barking cur at one's heels when one's heart is dead ? The lesser miseries have been swal- lowed in the one great unutterable sorrow crushing me." Despite his somewhat extravagant way of putting it she knew he was suffering acutely; but she could not forego the one slight opportunity left her to deal Lester a telling blow. "Grief or no grief," she said impressively, "are you not aware that a deadly snake has coiled itself about you? Why don't you order Paul Lester from the house?" "Are you afraid he may tell me something more?" She gave a low cry. It was the first downright cruel thing he had ever said to her. Like a rose, the first of the garden of love, with petals whipped by an untimely wind, she swayed before him. He caught her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, kissed her, then rushed from the room . . . the Furies giving chase. CHAPTER XX At breakfast the next morning Virginie LePage, in a startling combination of sunrise pink and moonlight green, laughed through- out the meal. Anne was in a graver mood. She was not so respon- sive to her guest's raillery as on the preceding evening, but she managed to smile occasionally as an encouragement to the little creature. "By the bye," remarked Virginie suddenly, "I miss your yellow- faced maid. Is she ill?" "No — dismissed." She gave a slight start, then laughed again. "I don't blame you for getting rid of her, "she said. "She gave my poor sensitive brother the creeps. Now if you could only ship your owl-faced butler " Anne was caught off her guard. The contemptuous reference to Simkin made her indignant. "Madame LePage !" she exclaimed. "You " She recovered herself. But Virginie's bright eyes were fixed quizzically on her. "I see," she laughed. "He's one of the family. I don't blame you for that either — he's so tremendously handsome." They rose from the table. Anne was smiling now, too. "Madame," she said with no particular emphasis, "how is Mr. Lester this morning?" At the name "Lester" the petite LePage changed color. "My brother's name is — Fairbank." "Is he your brother ?" "Who says he's not — ?" — defiantly. "Madame, why dissimulate? Let us take off our masks. The fight is on — and you're against me. I know your alleged brother's designs. Possibly he knows mine. He is conspiring to reduce my husband to a state of helplessness, to digrace me, and then to lay claim to the Tremaine fortune. I am fighting him. I know the ruse he worked in coming here. I know you are here as his ally. I know that the musicale you are to give tonight will be used by him as a means to further his ends — doubtless he intends to spring some spectacular coup to annihilate me !" She gave a little laugh. "I'm asking no quarter. I'm simply telling you — and him — that now is the time to throw off the mask." Virginie's fine eyes had run a gamut of expressions. But now they showed only a strange, musing curiosity. "How long have you known — Paul Lester?" "All my life." "Hm ..." and she pondered. "I've known him only a little while . . . That's odd." She gazed at Anne fixedly, then shrugged her shoulders. "Well — will you invite Mr. Trevor to that very mys- terious musicale tonight? Tell him I'll play Saint-Saen's 'Dance of Death' ..." And the little creature sailed on her billows of lingerie out of the room. Anne's dramatic instinct was roused, her sense of humor tickled. She sent a note to Trevor telling him that Madame Le Page was giving a musicale that night and that she especially desired his pres- ence as guest of honor. He replied that he was in no mood to enjoy music and declined the invitation. Anne then begged him to be pres- ent as a favor to herself. She waited half an hour for an answer, but none came. She began writing a third note. On second thought she tore it, then tried to dismiss the whole farcical affair from her mind. In her heart she felt that Trevor would be in the music room at the hour appointed. 38 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 The day wore on monotonously enough. In the early afternoon one of the maids reported syping Johanna Lane in the pine wood beyond the lake. But this did not trouble Anne particularly ; so far Johanna's stupid misadventures had been without rhyme or reason. When, however, another maid declared she had seen Johanna in com- pany with Madame LePage Anne gave the matter serious thought. It seemed, after all, that the Lane girl was to have a role in the tragi- comedy to be enacted that night in the music room. But even yet the mistress of the Black House was undismayed. The theme of the play interested her far more than the number of characters in the cast. The afternoon was a trying one for Anne. She was restless and expectant. She felt that the night was to mark a crisis in the plots and counter-plots that surcharged the atmosphere within the ebon walls. This feeling, which was born of nothing tangible and hence was difficult to analyze, impelled her to aimless activity and subtle disquiet. Her room, with its over-dress of tapestries, conduced to foreboding; so she passed much of the time downstairs roaming dis- piritedly from room to room, leaving unentered only one — the dead Tremaine's study. Mechanically, absently she had put her hand on the knob before she quite realized what she was doing. Then with a start she recog- nized the door — which was heavier, blacker, more forbidding than the others. There was a sound at the far end of the hall. She turned and saw Simkin. At the same instant he turned away from her. He had evidently been approaching, but, suddenly seeing her at the fateful door, had turned abruptly to retrace his steps. At least this was the construction Anne put upon his otherwise inexplicable act. "Simkin!" she called. He hesitated, then turned and approached her. In the niggardly light his face looked troubled and haggard. She was startled at the change in him. "Have you found the key to this room?" she asked. "No." "Have you hunted for it?" "No." " — Why haven't you?" "I haven't had time." "You'll have time this afternoon — ?" "Yes." He regarded her with an amused quizzicalness, then burst into a laugh. "You're trying to do Fate's work again, I see." "Simkin — what is in this room?" "Nothing I cannot easily remove before I've found the key !" She gave a start. "You mean you may hide this— thing?" "Possibly." Indignant words rose to her lips. But she could not utter them. She could only gaze at his face — and feel the silent rebuke of his strong and patient soul. "Tell me this much," she said, "has the secret of this room any connection with the secret of the lake?" "No ..." "I remember the night you took me to the shivering waters. You were going to tell me of a great service you had done me, but your courage failed — " "I was afraid your courage might fail — " "And yet you did it for me — really?" "For you — and your husband — and myself." Again he had linked his destiny with hers and Trevor's ! Once more the spell of the shivering waters held her — and once more she felt oppressed by that Secret he would not reveal. "That night by the lake, Simkin, you declared you had done the deed for me — you didn't mention Mr. Trevor or yourself." He smiled. "The whole truth is sometimes like an avalanche. Then we have to tell it — gradually." He disregarded the feverishly eager look in her eyes and glanced at his watch. "Shall I go upstairs and resume my guarding of Lester's door?" She thought a moment. "No. Mr. Trevor will not try to see him. Simkin — " "Yes?" "Tonight the four of us — Lester, Madame LePage, Mr. Trevor and I — are to meet in the music room. It sounds stupidly con- ventional, even silly, doesn't it? But it will mark a crisis." She hesitated, glancing at him almost mystically. "I'm wondering what part you are to play ..." He smiled amusedly. "A rather important part. I shall take the center of the stage from all of you." She had a sudden reaction. "Sometimes I fear I'm dignifying the occasion to an absurd extent. After all, it's just a whim of Lester's. I can't understand why he wants Madame LePage to play- " "Has your husband ever discussed music with you?" "No. -Well?" "He's very sensitive to its influence — almost incredibly so " "Yes, yes ?" "When he was a child the minor arpeggios and Slav and Hun- garian music in particular had the power of putting him into a con- dition resembling trance. Harmony imparted to him a peace that was heavenly, while inharmony transformed him into a creature of the wildest passions. Once I was playing some imperfect chromatics on the 'cello, pianissimo, when his father began to read aloud a tale of murder from the Spanish. The boy suddenly seized a small Italian dagger that was used as a paper-cutter, and . . . ." "Go on," gasped Anne. "I took the knife from him, and in a minute he was himself." "How horrible " "Not at all. It was simply his super-sensitiveness to sound." "I shall not allow Madame LePage to play !" Simkin smiled at her earnestness. "But he has changed vastly since then. Such impressionability was but a phenomenon of his boyhood. Let Madame LePage play her best — or her worst. He will listen unmoved." This reassuring prophecy was mysterious, like everything else about Simkin. "Did his father really hate him?" she queried suddenly. The anomalous butler was somewhat taken by surprise. "Hardly that. He was disappointed in him. They didn't understand each other." " You mean they were not like father and son?" "I can't answer any more questions. I'll simply say this much — your young husband is more of a man than the late master of the Black House dreamed. It is only the pall of funereal memories that puts him at a disadvantage now. He is outgrowing his besetting mysticism just as you have outgrown your fears. He is not the helpless prey to suggestion that Lester fancies. So don't dread the night." With these words, spoken with the impressiveness of authority, Simkin turned and went down the hall. And Anne was left to marvel. Her mind, preternaturally alert, ran over the sinister series of events from her meeting with Trevor to the present protentous moment. In this amazing period three mysteries stood out against a background of mist. Two were solved — the murder of the late master of the Black House, and the peculiar relations existing between him and Trevor. One — the greatest mystery of all — remained unsolved. That mystery was — Simkin. CHAPTER XXI The music room opened upon a small piazza overlooking the lake of the quivering waters. The ceiling was high and vaulted; the tapestries were erratic in workmanship and bizarre in subjects; the lighting facilities were designedly meager — for the purpose, evidently, of preserving an atmosphere of neutral tones deepening into shadows. Only over the keyboard of the exquisitely carved piano depended a lamp of any especial brilliance ; and even that was shaded with phos- phorescent blue — the color of spectral dreams. No other