THE FACE ON THE SCREEN.

Otago Witness, Issue 3525, 4 October 1921, Page 52

THE FACE ON THE SCREEN.

By

ARTHUR APPLIN

Author of "The Woman Who Doubted,” "The Greater Claim,” “Miss Hampton's Husband,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER I. It had been bound to happen some time or other, Myra Prevost told herself, but now it had occurred it came as a shock. It overwhelmed her. She felt that her personality was responsible. Like all events long deferred it was difficult to realise. “If only T were all alone in the world,” she kept repeating to herself. She felt it was easy to stand alone, to fight alette, to sink alone. But there were her two sisters, Jess and Pete, and Pete was only fourteen and had just come home from the convent for her holidays. Home! Myra looked round the attic of the little flat. It had been home, it had been very beautiful to all three oi them, but now it looked barren and it felt cold. Holidays ! She listened to the rain beating pitilessly on the skylight in the adjoining hall, and she shivered. It was only just half-past ten and Jess was already out looking for work—when she ought to have been in bed. Even Pete had gone out light-heartedly to look for a job; Pete thought it all rather a joke. Myra wondered whether she would still think it a joke if that afternoon they found themselves in the streets. With an effort she rose from the divan on which she was sitting and wandered through each of the three rooms in turn. There was not much left to sell or pawn, and all there was left belonged to the landlord since the rent was two quarters in arrears. Myra laughed, but as she heard h laughter echoing through the carpc-tless hall she checked it and a look of fear came into her hazel eyes. She pushed a long curl of brown hair back front lier forehead and sat down again—on the kitchen table. It was funny, of course, that was why she could not realise it, though the previous night she Itad not slept but lain awake reminding herself that to-morrow morning at 10 o’clock they would find themselves in the streets, homeless. L had not really believed it could happen to anyone —except in a book. Had anyone ever had such vile luck as she and Jess? For herself—well, she had always known a bad time would come, but she had also believed she would tide it over; never having been trained for a profession she had been forced to live on her wits and her beauty. Walking-on parts in successful West End productions ; occasional jobs in kinematograph studios and at odd intervals the studios in Chelsea- helped to swell the slender income. But Jess’s profession was one on which they all relied. From half-past 9 to < she had taken down shorthand notes and hammered a typewriter. Then, just as she had been offered a secretarial job at five pounds a week something happened to her eyes; her health broke down. Over-strained and tired nerves, the doctor called it, ordered expensive glasses and complete rest. Again Myra heard herself laugh. It was humorous, and she wondered if Mummie, who had died ten years ago, knew what was happening and what she thought of it all. The rain ceased pattering for a moment on the skylight outside; Myra put on her hat and coat and picked up the family suitcase, which she had packed the previous evening. It contained a varied assortment of garments; her trousseau, she jokingly called it sometimes. Opening the front door she ran downstairs and hurried up the street as ii she were anxious to escape notice. Before she reached the end of the road, walking quickly with head bent, someone stopped her. She started guiltily, looked up. then her face was illuminated by a smile. It was Dick, Dick Fairfax, one of their oldest friends. And her dearest. Lately Myra had been afraid to consider how dear he was, and so, woman like, she had avoided him. Dick’s eyes as he looked at her were full of laughter : large brown, dog-like eyes, lie was young, probably not more than thirty; vital, yet possessing many of those instincts which are supposed to belong to women alone. “All right., I’m not going to arrest yon,” he said. "Now I’d like to know where you’re going in such a hurry—and with that suitcase too. It looks verv suspicious.” Myra wished the earth would open and swallow her. I* or reasons, to her unknown. and which were bevond her control, she blushed. “Oh, I’nt—l'm just going to look for a job,” she stammered. "And T’m rather in a lntrry. Isn't it a miserable morning?” Fairfax nodded his head and slipped his arm through hers. "Let me carry your suitcase,” lie said. “I'll walk to the station with you.” She could not think of any excuse to get rid of him, so she obeyed, lie was the last person in the world she would have chosen to meet that morning, and yet she felt happy and miserable and shy at the same moment. ‘‘l was going to pay you a morning call,” he spoke with assumed carelessness. “I wanted you to come to the studio this afternoon.” He gave Iter a quick glance and added —"about a, job.” "1 don’t know that I shall have time,” she said. “Going away?" There was a note of anxiety in his voice. He indicated tho

