SOME nine years after the events detailed in the last chapter, a
fairly clever young actress who had drifted into the cinematograph
business, faced one of the many disappointments which had made up her
life. In many ways the disappointment was more bitter than any she had
previously experienced, because she had banked so heavily upon success.
If there was any satisfaction to be had out of the new tragedy it was to
be found in the fact that the fault was not entirely hers. An impartial
critic might, indeed, absolve her from all responsibility.
In this particular instance she regarded herself in the light of a
martyr to indifferent literature—not without reason.
When the Westminster Art Film Company was tottering on its last legs,
Mr. Willie Ellsberger, chairman and chief victim, decided on one big
throw for fortune. The play decided upon does not matter, because it was
written by Willie himself, with the assistance of his advertising man,
but it contained all the stunts that had ever got by in all the photo
plays that had ever been produced, and in and out of every breathless
situation flashed Sadie O’Grady, the most amazing, the most charming,
the most romantic, the highest salaried artiste that filmland had ever
known.
Sadie O’Grady had come to London from Honolulu, after she had inherited
her father’s considerable fortune. She came, a curious visitor, to the
studios, merely as a spectator, and had laughingly refused Mr.
Ellsberger’s first offer, that gentleman having been attracted by her
perfect face and the grace of her movements; but at last, after
extraordinary persuasion, she had agreed to star in that stupendous
production, “The Soul of Babylon,” for a fee of £25,000, which was to be
distributed amongst certain Honolulu charities in which she was
interested.
“No,” she told a newspaper man, “this is to be my first and my last
film. I enjoy the work very much, but naturally it takes up a great deal
of my time.”
“Are you returning to Honolulu?” asked our representative.
“No,” replied Miss O’Grady, “I am going on to Paris. My agent has bought
me the Duc de Montpelier’s house in the Avenue d’Etoile.”
A week after the picture was finished, Miss Sadie O’Grady waited on the
chairman by appointment.
“Well, Sadie,” said that gentleman, leaning back in his chair, and
smiling unhappily, “it’s a flivver!”
“You don’t say!” said Sadie aghast.
“We ran it off for the big renter from the North, and he says it is
about as bad as it can be, and that all the good in it is so obviously
stolen, that he dare not risk the injunction which would follow the
first exhibition. Did Simmonds pay you your last week’s salary?”
“No, Mr. Ellsberger,” said the girl.
Ellsberger shrugged.
“That sets me back another twenty pounds,” he said and reached for his
cheque-book. “It is tough on you, Sadie, but it’s tougher on us. I’m not
so sure that it is so tough on you, though. I spent a fortune
advertising you. There isn’t anybody in this country who hasn’t heard of
Sadie O’Grady, and,” he added grimly, “you’ve more publicity than I hope
I shall get when this business goes into the hands of the Official
Receiver.”
“So there’s no more work?” asked the girl after a pause.
Mr. Ellsberger’s hands said: “What can I do?”
“You ought not to have any difficulty in getting a shop,” he said, “with
your figure.”
“Especially when the figure’s twenty pounds a week,” she said
unsmilingly. “I was a fool ever to leave Paris. I was doing well there
and I wish I’d never heard of the cinema business.”
Still young and pretty and slim, with a straight nose and a straighter
mouth, she had no appeal for Mr. Ellsberger, who in matters of business
had an unsympathetic nature.
“Why don’t you go back to Paris?” he said, speaking very deliberately
and looking out of the window. “Perhaps that affair has blown over by
now.”
“What affair?” she asked sharply. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve friends in Paris,” said the chairman, “good, bright boys who go
around a lot, and they know most of what’s going on in town.”
She looked at him, biting her lips thoughtfully.
“Reggie van Rhyn—that’s the trouble you heard about?”
Mr. Ellsberger nodded.
“I didn’t know what happened, and I’ll never believe in a thousand years
that I stabbed him,” she said vigorously. “I’ve always been too much of
a lady for that sort of thing—I was educated at a convent.”
Mr. Ellsberger yawned.
“Take that to Curtis, will you,” he said. “If he can get any free
publicity for you, why, I’ll be glad. Now take my advice—stay on. I’ve
put Sadie O’Grady way up amongst the well-known products of Movieland,
and you’ll be a fool if you quit just when the public is getting
interested in you. I’m in bad, but that doesn’t affect you, Sadie, and
there ain’t a producer in England who wouldn’t jump at you and give you
twice the salary I’m paying.”
She stood up, undecided. Ellsberger was growing weary of the interview.
He made a great show of pulling out notepaper and rang the bell for his
stenographer.
“The publicity’s fine,” she admitted, “and I’ve felt good about the
work. Why the letters that I’ve had from people asking for my autograph
and pictures of my Honolulu estate”—she smiled a little
frostily—“people in society, too. Why, a titled man who wrote to me
from Bournemouth, Sir John Maxell——”
“Sir John Maxell!”
Mr. Ellsberger was interested, indeed, he was fascinated. He waved away
his stenographer.
“Sit down, Sadie,” he said. “You’re sure it was Maxell? Sir John
Maxell?”
She nodded.
“That’s him,” she said. “There’s class there.”
“And there’s money, too,” said the practical Ellsberger. “Why don’t you
get in touch with him, Sadie? A fellow like that would think nothing of
putting ten thousand into a picture if he was interested in a girl. If
you happen to be the girl, Sadie, there’ll be a thousand pound contract
for you right away.”