room in the Black House was so fitted for the weaving of spells. Lester had chosen cleverly. But Anne was not to be placed at so subtle yet signal a disad- vantage by anything a little effort could remedy ; so she had Simkin bring in every electrolier in the house. Consequently when Lester and Madame LePage appeared they were palpably disconcerted by the glare of light. Lester, who handled his crutches discreetly, managed to keep on smiling, however; but Virginie, whose make-up had been intended only for the softest of semi-shadowed glows, turned and overtly used her handkerchief quite vigorously. Anne, amused at the outset, chatted on divers small topics, even venturing an elusive jest concerning the pathetic crutches. She called Lester — alias Fairbank — "Paul" without hesitation, explanation or apology, and, by devious art, succeeded in ruffling his temper a trifle by gently sarcastic references to the Rattray kidnaping fiasco and other incidents of his unusual career. Her memory was irritatingly good. Despite Lester's neutralizing laughs, she delved into his distant past, much to his very obvious chagrin. Virginie listened open- mouthed to these piquant recollections. She showed she was a stranger to them. Indeed, her astonishment was so keen and so violent as to disquiet Lester, who tried to pacify her deftly. He failed miserably. She hurled a number of verbal explosives at him, and, grimacing in his face, magnificently threatened to box his ears. "Why have you never told me you loved her?" she cried, pointing at the smiling Anne. "But she's my sister !" he answered, recklessly. "I'm your sister ! You're a liar — a cheat — a " Suddenly he pointed warningly towards the door. There stood Trevor. He had heard all. The angry expression of his face proved it. He strode towards Lester menacingly. His fists were clenched and his eyes ablaze. Lester, forgetting his crutches, let them drop noisily to the floor and backed precipitately across the room. "Knave!" cried Trevor, clutching him by the throat. "I've been aware of the little game you've been trying to play, but my great sorrow has made me unmindful of everything else. This disgraceful scene tonight, though, has changed my dormant dislike of you into July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 39 active loathing — you dog!" Beside himself, he shook him as he might have shaken the animal he insulted by the comparison. "By God, I could kill you ....!" he exclaimed, furiously, "but I'll have to content myself by kicking you out of the house." Lester broke away from him. In the meantime Madame LePage had hurried stealthily around behind them to the French window lead- ing to the piazza. As Trevor finished his ferocious denunciation of Lester she opened it and in came Johanna Lane and — Sal. The imp of the wasteland burst into her strident little laugh. Better frocked, but with mien as knowing and mischievously menacing as ever, she looked at each one of them — longest at Anne, who stood motionless, speechless, clearly taken by surprise. "Huh!" cried the child contemptuously. "Bloody Anne Grieve ... !" Trevor shuddered and glanced at his wife. The old unreasoning, self-created Fear was in his eyes. Lester, who stood near, could scarcely conceal his delight— Sal had made a good beginning — all he needed to tinge Trevor's superactive imagination was the Fear to work upon. Anne, who succeeded in mastering her numbing facul- ties, saw the new and perilous turn the attack was taking. But she remained silent, not heeding Sal's challenge to hostilities. The child, however, was not through with her. "See, Anne Grieve, you've brought it on yourself. I told you I'd get even with you. Once upon a time I didn't hate you like I do now — ! But that night when you jumped on me on account of that blood you spilt ..." Anne looked appealingly at Trevor. He was already looking at her — but with the Fear in his eyes. Sal, laughing disdainfully, turned to Virginie LePage. "Why didn't you. come for me instead of sendin' that pale-face?" she queried with a scornful nod towards Johanna. Virginie, evidently perturbed, signaled Sal to keep silent. This angered the imp. She went to the little black-eyed woman, who just then seemed an imp herself, and shook her bony little fist in her face. "I don't like you," she cried, "even if you did give me this ugly dress! There's somethin' behind everything you do for me — !" Not attempting to hide her agitation, Virginie bent over the child and whispered in her ear. Sal gave a little laugh, then, glancing at Anne, muttered half to herself: "Yes, I hate her more!" She then marched to Trevor, whose gaze had scarcely left her since her dramatic entry. "Say — do you remember the night on the wasteland when I showed you the blood?" "Yes ..." She glanced at Anne. "She didn't want you to look at it, did she?" "No ..." "Well, I've got somethin' else to show you now — somethin' in the wood beyond the lake — and she won't want you to look at this! Ask her."' But he only gave a strained laugh. "That isn't necessary. She doesn't care." "Look at her and see — !" Anne did care — perhaps more because of the black mystery of it all. She took a step towards Trevor and held out her hand appealingly. "Don't go," she begged, "for my sake — " He hesitated. It was plain that he was becoming himself again. Lester saw his changing expression and frantically motioned Virginie to urge Sal to greater efforts. But at the little woman's timid approach the imp waved her away. "He'll go all right," she said laconically, "he's that kind. He's spooky and all that — you can see it in his eyes." The wise little observation amused Trevor. He gave a whole- some laugh. "We'll all go," he said. "It will be amusing." "Guy," pleaded Anne, "can't you see that this entire affair has been pre-arranged? This evil-minded child was brought here by Lester to appear at the psychological moment to hypnotize you!" — think of it, to hypnotize you, a grown man ! They must regard you as a mere child — as a poor, hysterical, negative creature ready to pass into trance-like passivity at the glance of this wretched little Sal. Can't you see the stage is set, with you to take the role of clown ?" Trevor thought a moment. It was apparent that he had at least given her appeal attention. "Anne," he replied at last, "you involuntarily exaggerate the thing. You must remember that this impossible little Sal interested me on the wasteland. Why shouldn't I allow her to amuse me now ?" Anne was obdurate. "This is not a coincidence, Guy. It is a part of Lester's conspiracy. Ask him how he happened to bring Sal across the sea. Ask him how he stole her from her father." Trevor looked anxious — but Madame LePage seemed more so. Trevor, however, was not convinced by Anne's objection. "Come," he said, "we'll all go and see what she has to show us. Sal, you lead the way." He turned to Anne. "I admit it's absurd in a way — but at that it's amusing. The fact — and I know it to be one — that it is prearranged makes it all the funnier. As I said, I'm perfectly aware of Lester's game. It's been a bore till now, as well as a monumental farce. But this child's appearance has added an element of amusement and interest. I'm eager to see what they're going to make her do." "Make me — ?" cried Sal, shrilly. "They can't make me do nuthin'. I'm just doin' 'em a favor, that's all. They promised to find my mother for me, and — " Suddenly Virginie clapped her hands over the child's mouth. Sal fought like a tiger cub. But Trevor stepped in between them, made temporary peace, took Sal by the hand, then went out on the piazza and down the steps, Virginie and Lester following, the latter for- getting all about his crutches and escorting the little LePage quite friskily. Anne waited a moment to have a word with Simkin, who entered the music room as the others left. She then hurried after the rest. Simkin himself, with a fugitive smile on his face, followed Anne — at a distance. Anne caught up with the others at the lake, which was skirted in silence. In the misty moonlight the restless waters were a sickly green ; and the pine wood, which the party soon entered, was only intermittently lit — and then but dimly. Of itself the night had a witchery. But there were other spells — remoter possibly, but just as irre- sistible. For the company, defiling up the narrow path, remained stubbornly silent. Saucy and garrulous Sal was strangely speechless, forbearing to quarrel with Virginie or to sneer at Anne. Lester, although still disguised as the poet Fairbank, with rehearsed pleas- antries crowding his lips, was moodily mute. Virginie's mouth, usually framing bizarre sentiments or smart commentaries, had half disappeared in a thin and implacable line between two ugly wrinkles descending from her pert nose. The silence of Johanna Lane, which was always absolute, seemed tonight intensified ; while Trevor's loquacious amusement had mysteriously petrified into a stony grimness. As for Anne, she was too busy thinking to talk. While she was, of course, trying to anticipate the nature of Sal's promised revela- tion, this did not occupy her mind so much as the probable connection of that revelation with — Simkin s secret! This amazingly bold con- catenation, while purely the creation of Anne's mental processes, was not so forced as to be wholly outside the pale of a basis in fact. With increasing wonder, she recalled the night when she and Simkin had fenced with invisible swords on the shore of the lake. Their gruesome colloquy had reached a dramatic climax when Sal's impish laugh was heard proceeding from this very mood ! Simkin's secret, according to Simkin himself, had to do with something which had disappeared; and Sal's disclosure had to do with something she had evidently found. And, as added weight in favor of Anne's theory, Simkin had insisted on following the party into the wood tonight ! She glanced back and saw him in the moonlight. He smiled and waved his hand. The climb was a long one. Virginie was panting, and Lester was blowing hard. Suddenly Sal, who still acted as guide and leader, gave a little cry. They had reached a small clearing. On one side was a decayed log surrounded with brush. Sal, with considerable appreciation of the dramatic value of the occasion, led the party to the log with slow, rhythmical steps, then turning sud- denly, called shrilly to Madame LePage. "Say, little Snap-Eyes," she cried, "you promised you'd find me my mother if I brought these people here tonight to show up Anne Grieve !" "Hush," begged Virginie. "Ain't you goin' to keep your promise? I want you to say it out loud before everybody so I can hold you to it !" Virginie exchanged glances with Lester. Anne's eyes, like Sal's, were fixed upon her burningly: And, curiously enough, they seemed even more tensely expectant than the child's. "Out with it !" cried Sal. "You'll find me my mother?" "Yes ..." The imp called shrilly to Johanna Lake to turn over the log and remove some of the brush. The pallid maid, with impassive face and steady hands, did so. And there in the moonlight lay a dead man, with body frozen stiff and neck black and blue with marks made by the fingers that had choked him. It was Anne only who gave a cry. It was Anne only who bent over him. "Mack ... !" she whispered, recoiling and turning instinctively towards Lester. Trevor, who was singularly calm, made a closer inspection of the dead man's face. "It is your 'learned colleague,' Dr. Rattray !" he said, with biting sarcasm to Lester. "It's too bad you are not sharing his fate. You deserve it, God knows." Lester grew as pale as the corpse. Things were not coming out as he had schemed. But he still held his trump card in reserve. Trevor, with fine nonchalance, turned away from Mack's body. "It's all a wretched bore," he said. "The death of a man like that — or like you, Lester, for that matter — is of no more importance than the death of a dog. What is it to us that somebody killed your ally in crime ? I congratulate the slayer, whoever he was. He did his 40 P H O T O - P L A Y JOURNAL 1919 work well." He looked down at Sal, who had been listening to him eagerly, and took her hand. "Pool child ! They fixed up this miserable business and then brought you away over here from your native wasteland to put the finishing touch to the hypnosis they fancied they could exert over me!" He laughed amusedly. "Do you know. Sal, why they have made such fools of themselves by asking you to help them?" "Just because I showed you the blood that night on the wasteland, I guess — and because you acted so queer about it — like it mesmerized you, you know. — But you ain't crazy, after all, are you?" He laughed again. "Hardly — although, come to think of it, I don't exactly blame them for thinking so. — As for you, Sal, now that you're here, my wife and I will interest ourselves in you and put you in school — " "But I want my mother — !" the child interrupted, turning to Virginie. "Where is she?" "In a moment," answered Virginie, hurriedly. "First, I want you to tell the truth about that dead man. Mr. Trevor thinks we fixed up the whole thing. But we didn't know anything about it till you told us. Isn't that true?" "Yes," answered Sal, reluctantly. "/ found that dead man — just like I found the blood on the wasteland — " "My blood!" exclaimed Lester, triumphantly. "That was the night, Mr. Trevor, that your wife tried to murder me ..." The half-tired, half-disgusted expression left Trevor's face. He glanced at Anne quickly, then turned away. "Wait a minute," cried Sal. "We're gettin' off the track." She turned to Virginie savagely. "Where's my mother?" There was a portentous pause. The child's insistent demand for her mother — the longed-for prize that had lured her across the sea — had impressed the entire party. In truth, it had crowded even the dead man from the stage. Trevor, in particular, was interested in Sal's desperate quest. "Speak up, Madame LePage," he said, sharply. "It's the child's right to know." Virginie was sullen. "I know nothing . . . " A cry of animal-like rage came from Sal's lips. She would have rushed at Virginie had not Trevor held her. Anne stepped forward. "I can tell you who your mother is. Sal. There she stands." She pointed at Virginie. Sal's cry of hate and revulsion was lost in Madame LePage's scream of surprised rage. She ran up to Anne, with hands lifted and fingers distended ready to choke her. "You lie." she gasped. "I the mother of that little demon? You lie, I say — you lie, you lie !" "I hate you, I hate you !" cried Sal, clawing at Virginie. "I want to go back to my ugly old dad !" she sobbed. "He always told me he'd had to run away from my mother, she was such a cat." Virginie had succeeded in controlling herself somewhat. "My word is as good as yours," she said to Anne aggressively. "Where's your proof?" "There's plenty of proof in the resemblance between you," put in Trevor, who had joined Anne and now stood beside her to give her his moral support. "Your eyes and tempers are very much alike." madame !" Virginie resumed her attack on Anne. "Where's your proof?" she repeated tauntingly. "Why don't you say something?" Anne smiled and turned to Trevor. "Do you remember," she queried in half-tender reminiscence, "how recklessly, delightfully, sur- passingly you motored me to the station the day I went to London ?" An answering tenderness shone in his eyes. He put his arm around her — his first caress for many lovelorn days. In their cruelly brief instant of happiness they forgot everything around them, includ- ing the strange circumstance that had called up the sweet recollection. For one golden moment, pendant in time, they lived and loved in a wee world of their very own miraculouslv created instantaneously of ashes of roses — then Anne, shuddering, turned towards Madame LePage, who. crushed, sodden and sagging, had uttered no sound since that innocent word "London" had scorched her ears. Gazing at that face of dull despair, the others were silent. Even Sal. still hanging to Trevor and half hiding behind him, was, for the moment, stricken dumb. Virginie began tearing her gauzy linen handkerchief mechanically. She shivered slightly, sighed, then raised her eyes to Anne's. Xo woe, no anger fired them : only a new curiosity, half spent already and dim, looked flickeringly from their dark depths. "London ..." she whispered. "You went there to find out ..." "I made thorough investigations, Madame LePage. They led. of course, to the discovery that you had a child, and that Sal was that child, and that 'you had deserted her and her father ..." "Don't . . . please. It's quite true. But don't let's talk about it any more. Let's go . . . somewhere. I — " She glanced around shudderingly. "This is an awful place, this wood. I — I did leave them. He was a brute, and she — she had no right to come into the world. I had to make my way. and a child is a millstone around a woman's neck ... At that. I always expected to have her with me some day." She turned to Sal and fixed her filmy gaze upon her, then held out a tentative hand. "Child . . . I'm your mother. Come ..." But Sal hid behind Trevor, sobbing convulsively. "Go away ! I hate you I" Moaning softly, Virginie turned away. With her anguish class- iscally, epically expressed with hands folded across her bosom, and her head bowed low upon it, she went away silently and impressively, like some storied tragical figure foredoomed to doom, into the deep and protecting shadows of the wood. The succeeding spellbound stillness of the group was rudely broken by Lester's discordant laugh. "A mother and her lost child are the stock tear-wringers of every third class stage manager," he remarked, satirically, "but, really, they have no place in the present drama. This is a tragedy of murder. There lies a dead man. He has been dead for days — saved from decomposition only by the bitter cold weather, which has kept him frozen stiff. The law of capital punishment obtains in this country and somebody must hang for the murder of my friend Mack. — Anne Grieve, you killed him!" Neither Anne nor Trevor scarcely had time to realize the import of his words, when a new, strange voice — a musical masculine voice in the wood behind them — answered Lester's accusation. "Anne Grieve is innocent. / killed him." And Simkin stepped out into the moonlight. Lester, in the shock of it, almost cowered. Trevor gazed at his butler in blank incredulity. And Anne, although still dazed, suddenly realized that Simkin had at last told her his secret. "I killed him," he continued, "because he murdered my beloved master." CHAPTER XXII The motor car drew up at the piazza steps, and Virginie, Lester and Sal hurried into it for the desperate race to Caermarthen to catch the late train for London. Lester had to carry the child, whose incredible fury had reduced her to a state of semi-stupor. The activity attending the departure roused her, however, and she fought him, bit him, clawed him, shrieking that she would not go. But the car made a heedless sweep down the driveway, and the sound of her shrill lamenting died away. Anne, who had said good-bye from the doorway, sighed wearily as she turned and re-entered the house. She gave a start at seeing a dim figure coming down the hall stairs. It was Johanna Lane. Anne waited. The maid approached, then turned and gazed fixedly up the stairs. "He's gone ..." she murmured in monotone. "He came. Now he's gone. — And I loved him ... !" A faint cry — surely sound- less and yet a cry articulate and dreadful — came up deviously, irre- sistibly from below the oppressing super-structures over the pale and stony soul, and she beat her hands upon the air. "I love him," she whispered, turning to Anne. "He doesn't know that I kissed his pillow . . . and he will not know that I'm going out into the night to kiss — Death." And so she left the Black House, not seeing Anne's look of horror, not hearing Anne's word of pity. But she must have seen another face, a face whiter than her own : and she must have heard another voice, the siren voice of the sleep that is sweet and dreamless. For Anne could almost see these new and beautiful comprehensions in her eyes. For Johanna in loving had learned to live : and in living had learned to die. For of such is the heart's great secret. When Anne returned to the library she found Trevor still read- ing the confession she had forced from Lester. It was an interesting document, yet disappointingly limited in scope. It did not deal with Anne's early life or explain his own connection with her. His own bovhood vears were not touched upon. He exculpated Anne from all his charges of wrong-doing, but repeated his statement that she had stabbed him on the wasteland, although admitting she had just cause for so doing, as he had hounded her systematically and merci- lesslv for vears. This unrelenting pursuit of her, he declared, was occasioned by the fact that she was necessary to his conspiracy to gain possession of the Tremaine name and fortune. He went on to sav that she had refused from the first to become his ally in the under- taking, but he continued to hope that by some means, fair or other- wise, he might coax or compel her to help him. "It's odd," commented Trevor, looking up at Anne, who stood on the other side of the table, "how he leaves out the very things that are really vital. For instance, how did he ever happen to conceive such an impossible conspiracy, why did he make me the central figure of it. and why were you necessary to its execution?" Anne only smiled faintly in reply. Trevor sighed and continued reading the confession, which grew more dull and perfunctory as it neared the end. Lester admitted that he had impersonated the gardener. Duggan. who had stolen the Tremaine familv tree and Bible: