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
against his left temple. Underneath this was written in a running,
angular, distinguished hand, "Very truly yours, Clifford Armytage."
This, and prints of it similarly inscribed, would one day go to
unknown admirers who besought him for likenesses of himself.
But Merton lost no time in scanning these pictorial triumphs. He was
turning the pages of the magazines he had brought, his first hasty
search being for new photographs of his heroine. He was quickly
rewarded. Silver Screenings proffered some fresh views of Beulah
Baxter, not in dangerous moments, but revealing certain quieter
aspects of her wondrous life. In her kitchen, apron clad, she
stirred something. In her lofty music room she was seated at her
piano.
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