suitcase she was carrying; it felt very light. “You shouldn’t be curious," she said, trying to smile. “Can’t help it. Besides, I think I've a right.” She drew away, and Fairfax felt he had said too much. "I mean I wish I had a right. There ought to be someone to look after you, Myra.” "I've looked after myself and the rest of the family very successfully all these years.” They had reached the entrance to the station ; it was just beginning to rain again. Myra held out her hand for the suitcase. "Well, I’ll look in this afternoon if I can, Dick, but I won’t promise.” “Please promise. I want your help.” Fairfax was not an easy man to refuse. And Myra did not really want to refuse. She could think of nothing better at that moment than a cup of tea in the prettv but humble studio in front of the cosy stove with Dick Fairfax. Since she had avoided him she felt verv lonely without him and a little resentful, too, that he ha<l not written to her or tried to find out why she wag hiding from him. “Very well, if I can be of any good, of course. I’ll come,” she replied. “Now you must leave me. Good-bve." He looked at her, tried to make her meet his eyes. “Can't I come with you—I’ve nothing particular to do until lunch time.” “No, I would rather be alone.” She turned and joined the crowd that was hurrying into the station. Fairfax watched her go. a frown knitting his forehead. Something was wrong. Just for the moment he felt a little hurt, and he felt jealous too. There was something she could not tell him ; she wanted to be alone. And a smile, rather grim, played about the corners of his mouth. He would find out what was wrong torn, afternoon and nut it right. Because he, too, was poor, living from hand to mouth, he had delayed telling her the only news in the world that a true worafn ever wants to hear. For a moment fear seized him lest he had delayed too long. CHAPTER 11. Mvra put down her suitcase outside the booking office, and opened her purse. Then she stood quite still, and her face grew suddenly pale. Her purse contained five shillings ; when that was spent she would Someone pushed her out of the way and she reeled ; she almost thought she was going to faint, for everything became blurred. She found herself staring out through the entrance to the station at a policeman, watching the rain as it dripped from his mackintosh cape. Perhaps in twenty-four hours he would arrest her as a vagabond—without visible means of subsistence. That thought cheered her up, for a aense of humour came to her rescue. She took a ticket to Piccadilly. Four and ninepence now between herself and—the policeman. She had an absurd desire to go up and tell him. If she had to be arrested she would choose a nice policeman. When she got out at Piccadilly and walked up Shaftesbury avenue carrying her suit case it was with a curious feeling of guilt. She turned to the right, then to the left, then stopped outside a shop whose window held a curious assortment of goods, from gold and silver watches to umbrellas and hideous china ornaments. A sign of three balls hung above the entrance. She felt as if all London stopped to watch her as she walked in. A man at the counter haggling over the amount he wanted to borrow on a gold ring gave her courage. She waited in the background until he had finished his business and the door swung to behind him. Then she drew a deep breath and thrust her suit case over the counter. The man on the other side looked at her interrogatively. “How much will you lend on that?” she said, trying to speak carelessly, but failing. The expression on the man’s face terrified her: she was sure he was going to reply, "Nothing.” She had been very proud of that suit case, but somehow, now it looked its age. "Its leather," she whispered. "It was,” the man replied. "Had some wear, hasn’t it?” Mvra blushed. It. had been used bv each member of the family for years. It was an old friend, and she hated to see it lying there: she felt as if she were betraying somebody. The man was trying to open it. One of the springs was bro ken ; she had hoped he would .not notice, but, of course, he did. “There’s something inside,” she said, trying to cover her confusion. “Jewellery?” the man said, without raising his eyes. She watched him open it with a dreadful fascination ; he reminded her of the conjuror who might produce pigeons, rabbits, or yards and yards of multicoloured cloth. The colour in her face deepened as she whispered timidly. “Only some —clothes.” A fur tie: a blouse and some under linen made by her own hands; a pair of shoes. She prayed that the floor would open or tile roof fail through, or that she would awake in the attic and find herself lying on the divan, dreaming. Presently she heard the man’s voice, like the voice of Fate : “Flow much do you want?’ Site forced herself to look at him, but her lips moved three times before the words came. After all it was such a ridiculous question-—how much did site want ! She knew instinctively that he addressed the same question to every unfortunate soul that stood up before that dreadful counter. Tt was only asked to frighten them. “Three pounds,” she whispered, and 1 Lon with an effort: "It's leather.” She spoke as if she were saving it was solid