and these articles, together with July, 19 19 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 41 He certain personal possessions of Trevor and his father — likewise stolen — constituted the visible and tangible proof to back Lester's claim, although, in his own words, they were inconsequential in them- selves and were designed to serve only as incidental aids to the main modus operandi of the conspiracy, which was to consist of the prac- tical application of the law of suggestion verging on hypnotism. At this point of his narrative, Lester averred himself to be a serious student of psychology. He also declared that he had believed the late master of the Black House to be insane, and Trevor incipiently so. By subtle and adroit suggestion he had hoped to gain control of Trevor, body and soul — when the rest would have been easy. He solemnly vowed he had taken absolutely no part in the murder of Trevor's father, and that his ally, Mack, had committed the crime without his knowledge — which was a rather suspicious statement in view of the fact that the removing of Tremaine was the first necessary step towards the consummation of his plans. He disposed of Madame LePage briefly by saying that she was a good friend of his, whose wit and stealth he thought he could utilize at the Black House; in other words, he had employed her as a spy. Trevor threw the confession on the table and rose to his feet. "It tells me nothing — because it is silent about you- and me.' gazed at her frowningly. "Why didn't you let him speak out . "Why — he had nothing more to say." "Have you anything more to say — ?" "Only . . . that I love you." He made an impatient gesture. "Always mystery — mystery within mystery ! Tonight, somehow, the weight presses on me more than usual — more heavily than I can bear. You are the mystery supreme. Then there are lesser things needing explanation. Why did I almost dislike my father? Why did he almost hate me? For several days the thought of him has possessed me — obsessed me — haunted me like a phantom. Sometimes I feel . . . God! If I only knew what I do feel ... !" He paced up and down the room, then halted directly in front of her. "Anne !" he cried feverishly. "Come — we'll go — " "Where?" "To my father's study. I haven't been in there since his death. Maybe the surroundings — the pictures he looked at — the books he read — the atmosphere of the place — will help me to solve some of these awful riddles. Will you come with me — ?" "Don't go, Guy ... It must be a melancholy room. Let us be happy in what we have accomplished. Paul Lester has been driven from the Black House and out of your life forever — " "That is nothing," he interrupted, passionately, "compared to what must remain in my life forever — the bitter and poisonous knowl- edge of your parentage — " "But, Guy — I — I lied. Don't you remember? There's not a drop of Tremaine blood in my body. I — " "Don't, don't . . . Will you go to my father's study with me?" Why do you want me to go?" His eyes grew mystical ; he was the wasteland dreamer again. "There's something waiting in there for me — a secret — or the secret's telling — a mystery — or the mystery's solution — I don't know . . . I'm only wondering ..." He looked at her with a start, as though suddenly aware of her presence. "Come, Anne. Will you see me through it — ?" The portent of his query chilled her. The hand seemed beckoning them again. Helpless, she let him lead her across the hall to the dead man's study. Trevor tried the knob. It yielded. The heavy door swung open. On the threshold Anne hesitated, trembled, recoiled. But Trevor — almost roughly — drew her inside. The door closed softly behind them. The room was dim rather than dark. A pool of bluish-white moonlight lay on the floor, the rays shining through a high diamond- paned window. An easel near a great glowering fireplace could be discerned in the gloom. From the walls shadowy, wraith-like faces gazed down wearily, framed in dull gold — the line of dead Tremaines. There were many books, souvenirs of travel in unfrequented corners of the earth, statuettes, trophies of the chase, Chinese vases, an exquisite silvered Japanese screen — all weirdly vague in the semi- darkness. "Do you feel it . . . ?" whispered Trevor. "What—?" "The brooding soul of my father ..." His fingers on her arm stiffened suddenly. "Did you see that — ?" He gave a sigh of relief. "Ah, it was only that tapestry — but where did the current of air come from?" "Maybe one of the windows is open — " "See, it moves again — as though someone were behind it — " She laughed reassuringly. "Your imagination is at work — " "Possibly — possibly not ..." He turned towards her and gazed at her searchingly, but the darkness veiled her eyes. "Come," he said abruptly, "come into the moonlight. I must look at you — " She went with him to the slanting radiance. A moonbeam fell athwart her face, lighting her already brilliant eyes with a seductive glitter. With his two hands he held her cheeks while he gazed at her eagerly, feverishly. "Now," he said, "you must tell me all — the truth — all of it — nothing but it — about your past — that cursed chasm between us. You must, do you hear? I can wait no longer, not a day, an hour, a minute. Begin. Tell me." She did not demur. She did not even hesitate. She knew that the inevitable moment had arrived. So with the invasive moonlight flooding her, and with his eyes burning into her heart, she summoned her shrinking soul, and then, in desperate monotone, began telling him those ultimate falsehoods, those affectionate, magnanimous lies that were designed to save him — and in saving him to crush and dishonor herself. "Guy," she said, "you remember Lester told you I was a found- ling— and I admitted it was true ? Well, it wasn't. I — " "Wait !" was the electric interruption in a strange, strong voice coming from the tapestry. "Now is the time for the truth!" A tall, vague figure emerged from behind the quivering fabric and approached. It was Simkin. In the moonlight his face looked singularly serene and noble. He had never seemed less the servant, so much the master. Anne, speechless, could only gaze at him — wondering, doubting, believing — gropingly solving at last the dominat- ing mystery of his personality. Her lips moved — mutely. The voice of her heart cried out to him not to speak the words that were ready to fall from his lips ; and yet she yearned for him with a magical new tenderness. Trembling, shrinking, she glanced from one man to the other — lost in the miracle of it, waiting the tremendous issue with hope matched only by dread. Trevor stood motionless with set white face, his intuitive sense telling him that out of the chaos of his life a new world was about to be born. He waited — as men wait for death, for life. "It devolves upon me to tell you the truth," said Simkin quietly to Trevor. "Two lives were about to be wrecked. Your wife, in her love for you, was about to sacrifice herself — but in sacrificing herself she would have sacrificed you more ..." "Go on ... " He glanced swiftly at Anne, then began. "Your wife was a foundling. Her mother was drowned in a shipwreck. Her father was rescued — but only after a severe injury to his head, which made his memory a blank for years. The child, a mere babe, had a brother only a few years older than herself. They were taken from the wreckage by an eccentric fisherman, who reared them in his lonely little cottage by the sea. He had two children of his own — boys — about the age of the foundling. He was a widower. He had adored his wife — a gentlewoman, who had been attracted by his romantically handsome face and who married him against the express commands of her family — and her untimely death undoubtedly affected his mind to a certain extent." Simkin paused, touched by Anne's agitation. With pale face and ashen lips, she was the Gray Woman again, the woman of the waste- land. Trevor, looking at her, saw in her eyes the reflected truth of Simkin's words. Once more he begged the latter to continue. "The fisherman, as I have said, had two boys. One of them looked like his dead mother, a lady who married beneath her. This son the fisherman worshiped. The other he treated with indifference. You, Mr. Trevor, were the son who resembled his mother. The other son was — Paid Lester." Trevor, wild-eyed, staggered back a step. Anne, still trembling, put her arm around him. His head fell upon his breast. Then sud- denly he straightened, and with a muttered curse, raised his clenched fists over Simkin's head. "You . . . ! How do you know this? Is it the truth — ?" "Listen," answered Simkin, gently, "I have taken from you a father you never loved, a name you do not even now bear, and have given you instead — your wife." In the marvelous realization of it Trevor's arms fell. His eyes kindled. He cried out in his joy. Then he turned to the beautiful woman beside him. "Anne!" he cried, folding her in his arms. "My darling! Mine forevermore !" "Listen," continued Simkin. "One day, years after the ship- wreck, the father of the two foundlings, Mr. Tremaine, visited the fisherman in search of his children, the boy and the girl. The fisher- man was on his deathbed. Three children were with him — the two foundlings, and you, Mr. Trevor, the boy who resembled his patrician mother, and whom his dying father loved with a devotion that was feverish and half-mad. The fisherman's other son, tiring of his father's neglect, had run away, young as he was." . He paused again. His listeners, hanging on his words, entreated him to go on. His tones were becoming a trifle husky. "The dying fisherman lied. He gave his own son — the boy who looked like his mother — to Air. Tremaine, at the same time telling him that his daughter had perished in the shipwreck. His paternal love, grown wholly mad now, could not brook the thought of the boy shar- ing the Tremaine riches and social position with another, even though 42 P H O T O - P L A Y JOURNAL July, ic/ig that other was Mr. Tremaine's own child. His own son must reign alone, supreme — so with a rigid resignation engendered by a loVe so magnified as to be almost monstrous, he bade a stoic's farewell to his boy, a child even now only a few years old, and let Mr. Tremaine take him away." "Wonderful!" exclaimed Trevor, turning to Anne. "And all this beautiful revelation, even though it does prove me to be a fisherman's son, gives me you!" Simkin smiled faintly. "The foundlings, brother and sister, were left behind. The sister, a fair-haired, beautiful child, was taken in charge by an old lady, a motherly soul, who gave her a home, but who unfortunately died a short time later, thus throwing the child upon the mercies of the world. The little one, luckily, was picked up by a wealthy old man who lived alone, his own children being married. He grew very fond of her and placed her in a private school. The years