Pictures and the Picturegoer (October 1915 - March 1916)

Wi I K 8NDIN0 5i 1916 429 PICTURES AND Till Tin ■ VANDAL I'll \rrr,i; L WITH a sneering 6mile young Roger Markham looked from the race of bis father, iron in its stern purpose, to thai of their disgraced cashier. John Linton; then thinking of the hold he hoped hei husband t Bharae would give him ovei the fat nating Mary, he urged clemency. "He is an I'M servant, snV'ne said; "give him twenty-four hours in winch to find tin' monej before you institute police-court proceedings." Old Mr. Mark ham nodded, and, thanking th>' firm for its mercy,bnt without am hope in his heart. John Libton .-tank out of the private office and made his W a\ home. On entering his pretty suburban villa the sounds of laughter and gay chatter came from the drawing-room, and. pausing in the hall, he listened. "The oats!" he muttered between his teeth; "tea and scandal -well, by Heaven, they'll have something to talk about this time! " ssing the hall, he flung the drawing-room door open and entered. Im inediatelv the chatter died away, and all exes were fixed upon his whit' face. Hi startled wife rose to meet him. " John " "Send these women away at once."' he Baid, hoarsely. Slowly the party broke up. each member of it congratulating herself upon the spicy hit of gossip it would be her good luck t" spread about the town. Ruin had surely come upon conceited Mrs. Linton. She had beenliving beyond her husband's means; they had seen the smash coming for a long tune! " Now . " Mary Linton cried, angrily, as the ball door closed behind her last surprised guest, " perhaps yon will explain your conduct ! Are you mad ? " " \'"t yet," her husband answered, grimly," but lam a ruined man. disgraced and desperate. Mary, a hundred times I have pleaded with yob to curtail your expenditure, but you have always d. Now the end has come.'' What do you mean, .lohn ? " " Is nc>t my meaning clear ? M you had to have" had in have— and I, like a doting fool, got it for you from .Mr. Mark ham's safe." " A thief! Oh. John. John But he had left tin room, and with a moan .-he sank down among the rich silk cushions of the settee. Bitterly -he regretted the past, lor. in spite of her butterfly existence, she loved her bus .» " WHOSO IS WITHOUT SIN THE "IDEAL" PRIZE STORY Adapted from the Film by IVAN PATRICK GORE ! dreaded, for hi Bake as much a. for her ow n. 1I1 i hardships which would follow the detection 1 I his sin. \ii Inn 1 ied acros • tie >" >m to greet the man. then, as the servant retired. seized hi hands feverishly. •r. you know 11 trailed e\ nically. " Mj den Mary, I've known how yoil and Linton contrived i" keep up such an el gant establishment on his screw for quite a .long time; but, believe me, when the old man found out. I did all in ray pi wev t" protect John fi 'i \ . 'in' Bake '. " " That wa good of you verj -■■ id of you. ( »h. if I could onlj Bee a waj to help him raise the money ! " Bo .1 Markham ei il eyes gleam sd. " I can show you a waj an easy way." lie whispered, passing his arm around her supple wai-t. "Mary. [*ve always hated Linton 1> 'cause you were his t' . have and to hold. I have ho Sympathy with him; but 1 hate to think of yon in want perhaps withont a decent dress "ii your hack and if you'll agree to give me what I want I'll find the money and -a\ e J our husband." ■ What do you want ? " she faltered. Her'.tormentor laughed. '"The last time 1 told you yon ordered me from the house. JTou won't do that to-day. eh? These are my terms. Mary yourself, body and -"ill; and in return your husband shall retain his reputation a an honest man. What is your answer p." Mary raised wi;d. imploring eyes to his. but found ii" mercy in the glance that devoured her. ' You shall ha\ ■ mv answer to 1T0W THE KM' IIA iii' irr< •» ." -\ i I. r I, •ft alone, t ho -I rugglc I « ith t he 1 1 nl deadb .-ham ■ 1 hal l">i ■• her ch in 11. Burelj ' hei e v t" Btvve her husband's hi mi mr t ha ' ittcing her o« n. M idly sh" ra her brains ; t hen her eyes fell upon a r brought in earlier hi the day Hy her in aid and i' 'i gotl en. She took it up and ■ ipened it mechanicallj . A 1 nont later she was on hor feet, laughing and crying alt irnatelj , "Thank God, our honour i -Ii-' cried, " Markham will l>> rep lid id money, then John and I will go far 1 her and begin a new life Running from the room. : he hurried to her husban 1' " d >u." " John leai John," -he called soft ly. N" answer came from within, and, with a -Iran■ foreboding tugging at her heart, sh'' entered. A -■•••■ md later her pit.-, ,h crj of hearl broken hi irror 1 through th.e house, for John Linton. Beeing nothing hut black shadows gathering round him. hal taken the only pat h hi 1 red brain shi iwed t > be open, and had crossed tic Great Divide ti ' fie ■ the Judge of judges. # *s # The following months did much to deaden Man Linton's grief, hut the tragedy had changed her life; for. whereas before -he had thought onlj of her own pleasures, she now devoted her life and fortune to pointing the way to happiness to others ; and in this great work she wa ably assisted I J the Vicar. a strenuous young cleric of the lighting" Bchool, whose partiality for his pretty parishioner was certain to set tic tonguesof the local scandalmong wagging furiously. One day about a year after John Linton's death, he came to her. "1 want you to do something for a young girl.'' he said, gravely. Mary smiled at him. " Anything concerning the welfare of others less fortunate than myself is my duty. Tell me. what is this particular trouble? "The greatest trouble a lonely girl cm face, "the Vicar answered. "Thinkwell. Mrs. Linton it is no nice task for a young woman like yourself. The I pie round here are censorious, and " He hesitated a he saw her heightened colour. "They already spend much of their time in discussing my affairs, criticising my friendships Well, let them. Where i t his 1 r girl P " "In t he hope that your help wa to be bad for the asking, I brought her with me. She is waiting outside ; I will bring her to you." He Lent over her hand. ."God will surely hies yoil, Mary." Then, without another glance at her face