SOME nine years after the events detailed in the last chapter, a fairly clever young actress who had drifted into the cinematograph business, faced one of the many disappointments which had made up her life. In many ways the disappointment was more bitter than any she had previously experienced, because she had banked so heavily upon success. If there was any satisfaction to be had out of the new tragedy it was to be found in the fact that the fault was not entirely hers. An impartial critic might, indeed, absolve her from all responsibility.
In this particular instance she regarded herself in the light of a martyr to indifferent literature—not without reason.
When the Westminster Art Film Company was tottering on its last legs, Mr. Willie Ellsberger, chairman and chief victim, decided on one big throw for fortune. The play decided upon does not matter, because it was written by Willie himself, with the assistance of his advertising man, but it contained all the stunts that had ever got by in all the photo plays that had ever been produced, and in and out of every breathless situation flashed Sadie O’Grady, the most amazing, the most charming, the most romantic, the highest salaried artiste that filmland had ever known.
Sadie O’Grady had come to London from Honolulu, after she had inherited her father’s considerable fortune. She came, a curious visitor, to the studios, merely as a spectator, and had laughingly refused Mr. Ellsberger’s first offer, that gentleman having been attracted by her perfect face and the grace of her movements; but at last, after extraordinary persuasion, she had agreed to star in that stupendous production, “The Soul of Babylon,” for a fee of ￡25,000, which was to be distributed amongst certain Honolulu charities in which she was interested.
“No,” she told a newspaper man, “this is to be my first and my last film. I enjoy the work very much, but naturally it takes up a great deal of my time.”
“Are you returning to Honolulu?” asked our representative.
“No,” replied Miss O’Grady, “I am going on to Paris. My agent has bought me the Duc de Montpelier’s house in the Avenue d’Etoile.”
A week after the picture was finished, Miss Sadie O’Grady waited on the chairman by appointment.
“Well, Sadie,” said that gentleman, leaning back in his chair, and smiling unhappily, “it’s a flivver!”
“You don’t say!” said Sadie aghast.
“We ran it off for the big renter from the North, and he says it is about as bad as it can be, and that all the good in it is so obviously stolen, that he dare not risk the injunction which would follow the first exhibition. Did Simmonds pay you your last week’s salary?”
“No, Mr. Ellsberger,” said the girl.
Ellsberger shrugged.
“That sets me back another twenty pounds,” he said and reached for his cheque-book. “It is tough on you, Sadie, but it’s tougher on us. I’m not so sure that it is so tough on you, though. I spent a fortune advertising you. There isn’t anybody in this country who hasn’t heard of Sadie O’Grady, and,” he added grimly, “you’ve more publicity than I hope I shall get when this business goes into the hands of the Official Receiver.”
“So there’s no more work?” asked the girl after a pause.
Mr. Ellsberger’s hands said: “What can I do?”
“You ought not to have any difficulty in getting a shop,” he said, “with your figure.”
“Especially when the figure’s twenty pounds a week,” she said unsmilingly. “I was a fool ever to leave Paris. I was doing well there and I wish I’d never heard of the cinema business.”
Still young and pretty and slim, with a straight nose and a straighter mouth, she had no appeal for Mr. Ellsberger, who in matters of business had an unsympathetic nature.
“Why don’t you go back to Paris?” he said, speaking very deliberately and looking out of the window. “Perhaps that affair has blown over by now.”
“What affair?” she asked sharply. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve friends in Paris,” said the chairman, “good, bright boys who go around a lot, and they know most of what’s going on in town.”
She looked at him, biting her lips thoughtfully.
“Reggie van Rhyn—that’s the trouble you heard about?”
Mr. Ellsberger nodded.
“I didn’t know what happened, and I’ll never believe in a thousand years that I stabbed him,” she said vigorously. “I’ve always been too much of a lady for that sort of thing—I was educated at a convent.”
Mr. Ellsberger yawned.
“Take that to Curtis, will you,” he said. “If he can get any free publicity for you, why, I’ll be glad. Now take my advice—stay on. I’ve put Sadie O’Grady way up amongst the well-known products of Movieland, and you’ll be a fool if you quit just when the public is getting interested in you. I’m in bad, but that doesn’t affect you, Sadie, and there ain’t a producer in England who wouldn’t jump at you and give you twice the salary I’m paying.”
She stood up, undecided. Ellsberger was growing weary of the interview. He made a great show of pulling out notepaper and rang the bell for his stenographer.
“The publicity’s fine,” she admitted, “and I’ve felt good about the work. Why the letters that I’ve had from people asking for my autograph and pictures of my Honolulu estate”—she smiled a little frostily—“people in society, too. Why, a titled man who wrote to me from Bournemouth, Sir John Maxell——”
“Sir John Maxell!”
Mr. Ellsberger was interested, indeed, he was fascinated. He waved away his stenographer.
“Sit down, Sadie,” he said. “You’re sure it was Maxell? Sir John Maxell?”
She nodded.
“That’s him,” she said. “There’s class there.”
“And there’s money, too,” said the practical Ellsberger. “Why don’t you get in touch with him, Sadie? A fellow like that would think nothing of putting ten thousand into a picture if he was interested in a girl. If you happen to be the girl, Sadie, there’ll be a thousand............