went by, and the child developed into a beautiful young girl." Simkin, with an impulsivness unusual to him, ceased speaking and looked beamingly at Anne, whose cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. "You must have been incomparably beautiful," he said. "You couldn't have been otherwise." Anne laughed. "Go on with your — I mean my — story." "She must give you the details," he said to the utterly joyous Trevor. "It's a marvelous tale that would hold you spellbound for a month of enchanted nights. I can only give you the bare outlines." Trevor kissed her forthwith. "I shall make her teach it to me by heart," he declared, boyishly. Simkin, grown grave again, continued his narrative. "The old gentleman, oddly enough, was drowned in a shipwreck — the fate nar- rowly escaped by his adopted daughter's own father. The published death list included her name also, but she was rescued. The accident was unfortunate for her in two ways. She not only lost her friend and benefactor, but his neglect to make a will left her dependent upon the bounty of his own children, who had never approved of his adopt- ing the child, and who were glad of the opportunity to reduce her to poverty. So she was forced to go out into the world and battle for a living." "She was a lawyer, I'll wager!" hazarded Trevor, laughingly. "We mustn't forget our dramatic personnae," went on Simkin. "Paul Lester is one of the 'leads' in this play of life." Trevor winced. "What a brother — ! I'll lay another wager — he was only my adopted kin!" They laughed merrily. The narrator continued : "Soon after the death of Anne's adopted father, Fate, in cruel caprice, crossed her path with Paul Lester's. They met. And the young man, who was already a criminal with a criminal's cleverness, and who, aided by more of Fate's whims, had stumbled upon some of the facts regarding affairs at the Black House — not including the fact of your real parentage, however, Mr. Trevor — began that dogged persecution of your wife, which ceased only this very night. In his monumentally fantastic conspiracy, he needed two foundlings. He would assume the role of the brother. She must be the sister. — And after all, he could make his story plausible enough. The world is full of the histories of substituted children — and Lester, to do him justice, was working on possibilities, if not probabilities. — But Anne declined to become his ally. His persuasion became a pursuit, his pursuit a passion, his passion a persecution. But he was so sly, his methods were so devious, as to admit of no tangible guilt attached to himself. He did his work in the dark. If Anne secured a position, his under- hand lying caused her dismissal. He even succeeded in fastening the suspicion of theft upon her, but with no legal result. When at last she was about to gratify her heart's desire by interviewing her father and presenting her claims to him, Lester's advance denunciation of her was so effective as not only to deafen her father's ears to her story, but to impel him to declare he would never see her again — " "Wait !" interrupted Trevor. "How did she happen to know he was her father?" "We're coming to that — " "And where did she get the thrilling name of Grieve?" "That was her adopted father's n,ame." Trevor was irrepressible. "And how did you learn all these things about Lester's persecution of her?" Simkin smiled. "Mack told me." His face grew stern. "I made him tell me everything before I . . . " "Don't ..." whispered Anne. There was a pause. Simkin's breath came hard. He turned away, but in a moment was himself again. "Now we must return to the play's cast of characters. Have you forgotten the other foundling — Anne's brother, the real Tremaine? He, you'll remember, was left alone with the fisherman. And the fisherman, you'll remember, was dying ..." His clear-cut tones died away in reminiscence. He gazed musingly into space. "Go on," urged Trevor. "The fisherman just before his death had a miraculous vision. His dead wife appeared to him in a dream and condemned him for substituting a spurious heir to the Black House for the real one. So the poor man, who had scarcely enough strength to lift his finger, managed to write a short and half-delirious confession, which he pinned to the lining of the real heir's coat. Then he died. And then the heir to the Black House, Anne's brother, the bearer of the Tremaine name, went out into the world to do battle like his sister ..." "The confession," whispered Trevor, hoarsely, "you . . . Who are you — ?" Simkin handed him a slip of paper yellowed with age. With shaking fingers and half-blinded eyes, he read it. "You are his son !" he cried. "You are the owner of the Black House ! You are the Tremaine, while I . . . Anne, he is your brother !" But Anne did not have to be told. She was already weeping on Simkin's shoulder. And so passed silently those few greatest moments of their converged lives . . . "It's all so amazing, so overwhelming," said Trevor, who had thrown off every morbid thought anent the change in relationship between himself and the man he had called servant. "I'm up to mv ears in tangled skeins. But you haven't told me yet how Anne knew of her parentage?" Simkin smiled. "Let her tell you that." "I read the confession verbatim in the personal column of a Lon- don paper and knew it was intended for me," she answered. Trevor pondered, then was ready to address another question to Simkin. "Of course, you had the confession published in the paper?" "Yes, and in dozens of others dozens of times. Good friends helped me." "But why didn't you search for your sister?" "I did — desperately — until I read the account of her death in the shipwreck with her adopted father." Trevor looked at him with involuntary admiration. "Astonish- ing ! One by one the skeins are being untangled. — But why have you played the role of butler in the Black House all these years? Couldn't you convince my father — " he flushed — "I mean your father — that you were his son ?" "I didn't'try." "What! You mean he died in ignorance of the truth?" "Yes." "But — you're asking us to believe the impossible ! Do you mean to say you were willing to let me pass as the son while you — " "Certainly. Why not?" "Did you do it for my sake ?" "I had a number of reasons. First of all, I loved my father deeply — as you know — and I wanted him to love me without feeling forced to do so through the mere fact that I happened to be his lost son." "We are not at the point yet," objected Trevor. "Your father did learn to love you, so why didn't you tell him the truth?" The half-amused expression in Simkin's eyes changed to one of profound gentleness as he looked at the fisherman's son. "Then I began thinking of you ... I knew what it would mean to you. My father had never really cared for you, although you deserved his affection, and I knew that the revelation would ruin your life. So I decided to wait until you grew older and had more strength and fortitude to bear the inevitable disclosure and a better equipment to get along in the world." Trevor grasped his hand silently. Simkin was visibly affected. "But you mustn't give me too much credit ... I fully intended to tell my father the truth and to publish it to all the world : and I anticipated our new relationship with the greatest happiness. But in the meantime I was content to be here at the Black House with a few light duties to perform, with plenty of time for study, and with the opportunity of passing many pleasant hours with my father, which privilege he graciously accorded me." "But when did you decide to tell him the truth?" insisted the intensely interested Trevor. A sombre shadow settled in his eyes. Anne's hand stole into his. "I was going to tell him . . . the night . . . the very night of the murder ..." There was a convulsive little pressure of the brother and sister's hands. Trevor looked on with moist eyes. "But why have you been silent since his death ?" "When I learned of your marriage, how could I speak out in the first few months of your happiness? Think what it would have meant to you and your bride — !" He turned to Anne. "And how could I speak out when I saw who she was . . . ?" "I see," answered Trevor, "I see everything — at last. I am very grateful — and very happy." "It's Fate." said Anne, kissing him, "as you yourself would have said in the old days." "It's the chain of Fate," elaborated Trevor. She smiled. "And the links of the chain have unlinked only to link us together again . . . forever." THE END July, 19 19 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 43 HERE'S SENSE ON CENTS "THE manager of our studios," said Hale Hamilton the other day, referring to the able Dave Thompson, who lingered near "gets a brilliant idea in his lucid moments." "I repeat," said Thompson, "California is the land of cafeterias and groceterias, the basic principle of which is, help thyself." "What more woulds't desire?" asked Hamilton poetically. "To which I reply," answered Dave, "that if only some enterprising financier would open a 'banketeria' my happiness would be complete." This is about the best suggestion we've heard in a long time and we're strongly anti-Bolshevik, too. Just imagine, if you can stand it, what a business a banketeria would do the next day after pay-day every week! Talk about runs on banks, this'd be nothing like a walkaway. "THIS is a Goldwyn year,' announces. Goldwyn As, yes, gold will win this year the same as any year. Mb OWEN MOORE really "comes back" in a leading role in Rex Beach's "Crimson Gar- denia," which has been filmed by Goldwyn. But that's what Fate has been owin' Moore for some time. LOU TELLEGEN says motion pictures have conquered their medium and can now be classed as an art. Some few magnates who are persisting in making the screen solely a cold-blooded commercial proposition, please copy. LOUIS BENNISON, the cowboy Betz- wood-Goldwyn star, says "Prohibition may come and liquor may go, but my cellarette goes on forever." Very good, but think of how many of us are financially incompetent to support a cellar! So, we'll look up Louis when the country goes dry. Mb CARTER DE HAVEN, the new Capitol Comedy star, is building a home for himself and his wifely co-star. The home is to be called "The De Haven of Rest." And Carter is De Haven! PERCY MARMONT has returned to the screen in support of Alice Joyce. Isn't there something of a paradox in this supporting business though? He supports her to support himself! LEWIS J. SELZNICK announces he has Eugene O'Brien insured for one million dollars. Just the same its's even money that this popular star wouldn't want to "cash in" for even this magnificent sum. Of course, that wasn't Selznick's idea anyway. He simply wanted to raise the "ante" and then let the whole world know he'd done it. Probably you can tell the complete story in one word, viz: Publicity. Mb "THE Belle of New York," the origi- nal stage production from which Marion Davies' Select Picture of the same name was adapted, has been revived in London with greater success than at any time during the last twenty years. Well, it's a poor belle that won't keep ringing after twenty years. 