the billows, but seemed grimly determined upon the death of
the heroine. Then, when she reached midships and the foremost fiend was
almost upon her, the mightiest of all the billows descended and swept
her off into the cruel waters. Her pursuers, saving themselves only by
great effort, held to the rigging and stared after the girl. They leaned
far over the ship's rocking side and each looked from under a spread
hand.

For a distressing interval the heroine battled with the waves, but her
frail strength availed her little. She raised a despairing face for an
instant to the camera and its agony was illumined. Then the dread waters
closed above her. The director's whistle blew, the waves were stilled,
the tumult ceased. The head of Beulah Baxter appeared halfway down the
tank. She was swimming toward the end where Merton stood.

He had been thrilled beyond words at this actual sight of his heroine in
action, but now it seemed that a new emotion might overcome him. He felt
faint. Beulah Baxter would issue from the pool there at his feet. He
might speak to her, might even help her to climb out. At least no one
else had appeared to do this. Seemingly no one now cared where Miss
Baxter swam to or whether she were offered any assistance in landing.
She swam with an admirable crawl stroke, reached the wall, and put up
a hand to it. He stepped forward, but she was out before he reached her
side. His awe had delayed him. He drew back then, for the star, after
vigorously shaking herself, went to a tall brazier in which glowed a
charcoal fire.

Here he now noticed for the first time the prop-boy Jimmie, he who
had almost certainly defaulted with an excellent razor. Jimmie threw
a blanket about the star's shoulders as she hovered above the glowing
coals. Merton had waited for her voice. He might still venture to speak
to her--to tell her of his long and profound admiration for her art. Her
voice came as she shivered over the fire:

"Murder! That water's cold. Rosenblatt swore he'd have it warmed but I'm
here to say it wouldn't boil an egg in four minutes."

He could not at first identify this voice with the remembered tones of
Beulah Baxter. But of course she was now hoarse with the cold. Under
the circumstances he could hardly expect his heroine's own musical
clearness. Then as the girl spoke again something stirred among his more
recent memories. The voice was still hoarse, but he placed it now.
He approached the brazier. It w