The mart closed the case, carefully adjusting the broken spring. A vision of the policeman standing out in the rain with the drops slipping down his cape rose before her eyes. “I'll make it thirty bob.” She had neither the strength to accept nor refuse. She watched him write out the ticket, which she took automatically, and was leaving the shop without the money when he asked her for three halfpence. and in exchange. thrust thirty shill ings at her. She fled, holding the money in her hand as if she were still holding the suit case. It. was even heavier, for it was blood money. She did not stop walking until s’ e found herself in one of those sad, 1solid, streets off Russell square. It was here she would have to find a lodging temporarily for her two sisters. But lodg-ing-house keepers are suspicious people, and do not look with favour on lonely young women. Boarding-houses and humble little hotels she tried in vain. She wanted to get as far away from her own neighbourhood as possible. Either every place was full or the proprietors did not like her appearance. She found herself standing despairingly outside a large hotel in Southampton row, unconscious that the rain was ruining her only hat. Suddenly someone accosted her; she started guiltily - as if site had been caught in the act of committing some crime. “Hullo, my dear child, are you lost, stolen, or strayed?” A girl a little older than herself, dressed in a smart French toque, and superb furcoat. was looking at her with an amused expression in her pale blue eyes. She had a rather fat, but kindly face and a large, good-tempered mouth. Myra recognised her as Mary Davenport, one of the lesser kinetna stars whom she had met at the D.O.F. studios a few months ago. She had taken a fancy to Myra, and had been kind to her in her own rather selfish fashion. Myra held out a rather damp hand. “Oh, T—we—have just given up our flat, -and I was looking for a hotel somewhere, but everything's full,” she stammered, speaking very quickly. “Extraordinary, isn’t it, what a lot of people—there are about—just now.” Miss Davenport nodded and drew Myra under the shelter of the hotel entrance. “I’m staying at this place, but I expect it’s full; and, anyway, it’s rather expensive. But I can tell you of a topping place in Jesmond street, awfully good and cheap. Why not come inside and telephone from the hotel, dear? You'll get soaked going about in this beastly weather. By the way. I’ve just signed a contract with the Express Film Company —five years, forty pounds a week. What are you doing now?” CHAPTER TIT. Miss Davenport talked vigorously while she led Myra to the telephone box. Sin was one of those people who continual, asked questions without waiting to hear the answer. Her only real interest in life was herself, hence, though she had no talent for the Shadow Stage she was making a position. "I’m—l’m doing nothing. I’m looking for a job,” Myra said, when at last she was given an opportunity of speaking. “Any sort of job, I don’t care what it is,” she added. Miss Davenport looked vague. “I hear the Wide World Company are just staiting to make their first film. It’s to be a ‘Super.’ You’ve heard all about ’em; they’ve got a capital of two million pounds. There are sure to be lots of parts and a huge crowd. Forget who’s producing, but Sir James Barke is the man to get hold of. Well, dear, you ring up the Jesmond street hotel. Mention my name.” She pushed Myra into one of the boxes. “So long, see vou later.” .Mvra looked out the number of the hotel in the book, then took threepence from her purse. Presently she would have to have something to eat. Her breakfast at eight had consisted of a slice of bread and margarine and a cup of tea, and now she was conscious of that dreadful sinking sensation which was far worse than hunger. It was like playing a game, this juggling with five shillings and fate. She took up the receiver and put it to her car, wondering whether it would be any use calling on the Wide World Film Company. Of course. Miss Davenport had not told her the address of the studios. She gave the exchange the number she wanted—and waited. She waited patiently, for a Ready she had learnt that it is no use kicking unless one wears a golden spur. Ot last she was connected—the wrong number, of course: someone was wanting to buy furs. The usual alarming and strange noises followed, but Myra kept the receiver to her ear automatically moving the rest up and down trying to attract the attention of the exchange. Strange noises, scraps of conversation, came to her over the wire. She began to feel like a lost soul suspended at the end of a long line ; when she let go site would fall into a bottomless pit. “ —All right, old bean. Half-past seven. the Ritz Grill Room. We’ll drink ” The voice trailed off. and Mvra bit her lips. The Ritz Grill Room at seven-thirty ! She wondered who the “old bean" was. He might have asked her if she had spoken into the receiver. She gave up trying to attract the exchange. She just waited, now and then hearing whispers from the world. The world of tradesmen, of lovers, of thieves, of fighters, of dreamers. Then a voice boomed so loudly that she started, thinking she was connected with the hotel: a man’s voice, not unpleasant—"No, I’ve never seen her, don’t remember her photographs.” There was a moment’s pause; evidently Myra’s “line” had crossed another line. The next, moment she heard a different voice, with a slightly nasal accent. T should say that Julie Adorna is just the girl you want. She’s quite a big statin the States, vou know. Think she only