3EEE©(§E=] BB: SCREEN STOiliS With Blackface Comedy \.J~- ELAINE HAMMERSTEIN, Selznick star, who has been spending much of his time during the past few weeks in trying to find material for good screen plays, has come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as a Southern movie story in which the heroine does not fall in love with a hero who belongs on the side of the enemy clan in the feud. It always did seem to us that when a writer sat down to dash off a Southern story he required too much feud for thought. "THERE is no economy in economy," - says Kathleen Kirkham, who is working with Katherine MacDonald, for recently she "dropped a five" with a certain police judge. Her reason is that she drove down town to have her hair dressed instead of having the coiffeurist come to her home. Car stood over-time. Tag. Nine next day. Good morn- ing, Judge. Fine please. Yes, ma'am, we agree — you can certainly waste your money trying to save less than you can shake a stick at. Why, if WE wanted to save a dollar until the next day, the next day wouldn't come nor would the dollar stay. Gee! 9 DIRECTOR William Desmond Taylor is in Los Angeles once more. He returned a Captain, although he started out as a "Tommy," which is typical of Taylor. He served overseas in the Royal Artillery Ser- vice Corps and was in England, France, Belgium and Germany. He was gone a year. Director Taylor is again with the Famous-Lasky-Artcraft combination. So, in plain words, he returns from shoot- ing Germans to "shooting" scenes. REX BEACH and Samuel Goldwyn have organized a million-dollar corporation to exploit on the motion picture screen all the works of the most famous writers, including Mary Roberts Rinehart, Basil King, Gouver- neur Morris, Rupert Hughes, Gertrude Atherton and Leroy Scott. Now, how did it ever happen that they overlooked the name of Jack Winn? ANOTHER DOG-GONE STORY BE it known that Olive Thomas has two dogs, named Upstairs and Down. That is, most of the time she has two dogs. A good deal of the time, however, Upstairs is lost. It is all because Upstairs has a most erratic walk which makes it impossible for him to manipulate in a straight line. He is a sky- terrier — that's why they call him Upstairs — and zig-zags like a tin lizzie. Miss Thomas has spent a small fortune in rewards having him returned to her. The other canine is an obedient fellow. All you have to say to him is "Lay, Down," and he does so. There is one thing to which Upstairs can always walk — in fact, run — a piece of meat. All of which makes it occur to us that in dogs' days, with its hydrophobia and every- thing, we don't like the dog daze, likewise all of which has nothing to do with the above story or with our dogged determina- tion to keep this department going through all the sizzling heat Old Sol can crowd into summer. IN keeping with woman suffrage and because so much explanation is necessary in introducing or speaking of screen stars' hus- bands, Claire Du Brey has started referring to the men as "Mr. So-and-So," like "Mr. Bessie Barriscale for Howard Hickman, Bessie's husband-director. There are many others, as Mr. Dorothy Phillips, Mr. Madge Kennedy, Mr. Mildred Harris (what will Charlie Chaplin say?), Mr. Beverly Bayne, and so on. We don't quite get the idea of all this, but we can just imagine what would hap- pen if someone called Hughie Mack, Miss Mack, IF Hughie succeeded in landing squarely on the offending neck. HOW actors play in their gardens might be written into a great volume, but a few words tell what Forrest Stanley does. Now he has built a set of garden furniture from half a dozen barrels. He cut them in the shape of chairs, nailed bottoms in, and upholstered the seats in burlap, painted them brown, with white stencils, and you never saw a more picturesque nor comfort- able set! Is this the way to get barrels of comfort? WILL M. RITCHEY, Paramount staff writer, says that ninety per cent, of the writ- ers of rejected scenarios might sell if they would only take their time in submitting, rewriting first several times. In other words, if embryonic writers would only quit trying to rush matters they would make faster headway. Splendid sense to this. DAVID W. GRIFFITH'S remarkable photoplay. "Broken Blossoms," is being received with unprecedented acclaim every- where. Yep, "Broken Blossoms" has broken records. MRS. SIDNEY DREW will continue to make two-reel Paramount-Drew comedies. She will perpetuate her character of Polly, but instead of the husband character so capably portrayed by the lamented Sidney Drew, there will be introduced a bachelor brother drawn by Donald McBride. It's a certainty the drawing power of Drew will live. Those who like to smile have long since come to know that a Drew comedy is an unfailing incentive to be thoroughly amused. More power to Mrs. Drew. May she continue her successes! 44 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 ffi S A Department Conducted Personally by Madame Olga Petrova ffl My Dear Madame Petrova : I like going to the movies better than anything else in the world, but my mother — of course, she is my mother, and I like her — tries to stop me going to see some of the players I like best. She says they unsettle a girl of my age and they won't improve my mind. Now, in the first place, I am sixteen, and old enough to know what's good for me, and in the second place, my mind doesn't need any improving. I go to be amused, and not to be lectured. I don't want any arguments with my mother, so I just go anyway, but sometimes when I have to ask her for the money she questions me and I have to tell her an untruth. I notice you always play girls who go their own way, so that's why I am writing to you to ask you if you don't think I'm in the right. I am enclosing an envelope for your reply. Mary Blossom, Indianapolis. My Dear Miss Blossom : What a very extraordinary young person you are if your mind is really so perfect that improve- ment is unnecessary and impossible. I have never heard, or read, or known of anyone who had attained such a state of grace. I salute you. And yet what a sad, sad outlook life must be for you. The only real joy in living is learning, and by learning, improving, and if you have already arrived at the stage when your mind needs no improving, your mission is fulfilled, and an early grave yawns before you. Nothing is so significant of ultimate and real greatness either in an individual or in a nation as its desire to improve its mind. Show me the person who wants to learn and 1 will show you the person who will some time teach. Good brawn and muscle are all very well, but they never have and never will reap the same reward, financially or spiritually, as good brains. It is the man with the brain who profits by the labor of the multitude. Of course I quite sympathize with your not wanting to be "lectured" in the moving picture theatre, but can't you strike a happy medium somewhere between the plays and actors you men- tion as being of the amusing type and others you designate as bores? I have eliminated their names, of course, from your letter. For the life of me I can't see that you can t be amused and improved at the same time. You certainly are not going to accuse Miss Pickford of lecturing you, are you ? And yet I have never seen anything in a Pickford picture that would unsettle a girl of your age. There are pictures though that might very easily have that effect— pictures that show a theif like Raffles garbed in the trappings of a hero of romance. Here is a man who eats salt with his friend, partakes of his hospitality and accepts shelter under his roof, only to steal from him under cover of the night. This type of picture is not good for minds that either need or do not need improving. The type of picture that shows you the ap- parently dazzling surroundings of heroines who are living what is called a life of sin are un- settling because they are fundamentally mislead- ing and are not true to life in any sense of the word. Pictures like these are apt to lead the unthinking to suppose that the "sinner" is very materially better off than the "decent" woman. This is not the case. The tinsel is only tinsel and in real life the "dazzling" surroundings are so unstable a quality that like Aladdin's palace they have a habit of disappearing overnight, leaving their ex-mistresses to face the cold grey street, the hospital or the river, as inevitable alterna- tives. I am speaking plainly, but since you have been undergoing a course of such pictures, such plain speaking; must appear dull in comparison with the thrills these picture plays have afforded you. Now as to whether you are justified in telling your mother an untruth to avoid an argument EDITOR'S NOTE— This most interest- ing department, which Madame Petrova contributes exclusively to PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL, is a permanent feature of this magazine, and we are proud of the honor of being able to present such interesting opinions and viewpoints of such a remark- able lady genius regularly. Madame Petrova we/comes letters upon all subjects pertain- ing to the cinema art, and she personally reads all which are addressed to her in care of PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL. is a matter for your "mind that needs no im- proving" to decide. For my own part, lying is such a confession of personal cowardice that I cannot see any justification for it at all. If you are self-supporting and do not live under your mother's roof then you are justified in going your own gait, provided of course that you are always willing to stand by the consequences of Mme. Olga Petrova your own actions. But if on the other hand, you are not self-supporting then, even apart from any love and respect which might or might not be your mother's due, you have no right whatever to accept her care and support without obeying her wishes. If any character which I have played during; the last two years has led you to think that my sympathies are with the girl who demands all the privileges of self-expression without being willing to share the inevitable responsibilities, I should like to know the name of that character that I may make clear any points that may have misled you. Dear Miss Petrova : I have always wanted to be in the movies and after writing to every actor and actress I could get the addresses of I finally got an answer from Air. "Blank" of Los Angeles. In his letter he said that if I happened to be around the studio some time he would see that I got a chance as an extra. Now, as you see, I live in Cleveland, what can I do? — Amy Briggcs, Cleveland. Dear Miss Brigges : Move. Dear