Photoplay (Jan 1921)

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Beads of sweat were on his temples and puckered forehead and an ache of hell was reflected in the tightly drawn lines about his mouth. The feature ended amid great applause. Then sudden silence and a strange sound, as if the night wind had stolen within the thick walls of stone and iron to whisper a ghostly message to the gray thousand. It was the deep intaking and slow escaping of breath, the sighs of starved guests at a Barmecide feast. Their heavy feet shuffled against the asphalt floor as their bodies relaxed from the tautness in which the spell of romance had held them. The screen announced "Glimpses of Great Cities" and they were off, by the miracle of modern invention, on a tour of the world. London, Dublin, Glasgow, Paris, Marseilles, Rome, Florence, Athens, Constantinople were visited and then to the Orient and across the Pacific to San Francisco and Chicago and finally New York. The eyes of the convicts hunted eagerly for familiar streets, houses and faces, for it was like being free for the moment. Little exclamations of delight rose from here and there in the audience. The camera lingered long in the financial section, where so many years of his life had been spent by David Martin. It was good to see the bank again for it brought blessed memories of his courtship days when he was a messenger and Adele a stenographer there. It was evidently the lunch hour for the people overflowed the sidewalks. Perhaps he might glimpse her in the crowds. Suddenly, at the entrance of an arcade through one of the skyscrapers, he beheld her, as brightly and as daintily dressed as the youngest of the thousands of girls making the narrow street a riot of color and bright faces. A gold vanity case dangled from a wrist and a gay little sunshade was grasped impatiently with both well-gloved little hands. She was waiting for some one, watching the narrow side entrance of one of the most expensive of the downtown restaurants. The next moment a tall, handsome man caught her familiarly by the arm and her pretty face was upturned to him immediately, her eyes shining, her lips pouting and smiling. Martin recognized the man's almost perfect features, the full weak underlip, the keen but shifty eyes, the wellkept little mustache with its glisten of silver, his broad shoulders, his sporty swagger with his walking stick and the excellent tailoring of his clothes. It was Vibart, the bank manager, who had made a place for her after the trial and conviction. They were standing in profile to the camera, very close together. A queer feeling that he was intruding came to him but he watched their every movement, cold gathering to his heart. Vibart squeezed her arm close against his and with a swift glance over his shoulder slipped with her into the little door of the restaurant which led to a dining room above the street level. Again the years faded, but Memory, instead of opening vistas of love and happiness, spread evil before him. She used to call by the bank for him on Saturday afternoons to share with him the half-day holiday and he recalled Vibart's eager attentions to her and his candid admiration of her. Also he recalled that he had been in the divorce courts as a co-respondent. A knife seemed to have been plunged into his heart and turned from right to left. He asked himself with a sob that seemed to be about to suffocate him whether this was the answer to his wife's physical comfort, her fine clothes and the education of their child. The show was over. The lights flared up. At a signal he rose with the others, laid his hands mechanically on the gray shoulders in front of him and trudged off to his tier and cell. At the clang of a bell the bolts slipped into place. He sat on the edge of his bunk, the blessed darkness covering his shame but not assuaging his anguish. She was gone from him! His child was gone from him ! On the morrow the bright world would offer him only solitary confinement. That was why she had not written to him this last day of the nearly twenty thousand long days of ignominy! For a moment the darkness of his cell danced with flecks of red as he imagined his fingers tightening on the throat of Vibart. The murderous frenzy was soon over and he threw himself prone on his pallet covering his face with his trembling hands. IV Tierney's task was an easy one. Hi? man, in his ill-fitting black suit provided him by the State, trudged the long winding road from the prison to the railroad station without looking back or lifting his eyes to the beauties of the morning. Aboard the train taking him to New York, David sat with his head drawn down in his collar, the stolid detective behind him. Reaching Grand Central Station they drifted with the tide of humanity into the subway and reappeared on the surface at Wall street. The ex-convict walked as if in a dream toward the bank where his wife was employed and where he had given so many years of his life. The bells of Trinity Church at the head of the narrow way of the money-getters chimed the four quarters and tolled the noon hour. The towering office buildings began to disgorge themselves of humanity. Tierney took a position in a doorway and watched his man as he trudged up and down the sidewalk opposite the bank, furtively watching the marble entrance. At half after twelve Vibart appeared, preened himself in the sunlight and then strolled to Broadway and across the surface tracks to Trinity Churchyard. He was followed in a few moments by Adele, her shapely, silk-clad ankles flashing below her short skirt as she briskly made her way through the throng to the old edifice, squatting, as if cowed, amid the temples of Mammon, hugging the ground as if trying to hover the flock of abraded headstones of her long-dead children. David and Tierney followed her and saw her meet the bank manager within the iron fence. Drawing to one side from the little clumps of girls eating their lunch above the flattened graves or lightly perched on time-stained sepulchres, they conversed with animation. Vibart seemed to be pleading with David's wife and she resisting his importunities feebly. Time and again one of her little hands would finger the edge of his coat as if the touch of it gave her happiness. She seemed enchanted with him, a pretty thing wholly lost in the lovelight of his bold and eager eyes. He caressed her deftly and secretly, pleading all the while. Finally he drew from his pocket an envelope and displayed to her what appeared to be steamship reservations. Then he opened his watch and held it bet wren them as if timing tier for a decision. As he slipped it back in his fob pocket, she took both of his hands, looked up to him with