British Agent (Warner Bros.) (1934)

— 10 DAY FICTIONIZATION Real ‘reader interest’ feature for all newspapers—Plant it early to wind up on or near your opening date—type and illustrations available in mat form. Complete set, $1.00. Order from: Editor, Merchandising Plan. BRITISH AGENT The story of First National’s film hit fiction ized by Arthur Zellner, inspired by R. H. Bruce Lockhart’s book. CHAPTER I HE erisp young voice filled the room with something almost electric, as though a crackling vitality flowed out with his words. ‘Brom the Baltic to the Black Sea, ten million Russians are fighting a hopeless battle. The government is caught be tween the Tsarist war and the Bolshevist peace. Kolinoff is trying to whip back into the trenches a starving army, weary of war and with one thought in its head—to get out of it and eat. And they are getting out. Whole divisions are on the run. I believe unless effective action is taken, a separate peace with Germany may be signed.’’ Stephen Locke looked around the table at his audience. His eyes were alight with the splendid courage that sent the Crusaders singing into battle. He was young and slight, but some quality in his bearing gave him height. His wavy blonde hair was recalcitrant, refusing to lie sleekly against his well shaped head. By some strange alchemy, nature had mixed the softness of the dreamer with the steely courage of the adventurer, producing a normal young Englishman. At the head of the long table, he saw a grizzled old veteran of a thousand diplomatic contests, the man who guided the affairs — of Britain's dominions trough ~ the troubled waters of a stormtossed world. His face was inscrutable, but his keen, grey eyes seemed to bore into the depths of whatever they observed. His white hair falling to his collar gave him the appearance of a poet—and he did have the~poet’s dream of a perfect world. The deep lines of his brow bespoke the futility of his dreams. As he watched young Locke, he was lost for a moment in a vision of himself in the days of his youth. Days before the brotherhood of man had become pol. itical cant. The others of his cabinet were all grim men, not yet recovered from the shattering blow that the war had already aimed at the flower of Britain’s youth. The Minister of War conceded nothing to Stephen’s eloquence. If Generals made mistakes, why hang on the opinions of an untried youngster. He shrugged and offered deprecatingly, “Youth is given to extremes of confidence and despair. Isn’t that a needlessly pessimistic view, Mr. Locke?” Stephen faced him. “The thought of fifty German divisions being released from Russia and thrown against our Allies on the Western front isn’t a very cheerful one, sir.” “What is your remedy?’, asked the Minister of War. “Recognize whatever govern ment is in power. Let Russia feel that Great Britain is behind her to the limit.” The Prime Minister smiled as he rose and extended his hand. “After reading a number of your consular reports from Moscow, I had pictured you an old man with a white beard,’ he said. “T am sorry, sir.” “Don’t be sorry,” said the grizzled chief. “Pitt was Prime Minister at twenty-four.” A few weeks later, Locke found himself enterin,s the British Embassy in Petrograd. As he entered the brilliantly lighted building a Major Domo In far away England, Stephen Locke faces his superiors and in ringing words warns them there is grave danger of Russia making a separate peace with Germany. (A page of unwritten history re vealed in’ the First National drama “British Agent,”’ starring Kay Francis and Leslie Howard, coming to the Strand Theatre. announced an illustrious arrival and as he turned, caught sight of Locke. The old servant’s eyes lighted with pleasure. “Good evening, master,—I beg your pardon sir, I mean Mr. Locke, sir.” “Hello, Evans,” Locke answered. “Glad to see you.” “Thank you sir, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you are looking more like your father than ever, sir.” “Official responsibility,” was Locke’s chaffing reply. “I’ve just been appointed Consul General. “So DT’ve read sir,’ the old servant beamed. Then he turned and. announced with dignity — “Mr. Stephen Locke.” This was Stephen’s formal introduction. He paid his compliments to his hostess, danced dutifully with the wives and daughters of the great and near great. Finally Stanley, a young undersecretary rescued him. “There’s a poker game in the butler’s pantry, if you’re interested,” he whispered to Locke. “How would one get there?” Locke asked. “Tf one might dodge Lady Carrister, one might pop out that door, down the stair and turn back. ? “One is popping,’ said Locke. He slid