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