Screen Mirror (Jun 1930 - Mar 1931)

oriel t>4 hermcan m«5inlv.iewiC2 Harold Taylor had planned for months this trip to Europe as a holiday for himself and his favorite niece, and he was making the most of his time. He was overjoyed when young Frank Thompson had announced that a matter of business would enable him to join them in Paris. Mary and Frank, friends for years in their home city of Pittsburgh, had gravitated toward the engagement that now bound them, and toward the wedding they planned immediately after their return to the states. They called their outing their advance honeymoon, and Mary was taking every opportunity to make those purchases which every bride-to-be must make. The one thing that spoiled their pleasure was the fact that soon Frank would be obliged to leave Paris for London. The business that brought him to Europe was of importance to their future. When Harold Taylor and his “two young people,” (as he chose to call them and did at every opportunity) first arrived in Paris he had made inquiry for the services of a competent guide. Taylor made it clear to the desk clerk that he cared little for museums, historic buildings and sculptured pieces. “I want to have a good time,” he said with a knowing wink. “Get me a man who knows all the places and the names of all the funny colored drinks.” And his echoing laugh was heard throughout the lobby. Mary took a tighter grip on Frank’s arm and smiled. It was a frank, friendly, and understanding smile. Not timid nor apologetic. She knew her uncle and his ways, and rather admired him for his bluff boyishness. So Fred had been engaged to show Harold Taylor Paris and its sights. Mary and Frank, sufficient to each other, chose to go their way unattended. Uncle Harold made no attempt to hide the fact that he was hugely enjoying his new-found freedom. Back home in Burlington he had to be careful. Here, in Paris, with Fred a willing consort, he could do as he chose. And he chose to do a lot. On this particular afternoon he was waiting for a visitor. Two nights before, in a cafe the name of which he could not remember, Fred had introduced him to some man whose name, oddly enough, he could not now completely recall. The appearance of the man he could not forget; tall, immaculately dressed — just the sort of a man he envied, by George! What he would give to be able to live in Paris, to always play as he was playing now, to be young again in this city of youth! He did recall that before the evening was over he had been calling his newfound friend, “Mike.” And the man who had called him this afternoon? What name did he give? Michael Trevor. That was it. Sure. "Mike” was coming up to see him. The table ’phone rang and Taylor fumblingly took it from its rack. Awkwardly he adjusted it to his ear and answered. “Mr. Michael Trevor to see you, sir,” informed a voice. “Send him up,” said Taylor. Presently there was a knock at the door and Michael Trevor entered. His • MICHAEL TREVOR, clubman, boulevardier, and man of mystery. Back of his pose as a moderately successful author enjoying the Paris sunshine lay a life that was steeped in intrigue. A romantic, interesting, and withal, dangerous, man was Michael Trevor. smile was friendly, his manner sure as, cane and gloves in hand he stepped into the room and gave a quick glance around. “Hello, Mr. Trevor,” said Taylor heartily, relieving his guest of hat and stick. “I didn’t know where to get ahold of you.” He laughed a bit ruefully. “I must have • continued on page 24 Photo by Paramount