Motion Picture Classic (May 1921 - Dec 1927)

CLASSIC Looks like the damned, doesn’t he?” A murmur went over the room as, with a crash of cymbals, a slim figure in gold gauze . sprang into a cleared space in the center of the floor and began to sway and float to the whining of a reed, played by a squatting native at one side of the ring. Kent leaned forward. His face was inscrutable as he watched the dance, and afterward followed the golden figure with his eyes as she slipped among the patrons of the place and paused by a table where an empty chair seemed to have been waiting her. “Our friend the Maharaja,” Wentworth exclaimed. “Look at old Poker Face beam, will you! Wyndham — this girl — the Maharaja! It looks as tho all the links were here, eh, Kent ?” “Wait,” said the secret service man breathlessly, “where is she going now? To Graves, by all that’s wonderful.” “His Royal Nabob will probably make her his two hundred and twenty-seventh wife in return for getting the codes from Wyndham,” Wentworth said bluffly, “but where does Graves come in? Is it possible that he too has been leaking? He’s lost a damn lot of money at cards lately — more than an honorable man could lose ” The dancer did not stop long at Captain Graves’s table, but Kent, watching closely, saw the Englishman lean eagerly forward, the lassitude of his attitude disappearing and say something, almost pleadingly. Sarissa shook her head, laid one hand an instant upon the man’s clenched one on the table, and was gone, obedient to the summons of the reed. Captain Graves did not glance after her, but Kent saw his thin shoulders lift with a great sigh. Then he rose, took up his white straw hat and went out of the cafe, staring before him with unseeing eyes. Colonel Wentworth was quite evidently bored. “Beastly gin,” he grumbled “better come to my quarters and have a peg before you turn in.” Kent left him before his bungalow, pleading a headache. But in his own quarters he seemed to forget his affliction. Swiftly removing his native garb and make-up, he put on the uniform of a British captain and set out again, retracing his steps to the Cafe Jumna. But instead of entering the restaurant again, he spoke a few magic words to the doorman, which proved an open sesame to a private room. Here he waited, pacing up and down until light foot-steps drew his eyes to the door, where the dancing girl stood. There was an odd difference in her manner now, the languor, the sensuous grace and deliberate coquetry of manner was gone. She spoke briskly. “Well, Captain Kent?” “Sit down, Ruth,” he said, shaking hands, “you’re a wonder. You almost deceived me and that’s saying something. How long have you been in Delhi?” She accepted a cigaret and lighted it at his. “Fifteen days. ( Fifty-seven) I got your code message from London, but I had to buy this get-up and arrange to appear as Sarissa. I came around to your quarters last night ” there were undertones in her voice, “I saw — pretty much everything!” “Who did the shooting?” Kent asked, “was it Captain Graves?” He was amazed to see her pretty painted face grow conscious at the name. Her eyes dropped ; hands grew restless in her lap. “No — oh no!” she cried rather breathlessly, “I didn’t see him. It was another officer — but I shall not tell you his name yet, perhaps he was an accidental observer, I didn’t see the actual shooting, you know.” Captain Kent studied her keenly. Graves was just the sort of man to appeal to a girl like Ruth MacAllister, who had rather more than her woman-share of a capacity for comforting and mothering. He remembered the intimate little scene he had witnessed a few hours before and shook his head kindly. “It wont do, Ruth my dear,” he said, “to let sentiment stand in the way of duty !” “I know.” Ruth MacAllister of the Secret Service of England spoke listlessly, “I suppose a woman cant help being a fool sometimes and — well — I knew Arthur when we were kiddies. But you needn’t worry. When I find him guilty of anything, I shall tell you of it.” White, fierce little teeth worried a quivering crimson lip. “He went to the Maharaja the other night and borrowed money, but I know it was for her. That woman he married is a blood-sucker ! It — it — makes me sick to watch him suffer ” she fumbled wildly for a handkerchief in the scanty folds of her exotic THE MAN FROM DOWNING STREET Fictionized by permission from the Vitagraph production of the scenario by Bradley J. Smollen from the story by Clyde Westover, Lottie Horner and Florine Williams. Directed by Edward Jose and starring Earle Williams. The cast: Captain Robert Kent Earle Williams Colonel Wentworth Charles Hill Mailes Maharaja Jehan Boris Karloff Doris Burnham Betty Ross Clarke Major Burnham Henry Burrows Norma Graves Kathryn Adams Captain Graves Herbert Prior Sarissa Eugenia Gilbert Lieutenant Wyndham James Butler Sir Edward Craig George Stanley Left alone once more with Captain Graves and the pale girl who held his hand, Kent took his other hand in a strong clasp. “You played the man just now. Graves,” he told him