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."Pete Lowry was already out and half way across the pavement.Pete had lain awake in his bed, many's the night, planning the posing of "stills" that would show Jean at her best; he had visioned them on display in theater lobbies, and now he collided with a hurrying shopper in his haste to see the actual fulfillment of those plans.Jean herself was not so eager.She went with the others, and she saw herself pictured on Pard; on her two feet; and sitting upon a rock with her old Stetson tilted over one eye and her hair tousled with the wind.She was loading her six-shooter, and talking to Lite, who was sitting on his heels with a cigarette in his fingers, looking at her with that bottled-up look in his eyes.She did not remember when the picture was taken, but she liked that best of all.She saw herself leaning out of the window of her room at the Lazy A.She remembered that time.She was talking to Gil outside, and Pete had come up and planted his tripod directly in front of her, and had commanded her to hold her pose.She did not count them, but she had curious impressions of dozens of pictures of herself scattered here and there along the walls of the long, cool-looking lobby.Every single one of them was marked: "Jean, of the Lazy A." Just that.On a bulletin board in the middle of the entrance, just before the marble box-office, it was lettered again in dignified black type: "JEAN OF THE LAZY A." Below was one word: "To-day.""It looks awfully queer," said Jean to Mr.Dewitt, who wanted to know what she thought of it all; "they don't explain what it's all about, or anything.""No, they don't." Dewitt pulled his mustache and piloted her back to the machine."They don't have to.""No," echoed Robert Grant Burns, with the fat chuckle of utter content in the knowledge of having achieved something."From the looks of things, they don't have to." He looked at Jean so intently that she stared back at him, wondering what was the matter; and when he saw that she was wondering, he gave a snort."Good Lord!" he said to himself, just above a whisper, and looked away, despairing of ever reading the riddle of Jean's unshakable composure.Was it pose Was the girl phlegmatic,—with that face which was so alive with the thoughts that shuttled back and forth behind those steady, talking eyes of hers? She was not stupid; Robert Grant Burns knew to his own discomfiture that she was not stupid.Nor was she one to pose; the absolute sincerity of her terrific frankness was what had worried Robert Grant Burns most.She must know that she had jumped into the front rank of popular actresses, and stood out before them all,—for the time being, at least.And,—he stole a measuring sidelong glance at her, just as he had done thousands of times in the past four months,—here she was in the private machine of the President of the Great Western Film Company, with that great man himself talking to her as to his honored guest.She had seen herself featured alone at one of the biggest motion-picture theaters in Los Angeles; so well known that "Jean, of the Lazy A" was deemed all-sufficient as information and advertisement.She had reached what seemed to Robert Grant Burns the final heights.And the girl sat there, calm, abstracted, actually not listening to Dewitt when he talked! She was not even thinking about him! Robert Grant Burns gave her another quick, resentful glance, and wondered what under heaven the girl WAS thinking about.As a matter of fact, having accepted the fact that she seemed to have made a success of her pictures, her thoughts had drifted to what seemed to her more vital.Had she done wrong to come away out here, away from her problem? The distance worried her.She had not even found out who was the mysterious night-prowler, or what he wanted.He had never come again, after that night when Hepsy had scared him away.From long thinking about it, she had come to a vague, general belief that his visits were somehow connected with the murder; but in what manner, she could not even form a theory.That worried her.She wished now that she had told Lite about it.She was foolish not to have done something, instead of sticking her head under the bedclothes and just shivering till he left.Lite would have found out who the man was, and what he wanted.Lite would never have let him come and go like that.But the visits had seemed so absolutely without reason.There was nothing to steal, and nothing to find.Still, she wished she had told Lite, and let him find out who it was.Then her talk with the great lawyer had been disquieting
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