LITMIR.BIZ

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every one save the two old people in the corner had leaped into action. The framed, autographed portraits that other film celebrities had bestowed on the proprietor of the Desert Edge rattled on the walls. The windows shook. Suddenly in the doorway appeared a bald man with a gloomy eye.

      "Good lord," he shouted. "How do you expect me to get my rest?"

      "Hello, Mike," said Rannie. "What is it you want to rest from?"

      "You direct a gang like this for a while, and you'll know," replied Mike sourly. "It's ten o'clock. If you'll take my advice for once, you'll turn in. Everybody's to report in costume, here in the lobby tomorrow morning at eight-thirty."

      This news was greeted with a chorus of low moans. "Nine-thirty, you say?" Rannie inquired.

      "Eight-thirty. You heard me. And anybody who's late pays a good stiff fine. Now please go to bed and let decent people sleep."

      "Decent people?" repeated Rannie softly, as the director vanished. "He's flattering himself again." But the party was over, and the company moved reluctantly up the stairs to the second floor. Mr. Renault returned the saxophone to the desk.

      "Say, landlord, there's a sour note in this thing," he complained. "Have it fixed before I come again."

      "Sure will, Mr. Renault," promised the proprietor.

      "Too early for bed, no matter what Mike says," remarked Eden, piloting Paula Wendell to the street. "Let's take a walk. Eldorado doesn't look much like Union Square, but night air is night air wherever you find it."

      "Lucky for me it isn't Union Square," said the girl. "I wouldn't be tagging along, if it was."

      "Is that so?"

      They strolled down Main Street, white and empty in the moonlight. In a lighted window of the Spot Cash Store hung a brilliant patchwork quilt.

      "To be raffled off by the ladies of the Orange Blossom Club for the benefit of the Orphans' Home," Eden read. "Think I'll take a chance on that tomorrow."

      "Better not get mixed up with any Orange Blossom Club," suggested Paula Wendell.

      "Oh, I can take care of myself. And it's the orphans I'm thinking of, you know."

      "That's your kind heart," she answered. They climbed a narrow sandy road. Yellow lamplight in the front window of a bungalow was suddenly blotted out.

      "Look at that moon," said Eden. "Like a slice of honeydew melon just off the ice."

      "Fond of food, aren't you," remarked the girl. "I'll always think of you wrestling with that steak."

      "A man must eat. And if it hadn't been for the steak, we might never have met."

      "What if we hadn't?" she asked.

      "Pretty lonesome for me down here in that event." They turned about in silence. "You know, I've been thinking," Eden continued. "We're bound to come to the end of things at the ranch presently. And I'll have to go back—"

      "Back to your freedom. That will be nice."

      "You bet it will. All the same, I don't want you to forget me after I've gone. I want to go on being your—er—your friend. Or what have you?"

      "Splendid. One always needs friends."

      "Write to me occasionally. I'll want to know how Wilbur is. You never can tell—is he careful crossing the streets?"

      "Wilbur will always be fine, I'm sure." They stopped before the hotel. "Good night," said the girl.

      "Just a minute. If there hadn't been a Wilbur—"

      "But there was. Don't commit yourself. I'm afraid it's the moon, looking so much like a slice of melon—"

      "It's not the moon. It's you."

      The proprietor of the Desert Edge came to the door. Dim lights burned in the interior of the hotel.

      "Lord, Miss Wendell," he said. "I nearly locked you out."

      "I'm coming," returned the girl. "See you at the ranch tomorrow, Mr. Eden."

      "Fine," answered Eden. He nodded to the landlord, and the front door of the hotel banged shut in his face.

      As he drove out across the lonely desert, he began to wonder what he was going to say to the restless P.J. Madden when he reached the ranch. The millionaire would be home from Pasadena now; he had expected to meet Draycott there. And Draycott was in San Francisco, little dreaming of the part his name was playing in the drama of the Phillimore pearls. P.J. would be furious, he would demand an explanation.

      But nothing like that happened. The ranch house was in darkness and only Ah Kim was in evidence about the place.

      "Madden and others in bed now," explained the Chinese. "Came home tired and very much dusted and at once retired to rooms."

      "Well, I've got it on good authority that tomorrow is another day," replied Eden. "I'll turn in, too."

      When he reached the breakfast table on Thursday morning, the three men were there before him. "Everything run off smoothly in Pasadena yesterday?" he inquired brightly.

      Thorn and Gamble stared at him, and Madden frowned. "Yes, yes, of course," he said. He added a look which clearly meant: "Shut up."

      After breakfast Madden joined the boy in the yard. "Keep that matter of Draycott to yourself," he ordered.

      "You saw him, I suppose?" Eden inquired.

      "I did not."

      "What! Why, that's too bad. But not knowing each other I suppose—"

      "No sign of anybody that looked like your man to me. You know, I'm beginning to wonder about you—"

      "But Mr. Madden, I told him to be there."

      "Well, as a matter of fact, I didn't care especially. Things didn't work out as I expected. I think now you'd better get hold of him and tell him to come to Eldorado. Did he call you up?"

      "He may have. I was in town last night. At any rate, he's sure to call soon."

      "Well, if he doesn't, you'd better go over to Pasadena and get hold of him—"

      A truck filled with motion-picture camera men, props, and actors in weird costumes stopped before the ranch. Two other cars followed. Some one alighted to open the gate.

      "What's this?" cried Madden.

      "This is Thursday," answered Eden. "Have you forgotten—"

      "Forgot it completely," said Madden. "Thorn! Where's Thorn?"

      The secretary emerged from the house. "It's the movies, Chief. This was the day—"

      "Damnation!" growled Madden. "Well, we'll have to go through with it. Martin, you look after things." He went inside.

      The movies were all business this morning, in contrast to the careless gaiety of the night before. The cameras were set up in the open end of the patio. The actors, in Spanish costume, stood ready. Bob Eden went over to Paula Wendell.

      "Good morning," she said. "I came along in case Madden tried to renig on his promise. You see, I know so much about him now—"

      The director passed. "This will be O.K.," he remarked to the girl.

      "Pleased him for once," she smiled to Eden. "That ought to get into the papers."

      The script was a story of old California, and presently they were grinding away at a big scene in the patio.

      "No, no, no," wailed the director. "What ails you this morning, Rannie? You're saying good-bye to the girl—you love her, love her, love her. You'll probably never see her again."

      "The hell I won't," replied the actor. "Then the thing's a flop right now."

      "You know what I mean—you think you'll never see her again. Her father has just kicked you out of the house forever. A bit of a critic, the father. But come on—this is the big farewell.

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