Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1920)

38 Photoplay Magazine "Remember the old suit you scorched with acid?" Madge demanded between kisses, when she had been dragged with the broom handle from behind the door. "I had the tailor rip it apart. Isn't it marvelous?" "Marvelous," agreed Dan. Then a disquieting thought struck him — even this must have cost money. "I found that I didn't need lunch, Dan. Two meals a day are more than enough for me — so when you've been gone at noon, I've just saved the money — and in other ways.'' She said nothing of the clothes she had gone without. "Madge, dearest!" Tenderness swept Dan, and he drew Madge very close. "I'll make it all up to you some day."' COLONEL BARNARD hstened with real interest to what Dan Hillyer told him in the Eastern offices of the Coast Smelting Company. Beside them was the model of Dan's smelting process improvement. But in the midst of their conversation the Colonel pulled himself up sharply, took out his watch, 'hen rose with outstretched hand. "It's most interesting, Hillyer," he said. "But I've an important meeting in ten minutes. I'm sorry. I wish I might have a longer talk with you before I leave for the West tomorrow." His tone was encouraging, friendly. Dan could not bear to let this moment slip without making an effort to bring the Westerner to some sort of barpain. An idea entered his mind — an idea which a few months earlier would have occurred to him, perhaps, as a matter of course. Today it was very daring. This one meal would cost as much as it took them to live a week, or maybe two. "Can't — can't you have dinner with me tonight," — Dan gulped — "at — at the St. Croesus?" Dan paused in scared silence. The Colonel accepted his invitation. Colonel Barnard seemed to enjoy his dinner immensely — and ate, as Dan afterwards complained to Madge, like a poor relation. But the meal was a miserable one for the young inventor. Through it all he was haunted by the fear that the Colonel would go away without giving a definite promise in regard to his patent — and that would mean the price of the dinner wasted. Then, too, the picture of Madge came to take the cheer out of his heart. She had been so horrified at first at the money it would take for this one act of propitiating Fate — then, poor child, she had broken down and wept because she could not go to the St. Croesus too. She had laughed through the tears at herself for being a silly baby as she handed over the household emergency fund. Dan understood the heart hunger for a taste of her old life that had swept over her — and he hated the brilliant hotel, its music and its audacious price-list, which had made it impossible for him to bring her along. The upshot of the dinner was a terrifying bill and an invitation for Dan to come to the Coast to demonstrate his invention to the Colonel's board of directors. Barnard offered to pay Dan's expenses, but he neglected to advance the money. Madge, starting from the big chair where she had curled up, a shawl about her shoulders, to wait for Dan, found black despair written on every feature of his face on his return. Lack of absolute confidence means th wreck of manv a beautiful romance — — Wbile livitb perfect understanding, "nothing ill can dwell in such a temple." "But Dan — we still have money in the bank," she said when he had told her the evening's story. Dan answered firmly: "I know, dear, but we're saving that for you. We can't touch that." "But I'll be all right,'' Madge insisted. "I'll leave enough, and you'll be back long before — before — " she hid 'ner face a moment on his shoulder, "and then we'll be rich. It's your big chance, Dan. We mustn't let it slip." The next morning Madge Hillyer drew the $300 from the savings bank. As she left the bank, a man, by seeming accident, stepped into the same revolving door compartment as she. When she reached the comer she discovered her handbag was gone. Involuntarily she cried out. A crowd gathered— but the thief had disappeared. WHAT should she do? She must act somehow without letting Dan know. For some reason her thought went to Crewe — perhaps it was because he, back in his apartment after another unsatisfying trip into strange new countries, was thinking intently on the Madge he had one time loved. She determined to crucify her pride and go to him for help. Yamadichi, Crewe's Japanese servant, admitted Madge into a living room rich with soft woven hangings and vivid with many colors. The fragrance of flowers came to her nostrils, and a plaintive melody, played with Crewe's touch on a piano, crept to her from another room. Yamadichi disappeared for a moment, then came back to say that his master would see her. Madge trembled as she followed the silent Jap, trembled at the audacity of her coming here, trembled more at the memory of happier days. Of a sudden the stuffy, smelly apartment, the unattractiveness of her luxurystripped life, repelled her. She became faint. At the sight of the pale Madge in her shabby garments, Crewe's expectant manner changed to one of frank disappointment. He had expected to see the graceful, vivacious creature of his dreams. "What can I do for you?" he said stifily, after an embarrassing pause. "Arthur" — she was the practical, self-controlled new Madge again. "I want $300 — as a loan for a month." She shrank from the coldness of Arthur's look, but she forced herself to tell him of their struggles — hers and Dan's. "We'll pay you interest — eight or nine per cent if you want it," she finished. "Thanks." Crewe's tone was frigid. "I'm not a loan shark. Why not go to one of them?" Madge smiled bitterly. "I thought of that — but we have no security to offer."' "Then what security could you offer me?" Madge looked the man who had one time loved her straight in the eye. then gathering all the scorn she possessed in her voice, she said, "Myself." Arthur Crewe winced perceptibly. For an instant the flame of old desires leaped up in his eyes, and died down again, to a look of hurt misery. "Madge, you might have spared me this!" he cried. "You have wrecked my dreams. The very sight of you — worn, hag