A year had passed.
A tall, bronzed man alighted from The Chief in the railroad station at
Los Angeles. The easy, majestic grace of his carriage; his tread, at
once silent and bold; his flowing muscles; the dignity of his mien; all
suggested the leonine, as though he were, indeed, a personification of
Numa, the lion.
A great throng of people crowded about the train. A cordon of good
natured policemen held them back, keeping an aisle clear for the
alighting passengers and for the great celebrity that all awaited with
such eagerness.
Cameras clicked and whirred for local papers, for news syndicates, for
news reels; eager reporters, special correspondents, and sob-sisters
pressed forward.
At last the crowd glimpsed the celebrity, and a great roar of welcome
billowed into the microphones strategically placed by Freeman Lang.
A slip of a girl with green hair had alighted from The Chief; her
publicity agent preceded her, while directly behind her were her three
secretaries, who were followed by a maid leading a gorilla.
Instantly she was engulfed by the reporters. Freeman forced his way to
her side. "Won't you say just a word to all your friends of the air?"
he asked, taking her by the arm. "Right over here, please, dear."
She stepped to the microphone. "Hello, everybody! I wish you were all
here. It's simply mahvellous. I'm so happy to be back in Hollywood."
Freeman Lang took the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced,
"you have just heard the voice of the most beautiful and most popular
little lady in motion pictures today. You should see the crowds down
here at the station to welcome her back to Hollywood. I've seen lots
of these home-comings, but honestly folks I never saw anything like
this before--all Los Angeles has turned out to greet B.O.'s beautiful
star--the glorious Balza."
There was a suspicion of a smile in the eyes of the bronzed stranger as
he succeeded at last in making his way through the crowd to the street,
where he hailed a taxi and asked to be driven to a hotel in Hollywood.
As he was registering at The Roosevelt, a young man leaning against the
desk covertly noted his entry, John Clayton, London; and as Clayton
followed the bell boy toward the elevator, the young man watched him,
noting the tall figure, the broad shoulders, and the free, yet cat-like
stride.
From the windows of his room Clayton looked down upon Hollywood
Boulevard, upon the interminable cars gliding noiselessly east and
west. He caught glimpses of tiny trees and little patches of lawn where
the encroachment of shops had not obliterated them, and he sighed.
He saw many people riding in cars or walking on the cement sidewalks
and the suggestion of innumerable people in the crowded, close built
shops and residences; and he felt more alone than he ever had before in
all his life.
The confining walls of the hotel room oppressed him; and he took the
elevator to the lobby, thinking to go into the hills that he had seen
billowing so close, to the north.
In the lobby a young man accosted him. "Aren't you Mr. Clayton?" he
asked.
Clayton eyed the stranger closely for a moment before he replied. "Yes,
but I do not know you."
"You have probably forgotten, but I met you in London."