background. She sprang from a high cliff into the chill waters of a
storm-tossed sea. Bound to the back of a spirited horse, she was
raced down the steep slope of a rocky ravine in the Far West. Alone
in a foul den of the underworld she held at bay a dozen villainous
Asiatics. Down the fire escape of a great New York hotel she made a
perilous way. From the shrouds of a tossing ship she was about to
plunge to a watery release from the persecutor who was almost upon
her. Upon the roof of the Fifth Avenue mansion of her scoundrelly
guardian in the great city of New York she was gaining the friendly
projection of a cornice from which she could leap and again escape
death--even a fate worse than death, for the girl was pursued from
all sorts of base motives. This time, friendless and alone in
profligate New York, she would leap from the cornice to the branches
of the great eucalyptus tree that grew hard by. Unnerving
performances like these were a constant inspiration to Merton Gill.
He knew that he was not yet fit to act in such scenes--to appear
opportunely in the last reel of each installment and save Hortense
for the next one. But he was confident a day would come.

On the same wall he faced also a series of photographs of himself.
These were stills to be one day shown to a director who would
thereupon perceive his screen merits. There was Merton in the natty
belted coat, with his hair slicked back in the approved mode and a
smile upon his face; a happy, careless college youth. There was
Merton in tennis flannels, his hair nicely disarranged, jauntily
holding a borrowed racquet. Here he was in a trench coat and the cap
of a lieutenant, grim of face, the jaw set, holding a revolver upon
someone unpictured; there in a wide-collared sport shirt lolling
negligently upon a bench after a hard game of polo or something.
Again he appeared in evening dress, two straightened fingers resting