hat will happen if the owner comes along and
catches Bones and his wretched company."

Sanders laughed quietly.

"What do you think he'll do with the film?" he asked.

"Oh, he'll sell it," said Hamilton. "I tell you, Bones is amazing. He
has found a City man who is interested in the film industry, a
stockbroker or something, who has promised to see every bit of film as
it is produced and give him advice on the subject; and, incredible as
it may sound, the first half-dozen scenes that Bones has taken have
passed muster."

"Who turns the handle of the camera?" asked the girl.

"Bones," said Hamilton, trying not to laugh. "He practised the
revolutions on a knife-cleaning machine!"

The fourth day it rained, but the fifth day Bones took his company in a
hired motor into the country, and, blissfully ignoring such admonitions
as "Trespassers will be shot," he led the way over a wall to the sacred
soil of an Englishman's stately home. Bones wanted the wood, because
one of his scenes was laid on the edge of a wood. It was the scene
where the bad girl, despairing of convincing anybody as to her inherent
goodness, was taking a final farewell of the world before "leaving a
life which had held nothing but sadness and misunderstanding," to quote
the title which was to introduce this touching episode.

Bones found the right location, fitted up his camera, placed the
yellow-faced girl--the cinema artiste has a somewhat bilious appearance
when facing the lens--and began his instructions.

"Now, you walk on here, dear old Miss What's-Your-Name. You come from
that tree with halting footsteps--like this, dear old thing. Watch and
learn."

Bones staggered across the greensward, clasping his brow, sank on his
knees, folded his arms across his chest, and looked sorrowfully at the
heavens, shaking his head.

Hamilton screamed with laughter.

"Behave yourself, naughty old sceptic," said Bones severely.

After half an hour's preliminary rehearsal, the picture was taken, and
Bones now prepared to depart; but Mr. Lew Becksteine, from whose hands
Bones had taken, not only the direction of the play, but the very
excuse for existence, let fall a few uncomfortable words.

"Excuse me, Mr. Tibbetts," he said, in the sad, bored voice of an
artiste who is forced to witness the inferior work of another, "it is
in this scene that the two lawyers must be taken, walking through the
wood, quite unconscious of the unhappy fate which has