Her straight lips were a trifle hard.
“What you want is an angel, and the Judge is the best kind of angel you
could wish for.”
“Has he got money?” she asked.
“Money!” said the hands of Ellsberger. “What a ridiculous question to
ask!”
“Money!” he scoffed. “Money to burn. Do you mean to say you’ve never
heard of Sir John Maxell, never heard of the man who sent his best
friend to gaol for twenty years? Why, it was the biggest sensation of
the year!”
Sadie was not very interested in history, but momentarily, by virtue of
the very warm and well punctuated letter which reposed in her bag, she
was interested in Sir John.
“Is he married?” asked the girl naturally.
“He is not married,” said Ellsberger emphatically.
“Any children?”
“There are no children, but he has a niece—he’s got some legal
responsibility as regards her; I remember seeing it in the newspapers,
he’s her guardian or something.”
Mr. Ellsberger looked at the girl with a speculative eye.
“Have you his letter?”
She nodded and produced the epistle.
It was polite but warm. It had some reference to her “gracious talent,”
to her “unexampled beauty” which had “brought pleasure to one who was no
longer influenced by the commonplace,” and it finished up by expressing
the hope that they two would meet in the early future, and that before
leaving for Paris she would honour him by being his guest for a few
days.
Ellsberger handed the letter back.
“Write him,” he said, “and, Sadie, consider yourself engaged for another
week—write to him in my time. He’s fallen for all that Press stuff, and
maybe, if he’s got that passionate admiration for your genius
he’ll—say, you don’t want to stay in the picture business and finish by
marrying that kind of trouble, do you?”
He pointed through the wide windows to a youth who was coming across
from the studio to the office, swinging a cane vigorously.
“Observe the lavender socks and the wrist watch,” he chuckled. “But
don’t make any mistake about Timothy Anderson. He’s the toughest amateur
at his weight in this or any other state and a good boy, but he’s the
kind of fellow that women like you marry—get acquainted with the
Judge.”
With only a preliminary knock, which he did not wait to hear answered,
the young man had swung through the door, hat in hand.
“How do, Miss O’Grady?” he said. “I saw your picture—fine! Good acting,
but a perfectly rotten play. I suppose you wrote it, Ellsberger?”
“I wrote it,” admitted that gentleman gloomily.
“It bears the impression of your genius, old bird.”
Timothy Anderson shook his head reproachfully.
“It only wanted you as the leading man, and it would have been dead
before we put the titles in,” said Ellsberger with a grin.
“I’m out of the movies for good,” said Timothy Anderson, sitting himself
on a table. “It is a demoralising occupation—which reminds me.”
He slipped from the table, thrust his hand into his pocket, and
producing a roll of notes:
“I owe you twenty-five pounds, Ellsberger,” he said. “Thank you very
much. You saved me from ruin and starvation.”
He counted the money across, and Mr. Ellsberger was undoubtedly
surprised and made no attempt to conceal the fact. So surprised was he
that he could be jocose.
“Fixed a big contract with Mary Pickford?” he asked.
“N-no,” said Timothy, “but I struck a roulette game—and took a chance.”
“Took a chance again, eh?” said Ellsberger. “One of these days you’ll
take a chance and never get better of it.”
“Pooh!” said the other in derision. “Do you think that’s any new
experience for me? Not on your life. I went into this game with just
twelve pounds and my hotel bill three weeks in arrears. I was down to my
last half-crown, but I played it and came out with three hundred
pounds.”
“Whose game was it?” asked Mr. Ellsberger curiously.
“Tony Smail,” and Mr. Ellsberger whistled.
“Why, that’s one of the toughest places in town,” he said. “It is a
wonder you came away with the money—and your life.”
“I took a chance,” said the other carelessly, and swung his legs once
more over the edge of the desk. “There was some slight trouble when I
came out of Smail’s,” he shrugged his shoulders, “just a little
horseplay.”
The girl had followed the conversation keenly. Any talk which circled
about finance had the effect of concentrating her attention.
“Do you always take a chance?” she asked.
“Always,” said the other promptly.
This woman did not appeal to him. Timothy possessed a seventh sense
which he called his “Sorter,” and Miss Sadie O’Grady was already sorted
into the heap of folks who, had life been a veritable voyage, would have
been labelled “Not Wanted.”
He held out his hand to Ellsberger.
“I’m going by the next boat to New York,” he said, “then I’ll go to
California. Maybe I’ll take in Kempton on my way, for a fellow I met at
the hotel has a horse running which can catch pigeons. Good-bye, Miss
O’Grady. I wish you every kind of luck.”
She watched him disappear, sensing his antagonism and responding
thereto. If he could judge women by intuition, she judged him by reason,
and she knew that here was a man whose mental attitude was one of
dormant hostility.
It would be unfair to her to say that it was because she recognised the
clean mind and the healthy outlook and the high principles of this young
man that she disliked him. She was not wholly bad, because she had been
the victim of circumstances and had lately lived a two-thousand pound
life on a one-hundred pound capacity. She looked after him, biting her
lips as though she were solving a great problem.
Presently she turned to Ellsberger.
“I’ll write to Sir John,” she said.
By a curious coincidence Timothy Anderson had the idea of approaching
Sir John Maxell also, though nearly a year passed before he carried his
idea into execution.