Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1925)

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Photoplay Magazine — Advertising Section " Yes. Tony rented it last spring from some friends — an artist and his wife who were going abroad. But he gave it up when we began work on the picture, in August. It's only a summer place — no heat in it — he couldn't very well be there." "Then I'm sunk," Ben said, "unless he is staging a little celebration all by himself." "Nonsense," Jane said quickly. "Tony hardly ever drinks." "I know he doesn't. Jane. Not as a rule. But yesterday he told me he felt so nervous that if he could find any real liquor he'd go out and get drunk. Maybe he found some. At that, it might have been a very good thing for him. He was sick — a wreck." "That's why I'm so anxious to find him. Do you know, Ben, it's just possible, after all, that he might have gone to that bungalow. The weather isn't cold, and Tony has always been mad about the water. There's a telephone in the house. Suppose you call up and see." Hardy stopped the cab at a cigar store. He was back in a few moments, shaking his head. "The 'phone has been disconnected," he said. "That means, I suppose, that the house is unoccupied for the winter. If you like, I'll get my car and we can make a round of the hospitals." Jane was still thinking about the bungalow. Something kept telling her that Tony had gone there. And if he was there, sick, alone, it was her duty to join him, see that he received proper care. "Ben," she said, "I'll tell you what I want you to do. Get your car and drive me out to that bungalow. It won't take over an hour, and I have a queer feeling that Tony is there — sick. Will you?" "Certainly, dear. I think as much of Tony as you do. Almost." he added, with a rueful grin. "We'll have to go to the garage." He spoke to the driver, looked at his watch. "Only half-past twelve. We can be started in a quarter of an hour." There were some delays at the garage, however, so that it was one o'clock before they finally set out. Luckily, owing to the lateness of the hour, there was little traffic; Hardy, sensing Jane's nervousness, drove at top speed. Once over the bridge, clear of the Long Island City streets, there was nothing to hold them back; the smooth macadam road unrolled itself before them like a huge grey ribbon. "I'll tell you where to turn," Jane said, as they swept through a silent village. "There's a garage, I remember, at the corner. On the right. There. Down that road, to the water. You can't miss it." AS they approached the house, she gave a cry of delight. "He's there, Ben," she exclaimed. "Don't you see the light?" Through the high studio window in the north roof a faint glow was visible. But, in spite of the light, their repeated knocks at the door brought no answer. To right and left the bedroom windows were dark. Alarmed, Jane ran around to the back of the house with Hardy at her heels. Here a French window opened to the lawn. They paused in front of it with a sickening dread in their hearts. Inside, before the wide chimney place, on the hearth of which still glowed the remains of a fire, sat Tony, slouched back in an easy rhair. He still wore his overcoat, his hat lay on the floor, his face was as grey and immobile as a death mask. It was not, however, the face of a man who had been drinking; illness, exhaustion were written large upon it; he looked as though he had fallen into the chair, after lighting the fire, unconscious — or worse. With a gasp of fear Jane rattled the lat'-h sharply, but the man in the chair gave no sign of having heard. Then Hardy thrust his gloved hand through one of the panes of the door and shot back the brass bolt which secured it. An instant later Jane was on her knees at Tony's side. "He's alive," she whispered, dropping the nerveless hand. "But terribly weik. 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