came over here to have a sort of look around. But she s fed up already.” "It's brains I want.” The big voice was booming again now. "Of course, i knew her by name, blit i haven’t seen any of her pictures over this side, and shea not known here. What's site like?" “bay ’ I hen suddenly the nasal voice receded miles and tidies away, another voice kept on interrupting, sho could only hear words here and there. "Figure . . . Sennett’s Bathing Girls. Light brown hair . . . sort of hazel eyes. . . . Mouth ... all right.” it $ brains I want. ’ The other man's voice again, it sounded a little clearer. \\ eli, Barke, Julie has brains all right, too many of them for the producers in this country. She'll want persuading, you know—told me last night she was ted up and going to .Monte Carlo for a little gamble.” Now the voice faded away altogether. Myra pressed the receiver closer to her ear, listening intently; she stood still and taut, every muscle quivering, every nerve strained. The conversation thrilled, excited her. She felt like a gambler determined to make a final plunge, not knowing what horse to back, then hearing a tip accidentally over the telephone. • • • Light brown hair, hazel eyes ; mouth and nose all right. Figure Sennett’s Bathing Girls.” She knew that anyone in the Chelsea studios hearing that, description would have said : “That’s Myra Prevost.” She waited, holding her breath. S could hear voices, but too distant to distinguish. What was happening she did not know. She did not feel like an eavesdropper ; it was fate; it was a chance. It was “AH right, ask her to come round at three o’clock, say.” It was the big voice again, the voice of Sir James Barke. “Very well, if you think four o’clock will suit her better, say four.” When the other man spoke Hie could not hear what he said. "No, I shall he out until three. If I don't hear by half-past four 1 shall know it’s off. What are her terms?” Again the reply- was lost. "My dear fellow, she’s not known over here. ’ “You said you wanted brains.” “Well, make it a hundred a week if she’s the type we want; four o’clock then, old man; thanks . . Then suddenly another man’s voice : “Haven’t they replied yet?” Myra replaced the receiver without replying. She had forgotten the rain driving through the streets outside; she had forgotten the leather suitcase and its con tents. She stood staring into the black mouth of the telephone, her hazel eyes very wide open, her full red lips parted. An idea had been born in her brain. A wicked idea. Mad. Impossible to put into execution. The red lips whispered these facts to the gaping mouth of the telephone. But she knew that nothing is impossible. The door of the telephone box was opened and an irritable voice asked if she was going to be very much longer. Small things force great decisions. Myra turned and looked at the man who had so rudely opened the door. He was a big man with a gold watch chain and a diamond pin ; he had small round crafty eyes, thin reddish hair, and a hooked nose. His mouth was avaricious and he hud enormous hands. “I’m afraid I haven’t nearly finished,” Mvra said, and closed the door. She shivered, and, opening the telephone directory, commenced rapidly to search its pages. That man represented something that was waiting for Myra in the world outside when she left the hotel. He frightened her. The pawnbroker’s assistant had numbed her ; this man galvanised her into action. For weeks and weeks she had done all the things that poor people do who find themselves cornered. Now she was going to do the big things that big people do. Throw her last coin on to a single number. Win a fortune or go under with a splendid splash. She smiled as she searched the book. She could not find Sir .James Barke’s name, but she found the name of th Wide World Film Company. The usual delay, but eventually she was connected. She asked for Sir James. The stereotyped reply. “Give him this message at once, please, it's urgent,” Myra said. “Tell him Miss Julie Adorna will call at three o’clock punctually, and not at four. You have got that? Right.” (To be Continued.)