quickly through the door and found the pantry. Intent on a poker game were four young men whose careers— even lives were to be strangely influenced by the young man who stood smiling at them. (To Be Continued Tomorrow) BRITISH AGENT The story of First National’s film hit fictionized by Arthur Zellner, inspired by R. H. Bruce Lockhart’s book. THE STORY THUS FAR Stephen Locke, British consular agent in Moscow, fears that Russia will negotiate a separate peace with Germany, and tries in vain to impress the War Council with the danger of the situation. He is sent back to Russia with instructions to keep Russia fighting on the side of the Allies. CHAPTER II CROSS from Stanley sat Bob Medill, an American welfare worker. A rugged, ruddy chap clean cut and a bit boisterous. He was chewing gum—not circumspectly but with the gusto of frank enjoyment. Stephen was to find later that Bob was never without his gum. On the left sat Gaston LaFarge, of the French Legation and on the other side Tito Del Val, an Italian attache. Del Val studied his hand intently and was about to place a bet when Stanley saw Stephen at the door. “Am I butting Locke. “Not at all,” Stanley replied “T want you to meet the rest of the domestics.” Then he went on blithely with his introductions. ‘“Here’s Bob Medill of the American Red Cross, he cheats at cards. This is LaFarge a terrible Frenchman and Del Val an insignificant trifle from Italy.” He turned to his poker companions and finished with a flourish. “And this is Mr. Stephen Locke, a brand new Consul-General at Moscow.” in?” asked Page Highteen The young men returned to their game. Upstairs the ball proceeded. In an ornate, paneled room five men were gathered about the punch bowl. One of them was Kolinoff, the Russian Commissioner of War. He was stocky, self assured and emphasized his dogmatic opinions with decisive gestures. “You need not fear, gentlemen, that there will be a separate peace with Germany.” Kolinoff added with a grandiose gesture that included them all, “and you may be further gratified to know that there will be no revolution.” As though some ironie god had rehearsed Kolinoff’s peroration, a roar rose from the streets and soared huskily into the windows. “Long Live the Soviet! Long Live Lenin! It’s Now or Nev er!” Then came the sound of a thousand voiced singing “The Internationale.” And then a sharp crash—as a brick hurtling through the window of the Ball room, sent glass flying about the dancers. At the sound of shots, Locke put down his hand, and walked toward the window. In the midst of the milling crowd, a@ young woman tried to reach the sidewalk. Suddenly she fell, as a Cossack rode straight toward her—hooves barely missing her head. With a great effort, she pulled herself out of the way and leaned against the iron railing. As she looked around her, she saw an old woman leading a boy of ten and fighting bravely to keep the child shielded by her body. A Cossack drove toward her, and the girl, standing by the railing, deliberately took a revolver from the pocket of her leather jacket and fired at the rider. Her shot knocked the whip from his hand. Dismounting, he took his rifle and fought his way through the crowd toward the girl. The Cossack fired twice at the girl as she dodged behind a fountain. The Cossack had followed the girl into the Embassy grounds when. Stephen jumped over the terrace rail and confronted him. “This is British Territory,” he said crisply. “You’re not permitted here. Get out!” The Russian turned slowly. Some sense of servility would not let him defy authority in any guise. From the bushes, the Russian girl Elena, stepped forth. She was a starry-eyed brunette, with a calm, poised manner. Even at a glance, her high spirited vitality shone through her serenity. She looked at Stephen for a moment and a smile broke on her face like a brilliant light. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You saved my life.” “Tough customer,” said Locke. “Still you can’t blame him for being a bit annoyed. After all, you did have a pot at him.” “He deserved it,’ said Elena, the lines of her mouth tensing. “Y’d better go.” “You can’t go out there uniil this blows over.” “Blows over?” she flared, “this is no little street riot. It is the revolution. Tomorrow, the Red Government will be in power.” (To Be Continued Tomorrow) The girl, standing by the railing, deliberately took a revolver from her pocket and fired. Her shot knocked the whip from the Cossack’s hand. (Kay Francis, co-starred with Leslie Howard who saves a life and wins a love in a Petrograd street riot scene in First Na tional’s stirring drama, “British Agent,” coming to the Strand.)