Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1927)

"I — I do thank you. Mrs. Downing. You are — being good to me." "I should say I was!" exclaimed Irma. "You had better be off. I wish you good luck." Jolette murmured something, and shutting her eyes as she had to pass the still figure on the Boor, she stumbled out of the room. The girl had forgotten her cloak. But nothing in the world would have induced her to go hack for it. Even when she remembered with a pang of fear that a forgotten wrap was what detectives called a "clue." and that the police, if they found the thing, might somehow trace her by it, she went blindly on. They would not find it, tho ! Ito was too clever as well as too ''faithful" not to hide or destroy evidence which would throw discredit on the story he'd been ordered by Mrs. Downing to tell. For his sake, not for that of the owner, it would be Ito's object to get rid of the cloak. And as for Jolette herself, she could not bear to see. much less to wear, it again. A superstitious Southern "Mammy" had impressed upon the eirl in her childhood that to go back after something forgotten was to court ''bad luck." And Jolette could ill afford to do that on this night of all nights ! There were seven miles between her and Hollywood, and it must by now be long after ten o'clock. But what did time or distance matter? Jolette plodded on, in the direction which she knew "No, thank you," she answered with dignity, tho her voice would tremble as tears sprang to her eyes; "I'm all right. I am just resting and er . . . waiting for friends to pick me up" would lead her eventually to Hollywood, trying always not to think. But the click of her little silver-shod feet on the hard white road seemed to heat out a terrible tune: "I've killed a man. I've killed Oswald Downing." Automobiles passed her, en route to Hollywood from Pasadena. Some whizzed by so East that their occupants had no time to notice the trudging figure clad in -ilver that shone palely in the moonlight, like the garments of a gho>t. < )thers slowed down slightly, then increased their pace again ; hut several small cars filled with young men stopped, and she was offered polite, if secretly cynical, invitations to "ride." and "save her shoes." She refused them all. Tho she was more innocent than Irma Rimaldi gave her credit for being, she was not ignorant. "No, 1 thank you, 1 prefer to walk." she >aid ; and tramped on. A few argued and made jokes, but most of the hospitable ones took the hint, aware that they were being firmly snubbed. Jolette was a strong girl, and at home in Kentucky she had been a lover of out-of-doors, fond of walking, and tennis. But in Hollywood she had spent most of her time visiting agencies and casting directors, sitting about waiting for good-natured, half-promised chances that never materialized. She had become softer ; and besides, the high-heeled silver slippers began to hurt her feet before she had marched one mile out of the seven. She limped a little, and longed to try walking in her stockinged feet ; but she knew that would be worse, and in a few minutes the chiffon silk would be in holes. By and by, what with fatigue and the pain of her aching feet, she almost forgot the dreadful thing she had left behind. She was just a tired, forlorn girl, whose boarding-house "home," such as it was, seemed distant half across the world. "I'll have to sit down for a minute, and take off my shoes to rest my feet!" she thought. The fact that sitting down on the ground by the roadside was not the best way of preserving her last decent dinner dress, was of as little importance as everything else in past or future at the moment. The girl found a grasscovered if dusty spot, and almost dropped upon a fallen log, which was better as a seat than the earth. Off came the silver shoes, already ruined, and she sat moving her tired toes in thin silk stockings with two big holes in each, when a long gray limousine passed, slowed, and presently backed to the white figure on the patch of grass. This car, pale in the moonlight, had been going away from Hollywood, not towards it. Two men, who looked young and well dressed so far as Jolette Jeffreys could see indie moony dusk, bent towards her and stared. Then a voice spoke, "Is anything the matter? Do you need help?" The question sounded so friendly and kind, Jolette could hardly believe that the usual male selfishness hid behind it. Still, she was in no mood to risk new adventures. "No, thank you," she answered with dignity, tho her voice would tremble, as tears sprang to her eyes. "I'm all right. I am just resting, and — er — waiting for friends to pick me up." "Maybe your friends have missed you." said the nice, rather unusual voice. "It's ate. Nearly midnight." {Continued on page 100) 41