Picture Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

: jl have a confession to make, and perhaps I # cannot do better than come straight to the point. I happened to be in that restaurant last night, beicause I am the woman for whom the trap was laid. I am Joyce Ferdon, and I am an actress. I am not a Salvation Army lassie, at all, and I never J jhave been except for a little while, Iwhen I was preparing myself for the ; part in my new play, which has been ■* |a tremendous hit because I knew how to play the part so naturally. "I don't know what you will think 1 J( of me when you learn how I have deceived you, and that I am not the : generous, self-sacrificing person you think me at all, but an ambitious, ; scheming actress, who has set her heart upon the idols of success and . fame. I don't know what you will ~ think, but I hope you will believe me : when I say that I am prouder of mak:> ing my one convert as a Salvation lassie than I am of all the praise ■t and fame I have won upon the stage ! I So I must sign myself, "As never before, '"Joyce Ferdon." \ 1 Fordyce stared at the letter like a ian who has been struck a stunning 3 ifow between the eyes. Another of his " iols had fallen ! Another ideal had ome crashing down into the dust. His ". . ssie — true, brave, self-sacrificing — was "nly a dream, after all ! There was no ich woman save in his awn imagin '|'igs. His conversion — that, too, had sen a farce — a rehearsal for a Broad I lay show. Her life was the same as is had been — empty, frivolous, selfishly I mbitious. And how he had struggled "jind striven to live up to his ideal of Ier. Well, he would know better anther time ! Ji Seizing his hat, he rushed out of the i louse and entered the nearest bar. He , -anted to forget her, forget his conLiersion, forget everything. \ J "Whisky !" • 1 The bartender set out the glass, and 'ordyce raised it to his lips. But as lie started to swallow the contents of ne glass, he felt a ghostly touch upon .is arm, and a girl's face rose before im — the face of a girl in the bonnet f a Salvation lassie. A wistful, com ■ I? \* assionate, strangely sympathetic face, : hung, wavering, in tbe air between is eyes and the mirror behind the I I tar. PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY Setting down his glass, untasted, Fordyce paid for the drink and passed out. All day he wandered about. He did not go to work. What did work mean to him now? He sat upon a park bench staring into nothingness, and lived over again the last few months of his life, from the moment he had first seen her until this morning, when he had received her letter. That look upon her face when she had said to him, "Come with us. We can help you," surely that was not all a lie? Great actress though she might be, she could not have assumed that expression as a whim. He was an actor himself, and he knew the limitations of the art. The more he thought of her, the more he longed to see "her again to make sure, in his own mind, whether she were capable of doing this. And so night found him standing outside the stage door, waiting for her to come out. Would she be merely the actress, or would she be — his lassie? At last the door opened and Joyce came out, accompanied by the manager and the leading man. Swift as a shadow, a dark figure darted forward, and a revolver shot startled the man who lin-gered in the shadows. The leading man staggered, and grasped the manager for support.^ The dark figure turned and ran down the dark alley leading to the street, tossing away his still smoking revolver. Fordyce grappled with the unknown, but the latter broke away and ran on. At his heels dashed Fordyce. Suddenly the man in front stumbled and fell. With a leap, Fordyce was on his back. The unknown would-be murderer, with an almost superhuman effort, partially threw Fordyce from him, and struggled to his feet. The fist of Fordyce, hardened by months of work in the open, crashed against the fugitive's jaw. An answering grunt followed by a short-arm jab to the body was the unknown's only reply. In that blow Fordyce realized that he was battling with something more than a weakling. Back at the theater, stage hands had assisted the stricken leading man to a couch on the stage and were making efforts to revive him. Every one was so engrossed in the welfare of the actor that no thought was given to his assailant. Fordyce rained blow after blow on the unknown man's face and body, but the man, with the desperation born of fear, was returning blow for blow. With his 19 back to the wall, he was battling against capture — knowing in his heart that capture would probably mean death. Putting all the strength of his body into a swing, Fordyce sent a blow crashing to his opponent's chin. The man went to his knees. Fordyce rained punches to his face. Suddenly, without giving his antagonist an opportunity to regain his feet, Fordyce grasped the man by the throat. Slowly his viselike finger dug into the unknown's flesh. "Will you come with me, or must I choke the life out of you?" panted Fordyce. "I quit," gurgled his victim. Grasping his prisoner firmly by the collar, Fordyce jerked him to his feet, and partly pushed and partly dragged him back to where the light shone through the opened stage door. With a supreme, desperate effort, the man Fordyce held prisoner endeavored to break the hold upon his collar. In the twinkling of an eye, Fordyce's grip tightened, and a well-planted blow took out any fight that remained in his prisoner. As he emerged into the circle of light about the stage door, Fordyce recognized in the wriggling, struggling creature he held prisoner the maddened musician Sigmund, who, despairing of securing the woman he "loved, had attempted to destroy her. Through the opened door Fordyce propelled Sigmund. About the couch upon which lay the stricken leading man were gathered his friends and coworkers. As ^ordyce drew near the people grouped about the couch, and the manager, grasping him by the hand, exclaimed joyfully : "Cecil Fordyce !" And then, for the first time, Joyce learned that her convert was of her own profession. The first performance in which the regenerated Fordyce took the part of the wounded leading man was a distinct sensation. The love scene, in particular, roused the house to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. But there were some lines which the audience missed, when the heroine whispered : "And so you are Cecil Fordyce, the matinee idol?" And the leading man answered: "Idol no longer, my lassie, but now, and always— idolater !" For these lines were not in the play.