Madame Petrova : I sent you a story last year when you were in San Francisco, to the St. Francis Hotel, asking you to read it immediately and send it back if you didn't want it. I have never heard from you from that day. I have heard that you always answer all letters personally, so I am giving you this chance to do so. — Mrs. IVcllman, San Francisco. Dear Mrs. Wellman : I have no record of having received a story from you at any time so that you see no dis- courtesy has been shown you. I wonder if you know that I was in San Francisco only a few hours and that every possible moment of my time was fully occupied with the work I had come some thousands of miles to do. To illustrate — I remember that I arrived in San Francisco after a dreadful journey through a terrible sand storm and with the thermometer at ninety-eight, after previously visiting fifteen cities in an equal number of days. I had not seen any . bed but a Pullman berth since leaving New York. On my arrival, travel stained, breakfastless, tired, with lack of sleep and the eternal rocking of the train, I was met by a contingent of newspaper men all armed with cameras, who in spite of my humble request that I might be allowed a bath before the operation, insisted on my looking pleas- ant and being photographed then and there. On the way to the hotel I asked my manager to find the freight entrance so that I might slip upstairs through tortuous back ways and, eluding the fast gathering mob, pursue the tub. But no such luck was to be mine. Another committee formed of the War Savings officials recognized the car, hailed us to the front entrance, and more youths armed with more cameras transcribed my dishevelled self to various specimens of Mr. Eastman's films. The gentlemen of the press then requested that I be interviewed and for some reason or another unknown to me seemed deter- mined that I should commit myself to the most intimate statements regarding my unimportant life from the cradle to the grave. My bath didn't seem to interest them at all, although I promised I would come back and be interviewed as soon as I had had an opportunity to investigate one of the tubs for which the St. Francis is so justly famous. The interviewers disposed of and the clock pointing to one-thirty, the War Savings Committee and I held a caucus until two-thirty on the best tactics to be pursued in order to make the natives of San Francisco subscribe a maximum of stamps within a mini- mum of time. This over I again weakly remarked that I was even more dusty and travel stained, not to speak of breakfastless — I had dined on a sand- wich and a cup of tea, one in each hand, at six o'clock the previous evening, between trains — than I was on my arrival. No one heard me but one of the gentlemen pulled out his watch remark- ing that we only had fifteen minutes before my scheduled appearance at the theatre and that he would employ that fifteen minutes in refreshing himself and us. Fifteen minutes before theatre time — I like longer time for my ablutions, but on a trip like mine one cannot afford to be luxurious in the matter of baths. I have often thought since that that poor man must have thought me quite mad, for I flew from the room to the one adjoining which boasted one of the aforementioned tubs and regardless of the inner man I scoured the outer woman and — I was at the theatre at the appointed time. Mr. North, my manager, pro- tested that I must have something to eat before the second showing, which was timed for four- thirty, but bless my heart, I shook hands with at least a thousand people in the interim who would have thought me extremely temperamental and discourteous if I had hesitated between the ma- terial pleasure of food and the spiritual pleasure of meeting and knowing them personally. When I finally returned to the hotel as six. there were at least a hundred people gathered (Continued on page 52) July, 1919 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL 45 9 ffl S Tom Mix had decided to become an author. Some people become authors so that they can give expres- sion to the mighty thoughts that are keeping them awake at nights ; others hope to make money by writing, but the Fox film star is actuated by neither of these two impulses. He is going to be an author so that interviewers won't keep pestering him with requests for facts about his life. Tom is going to write his autobiography. Then when any newspaper man wants to know anything about him, Tom will merely throw his autobiography at him. Madge Kennedy, the piquant Goldwyn star, is the recipient of perhaps the strangest pet in the posses- sion of a motion-picture favorite. "Oscar," as she calls him, is an Australian Kaola bear sent to her by a friend in the Antipodes. He resembles a cross between a oarrot and a squirrel, eats lettuce and eucalyptus leaves, jumps after the fashion of a kangaroo, clings to a tree by all four paws some- what like an opposum and is tame and affectionate. And to prove the foregoing, Miss Kennedy has photographs of her pet, which has aroused consider- able curiosity when seen in her car with her on one of her "downtown pilgrimages." Word has been received that Naomi Childers, the screen's Grecian girl, who is playing opposite Tom Moore at the Goldwyn studios, has won the popular- ity contest in Japan conducted by a Tokio news- paper. Pauline Frederick has reurned to the Goldwyn sudios from Berkeley, Calif., where she spent a recent week-end. On this, her first visit to the W.est, the star is meeting with all sorts of experi- ences. Some of them are amusing, some touching ind all are delightful. In Berkeley, for instance, a little boy brought a bag of cookies to the spot where Miss Frederick was acting. Lacking courage to present them to her, he asked Milton Sills to do the honor. When Miss Frederick was leaving, the same youngster met her at the train with a home- made layer cake. Pauline felt that it should be cherished like wedding cake, but being hungry, she couldn't resist — so she ate it. Emory Johnson, who played opposite Margarita Fisher in "Put up Your Hands" and "Charge It to Me," has two extra-precious possessions. One of them is a banjo. He took it to the studio recently and registered such a pronounced hit with his musical gifts that he's been forced to take it along daily and entertain the studio folks between scenes and at noon. The other joy of his life is a baby — a real, live baby, whose mother is Ella Hall, once one of the popular stars of the screen, but now perfectly content with the smaller audience of her own home. Recently Johnson and his wife were plaintiffs in a civil suit in Los Angeles. While the trial was at its height the actor whispered a plea in the Judge's ear. A recess was called. Johnson rushed to the nearest 'phone and called an anxious "How's baby?" to nursie at the other end of the wire. Fans will again be able to welcome their old screen favorite, Stewart Holmes, who is known to them familiarly as "the lounge lizard." He plays the part of the "heavy" in the late Norma Talmadge production, "The New Moon." He has consider- able talent as a sculptor, and only last year exhibited his "Bust of President Wilson" at the Independent Exhibition in New York. He has also the distinc- tion of having made the models for the eagles over the door of the Chicago Post Office, and has recently finished a portrait in oils of Miss Talmadge. Here's a tip for all writers who aspire to have their stories considered. Mrs. Sidney Drew the other day declared, "I guess that free-lance scenario writers have caught the spring fever, because of late the number of scripts in my mail has diminished considerably. I do want good material for two-reel comedies and I want it now. Good clean stories of human experience, touching on domestic life along the lines of our recent releases are my require- ments. I want real plots, logically developed that start and end tangibly. Situations must be funny in themselves and not dependent upon any forced humor or exaggerated by-play to put them over. Nothing bordering on slap-stick goes. Stories will be judged on their merits, irrespective of whether their authors are amateurs or professionals. Ideas are what I want, no matter who writes them. Stories in synopsis form only are wanted and should be sent to V. B. K. Film Corporation, 200 West 42nd Street, New York City." fought in an adjoining room. They did! So hard that the door was knocked from its support when they were supposed to burst into the room. Mary Pickford's new home on the California beach is going to be both beautiful and comfortable, a real home. Mary's "very own." Four baths, a huge sleeping porch, lots of fireplaces and a won- derful room for Mother, figure in the general scheme of things. Mary is as interested in the new house as she was in her first doll, which she remem- bers very well, and wishes she had it today. Albert Ray, the Fox player, and Rosanna Mac- Gowan were married Sunday, April 6th. On that date his first release was issued by Fox, entitled "Married in Haste." Oh well, what's in a name anyhow? Priscilla Dean, from the latest bed-side reports, is in a serious condition at a Los Angeles hospital, suffering with double pneumonia, but her recovery is assured. Enid Bennett, the Ince favorite, was the recipient last week of a novel present from one of her admirers, who has been aboard ship in Uncle Sam's Service. It is a wild tigerette, brought by the sailor from South America where the ship had been in port. Miss Bennett, who is a great lover of animals, will undertake to domesticate and tame the little wild feline. Kathleen Kirkham owns up to liking the follow- ing : Riding on top of a Fifth Avenue bus ; an occasional visit to the top gallery of a theatre, to study the galleryites ; climbing mountain peaks ; tall men ; aeroplaning ; riding in fast elevators — all of which shows that Kathleen aims high. Fritzi Brunette was nearly fatally injured recently when she was working in a scene with Big Mitchell Lewis and a massive door fell on her. She sus- tained a scalp wound that had to be stitched. It held up the picture half a day, and caused the director to delay finishing scenes in that set because Fritzi could not comb her hair for ten days while the wound was healing. Lewis and the "heavy" "The Gladys Brockwell Veil" is the latest bit of feminine fashion. Unlike most styles, it did not originate in either Paris or New York, but in Los Angeles, beng the design of Gladys Brockwell, the Fox film star. It is understood that a big New York manufacturer of veils has bought the design and soon is to begin quantity production. Picture fans who see Evelyn Nesbit's picture, "A Fallen Idol," also will have an opportunity to sing a song which has just been written and dedi- cated to Miss Nesbit. The title of the song is "Fallen Idols," and it is in course of publication by a well-known Broadway music house. Madge Evans Has Callers Four ardent admirers of Madge Evans called at the house the other day, each and every- one being almost sure that he was the favorite in her eyes. Madge entertained the entire crew in her parlor, and a wonderful time was had by all — until mother came home, and then things happened. Here is Madge with the four Romeos having the time of her life. They all brought flowers and candy and everything. 