Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

CLASSIC fast. A vague suspicion, roused by her sister’s story, caught her thoughts. Ralston, she had said, was interested in Ellison’s mission — had pumped her dry of information, and then this hideous deed of tonight. “Why?” she asked herself — “why? He was not in love with poor, weak, little Madeline ; he had not even pretended to be — then why?” Joan’s head spun. She rose to her feet, drawing her sister up with her. "Foolish — yes, poor, little Madeline,'” she soothed, "but you meant no harm. Robert wouldn’t understand that, so Robert must never know. And now, dear, we will go to bed. Try to cut tonight out of your thoughts, dearest ; it means your happiness and Robert’s and little Bobby's, as you well know.” Thru the days that followed, Joan saw, with a tender scorn, that Madeline had taken her advice literally and put the ugly episode out of her mind. Joan, on the contrary, burdened with no guilty secret or conscience trance, two men in evening dress, but with workaday faces and manners, rose from their places beside the wallsafe and bowed, sheepishly, toward the women's white shoulders. "Detectives,” said Ellison, shortly. “There’s a treaty in that safe yonder that would be like a match to tinder if those foreigners should get hold of it before Washington has it under lock and key. It would mean war if it should be stolen, and there are plenty of international thieves on its trail. Om of ’em nearly had it on shipboard. Lord!” he wiped a harassed brow, “but I'll be glad when I get it out of the house tomorrow morning!” "How thrilling!” Madeline clapped her hands delightedly. "Think of hav ood war shut up in oan glanced at the vith a grave face, they are enough, not taking any Allison laughed boyt any danger, child, a bit of side, as the course I shant take sing the pestiferous irds are really only There sn’t any who knows what I ven. No, no — the ded across the conJoan to her duties next hour was too •ent thought. Yet, ht chatter, she was aware of a vague uneasiness, and at the first opportunity she stole away to the conservatory to think things out clearly. Nobody in this town, Robert had said, knew that there was a treaty in the house. Why, Philip Ralston knew it, for Madeline had told him. Joan sat rigid and white on the bench by the fountain, watching a small, peevish goldfish with unseeing eyes. “I wish,” the girl thought aloud, “that I were a man ! Men always seem to know what to do.” She heard a step and rose hastily to her feet, dragging a smile like a mask across the trouble of her face, and then she gave a little cry and held out her arms to the tall man who stood wonderingly before her. “You !” she cried. “Oh, I’ve wanted you so!” * “Joan !” said Big Bill, huskily — “girl o’ mine!” And she felt his arms about her, and for a little while the world stood still. Then, looking up at him, she saw what she had missed at first in the glad miracle of his presence on the threshold of her need. And, seeing, she drew a little away, and the joy faded from her gaze. For this man of the conservatory was and was not the man of the tenements. Faultlessly arrayed in the conventional garb of her world, with a new air of poise and assurance, he was as distinctly a part of the time and place as was she herself in her shining satin, instead of the rough, blue, Army garb. "What is the matter?” he asked, noting her look. Joan laid her hands on his coat-sleeves, in a gesture that begged for understanding. "Tell me,” she whispered ; “what does this mean? You are not what I thought you, that is plain. What are you, then?” “Now, and always, your lover, girl o’ mine,” said the big man, quietly. “Cant you trust me for the rest a little longer? Can you — Comrade Joan?” She raised herself on tiptoes to study his face, and suddenly her fears slipped away. "Yes — oh, yes, I can trust you,” she “And now I must go back to my But it is not good-by this said guests time.” It was hours later, as Joan sat before her dressing-table, in her white night-robe, studying the face between the dark folds of her hair, in the innocent joy over her own beauty that