Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1921)

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Satisfaction iruaranteed Specify shade. Mcdonald mercantile agency, p. o. b<h 636, Chicago have killed Bill Walters with as little compunction as he would have shown in scotching a snake. But he knew that if he killed the murderer. Doris would not only be made miserable but he would have created a chasm between them which could never be bridged. And the bare thought of that was intolerable. Yet there was the problem before him — unsolved — tremendous — vital — immediate. Marriage between Doris and this man was unthinkable. Too, it was unthinkable that her illusion should be destroyed. She was experiencing her dream of glory — it must continue a dream of glory. Dusk had settled over Horizon Island when Peter Merriam beached his little craft. He exhibited nothing of his internal seethe at sight of Doris and Bill Walters coming toward him, the arm of the murderer about the waist of the girl. The bit of paper containing the notice of reward and the picture of the young man had long since been dropped overboard. Peter remembered in the description of the fugitive mention of a triangular scar at the cleft of the chin. He glanced casually at the young man now and reassured himself. The scar was there: a tiny, livid thing of damning evil. They ate their dinner together as usual, but when Doris and the man went for their evening stroll on the beach that night, Peter Merriam accompanied them. There was nothing in his manner to indicate the stark knowledge which had that day come to him. Nor did he exhibit anything less than genuine affection toward the young man who was ostensibly to marry his daughter. He was thinking — thinking . . . and his heart was breaking at visualization of the girl's supreme happiness in this new wonder which had come into her life. This happiness which must be crushed . . . And that night near midnight, Peter Merriam went down to the beach and sat upon a sand dune, gazing over the whitecapped waters. Low-hanging, swiftlyscudding black clouds obscured the full moon, giving the scene an appearance of stark evil. The wind whistled sinisterly through the jungle of palmetto and scrub oak. The rushes along the sand dunes bowed before the rising wind. With the instinct of thirty years, Peter Merriam satisfied himself that the light in the tower was winking its warning seaward . . . then he rose and slowly tramped toward the house. In the doorway he turned, looked once again upon the scene and then uttered a single remark — "Real storm tomorrow!" he said to himself. Then he went to bed — and to sleep. Morning dawned gray and gloomy. Then came rolling thunder, jagged lightning and a downpour of heavy rain. Through the morning it continued. Peter Merriam saw his daughter and the man to whom she was engaged playing checkers in the tiny, cozy living room. The girl's face reminded him of the Madonna . . . he donned slicker and sou'wester and visited his little plant: inspected the gasolene motor, and then went into the lighthouse tower. He was there for some time. When he returned to the house, he went straight to his room and at lunch time did not answer the summons. Doris found him lying on his bed, pitching feverishly. "I'm not feeling very well, Little Girl," he explained tenderly. "You and Bill eat alone today." She pressed cool, slender fingers against his forehead, " I'm sorry you're ill, Daddy." Then she lowered her lips to his ear. "I'm so happy!" And Peter Merriam stroked her glorious Every advertisement in rnOTOPLAY MAGAZINE is guaranteed. hair and lied: "He is a fine young man, daughter." During the afternoon the storm increased in violence. By nightfall the wind was shrieking mercilessly over Horizon Island and the waters of the Atlantic crashed viciously upon the beach as though to wash the little spot from the face of the earth. At dark, Doris and Bill Walters went to the tiny powerhouse and started the motor. The big arc light in the tower sent its message of warning flashing out over the stormtossed waters. Then the young couple opened the door between the room of the sick man and the living room and sat together on the lounge, holding hands. It was a pretty sight. If only this man had not done murder! Peter Merriam turned away as Bill Walters glanced toward him. He was afraid the murderer might see within his eyes that which he did not want him to see. At eight o'clock he called to his daughter. In response to his bidding she looked from the window and reported the light burning brightly. At nine o'clock it was still burning. But at ten o'clock she came excitedly to his bedside — "The light is out!" He sat upright, eyes blazing. "You arc sure?" "Yes sir: positive." The old man shook his head. "That can't be. Never since the day it was built has that light flickered ..." Bill Walters spoke. "It's out, Mr. Merriam." Merriam motioned them from the room and he struggled to the side of the bed and reached for his shoes. But Doris was beside him in an instant: "You shan't get up. You're ill." "The light must burn," answered Peter Merriam simply. "Bill and I will fix it," she answered swiftly. "You can't go outside tonight." "I wont allow you to go out tonight, Doris. It is the worst storm in years . . ." They both gazed toward the figure of the murderer. He looked doubtfully first at one and then at the other. "I understand this plant pretty thoroughly," he volunteered. "I'll go." " If you would ..." Doris placed her hand in that of the man to whom she was engaged. "I'll go with you." "No need," said Bill Walters almost roughly. "I understand the whole thing — except that gasolene engine." "That's running all right, dear. The trouble must be in either the wiring or the arc." Peter Merriam had both shoes on by this time. He ros? and clutched the bed weakly. "I'd better go myself. With the light not burning ..." Doris forced him back on the bed. " Bill will fix it, Dad. If he can't — I will." And so Bill Walters, condemned murderer, donned the storm coat of the lighthouse keeper and started upon his mission. The girl accompanied him to the door, and Peter Merriam saw her creep into Walters' arms and kiss him full upon the lips. "Goodbye, Bill." "Goodbye, Doris." He swung open the door and recoiled before the howling inrush of the storm. Then, head lowered, he plunged into the fury of the night. The girl stood rigid, staring after him. Instinctively her hand dropped upon the knob of the door through which he had gone. Then she sank limply into a chair and trembled — "I — I'm frightened, Daddy," she called through the door, to her father.