46 PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL July, 1919 p 31 1 \S\^ m{=® <§^E 31 I 1 [0= D^n p -4 Composite Review of Who's Who and jT What's What in Current Photoplays By BERT D. ESSEX ^ ™^D ](=><=£] THERE are few celebrities of either the screen or stage to whom the producers could pay heed to a better advantage than Madame Olga Petrova, who, according to our version, has pre- cisely the correct idea as to the developing of the cinema art as a durable institution for the com- mon welfare of mankind. We know it to be a fact that Madame Petrova has consistently re- fused many offers to be starred in pictures be- cause of her conscientious objections to succumb- ing to mere commercialism. Generally when she receives an offer of a fabulous salary, she dis- covers that the offer is all there is to the plan in the mind of the one making the offer. No worthy story is in sight and there is a willing- ness to "patch something together" on the part of the one who would invest the money. Verily, the most common tendency we know of among producers is to gamble on names and reputa- tions without any thought of the story or the production. Madame Petrova is manifestly right in refusing to be a party to any such arrange- ments. She declares she must have literary ma- terial in which she believes and which she can live as a true part of life before she can re-enter the field in which she has so many hundreds of thousands of loyal admirers. The money con- sideration is to her of very secondary impor- tance. "What is the use of making a lot of money if it does no one any good?" she asks pointedly. Here's hoping that this great friend of art for art's sake will soon be given her op- portunity to put into practice her exalted ideal- ism ! She can benefit the screen to an unlimited extent. She can show us the heart and the soul of the better womanhood as capably as any artist who ever essayed an important role and the pub- lic needs to see more of her incomparable char- acterizations. Let us have Petrova and the Petrova ideas with steady frequency. WILLIAM DESMOND is one of the actors who can be placed in the category of the seekers for something different. He has been actually devoting some time to searching for material which does not smack of the time- honored. In his latest Robertson-Cole release, "Bare-Fisted Gallagher," he has not so much originality to offer as he might think, but there is pleasing evidence of his having tried very faithfully to interpret a character seldom found in the so-called "Westerns." One of the out- standing features in his work in this picture is the success he has in enacting both comedy and drama in almost equal proportions and with something near equal skill. Desmond has an agreeable personality and as Gallagher he smiles his way through admirably. Of course he has to do some riding and some sundry heroics in order to live up to undying standards already established and seemingly cherished. An in- teresting thing about "Bare-Fisted Gallagher" is it really is a melodrama played from a comedy angle without any resorting to burlesque. It combines the big outdoors with a quite acceptable story replete with action and no small amount of common-sense. The plot concerns a big, wholesome Westerner who is rich in his own right, who has a ranch in Texas, and inherits some profitable mining property from his uncle in California. When he comes to look over his California property he finds that some ore that has been sent out from the mine has been stolen from the stage. The fact that not all the ore is taken, convinces him that the robber is work- ing from some unique motive. His investiga- tion leads him to find that his uncle had secured the property originally through rather unfair methods, really defrauding the girl's father of his interest. Desmond not desiring to own property secured in this manner returns the entire prop- erty to the girl's father. This type of character is real and there are actually men of this kind in the West. • •THE Way of ~ feature aHan Woman," a new Select feature adapted from Eugene Walter's stage play entitled "Nancy Lee," gives Norma Talmadge ample opportunity to be Norma Tal- madge. Not that this popular star is herself anything like the character she portays, but some- how when Norma is acting you always think of Norma and she seems to experience the greatest of difficulty in losing herself in the character TENDENCIES TERSELY TOLD Metro will discontinue making program films after August 17th. This firm an- nounces the policy of "fewer and better pictures with open booking." Meanwhile the fact remains that the program idea is not unwise and it is certain if too many producers eliminate it, there will even- tually be a justified howl from many ex- hibitors who will just naturally have to relay the sentiments of a very big per- centage of the fans. Although many producers are declaring themselves to be in favor of the "stories first" ideal, some of them continue to give us "stories worst." The main reason for this is, there is too much of a tendency to buy authors' reputations with little in the story line going with it. The moment enough manufacturers start a systematic search of the regions knoivn as oblivion for their material, an improvement will be noted in the quality of stories. We are convinced of this because we know some of the best writers in America are totally unknown and either do not know how or are too modest to step out in the limelight. Yes, Mr. Producer, there is food for thought in this paragraph. David W. Griffith is quite generally given credit for again setting a precedent in artistic photoplay making as a result of his remarkable feature, "Broken Blos- soms." The strange part of Mr. Griffith's repeated triumphs is, no one seems prone to follow his example. This brings up the question: Are the directors learning as rapidly as they should? In answer we must candidly say zve fear not. Forsooth, too many directors are absolutely stupid and there seems to be no sound reason for it either, because there ARE high stand- ards to profit by without much effort. New film producing companies are being launched by the dozens nowadays. If the competition continues to grow at the present rate, it is a certainty there will be a real over-production of pictures. A particularly interesting launching of recent times is that of the Democracy Film Com- pany, which is novel in that all of its mem- bers are colored people. So now shall come at last film in real natural colors! All previous records are being broken in the exportation of American-made photoplays. British newspapers and trade journals are alarmed over the great in- flux of Uncle Sam's product into their land. They are asking why it is the Eng- lish producers cannot supply all the screen features needed over there. One journal answers the assertion that they have no stars equal to the Americans by declar- ing there are a hundred Mary Pickfords in England. If this is true, they are surely wonders when it comes to eluding the fame bug ! The past winter season was the biggest in the history of the motion picture in- dustry. It is estimated the cinema won at least fifteen million new devotees dur- ing that time. It seems inevitable that the day will come when a person immune to the delightful lure of seeing the movies will be as rare as the proverbial hen-teeth and all humanity will be better off for it. Indeed, it is the height of absurdity for anyone to deny himself or herself the pleasure, edification and mental relief to be derived from the photoplay art. she essays. Indeed, we will be frank enough to further state that in the race between her and Sister Constance, we think Constance is going to win by a big margin. At that we are not at all prejudiced against Norma. She has earned her way to the top of the ladder by most persistent effort and she has contributed much towards augmenting the general popularity of the screen. We do think though she could enhance her own value and derive much more satisfaction from her work by studying just a while longer — by not being too satisfied with herself. According to our way of looking at things, this same sug- gestion is eminently applicable to more than a score of other featured photoplayers. SPEAKING of commercialism, it has long been the bane of every business which has to do with art or the classics. Certain prominent mag- nates of the theatrical world have made a veritable eye-sore of the very word. The dollars-and-cents idea has become the supreme ideal of most of those upon whom the amuse- ment-lovers depend for their stage fare. As a matter of course, this commercial spirit has percolated through to the screen, and we have had ample demonstrations of the unwholesome effect. Not so very long ago producers were madly racing with each other to produce photo- plays with a "punch" sufficiently unsavory to be classified as sensational just because it was a cinch there would be a riot among people to get into the theatres and get a peep at something salacious. 'This notion has been driven out of their heads under the duress of censorship, and this is about the only useful thing censorship ever accomplished. More recently the fallacious idea among producers of film has been that the production upon which was lavished the most money would earn the most. The net result has been we have had a great many gorgeous pic- tures, which, when boiled down, proved to be silly fizzles so far as doing anyone any good either as a diversion or a pointer. The current fallacy-in-chief is to parade authors who have achieved reputations in other lines of literary endeavor, and nine of their products out of every ten prove to be most disappointing as screen material. Even all this would not be so repre- hensible if it were not unmistakably obvious that shallow commercialism is at the bottom of it. Why not simply make first-class pictures truthfully portraying sides of our national and international life upon a plausible basis? Why not really undertake to develop art to its highest pitch of excellence? Can anyone doubt the pub- lic will not patronize the motion picture theatres simple because there is offered comprehensible art? We feel convinced it is high time that all film producers take an inventory of their ideas and ideals and that they revise them to the extent of totally obliterating commercialism as the thing of transcendant importance. They will gain and the public will gain. It's a promising prospect. t