Beside grave of Trevor Trent, jovial digger finishes double task. Enters auto hearse, followed by single limousine. John steps from car as coffin is lowered. Carries arm-load of roses. Holds face emotionless. Tears off handful of rose petals. Scatters them into grave. Lips move. (_Insert_) “_God teach me that nothing is wasted. God grant that nothing is wasted._” As he turns away, with last offices performed, is halted and questioned by reporter who first published news of Dolores’ death. John at first refuses to answer. Shows deep thought, then inspiration. (_Insert_) “_You may say that I am sailing for Europe in the trans-Atlantic blimp. Yes, with Mrs. Cabot._” Reporter stands astonished. Stares. (_On Screen_) That John Cabot deserves his reputation for shrewdness is the news-hound’s thought. So that is his latest scheme for protecting the name of the Trent girl--to stop the possible reopening of his wife’s suit by flying abroad with her, Whether she wants him or not! (_Cut Back_) Turtle appears. Protrudes head. Sees appealing hands. Withdraws head. Turns. Scuddles away. THE END (_Passed by Board of Censure_) HELL FILMS CHAPTER XXIII For minutes after the lights had flashed over The Devil’s Own, the two in the royal box sat gazing at the flat silver surface so recently deep with the shadows and high-lights of life as lived on Earth. Neither noticed that the dead sea of faces below was enlivened by recognition of the King’s favorite before it ebbed away beneath the balcony. Neither heard the swish of whispers that passed from wave to wave--gossip retailed from court, vilified innuendo, speculation over the Belialic intent in entertaining the lately arrived star of the piece with her death’s aftermath. In truth, both host and guest were self-absorbed in emotion roused by the play, but emotion quite antipodal. His shaved face showed plainly his astonishment; worked with his darkling rage. Hers lifted roofward a glory that so outshone the super-lighted dome as to suggest the far-distant source of that radiance which no Avernian device might dim. “It was not what I expected--the picture,” Satan remarked, with ominous restraint. “The titling was good, but the plot didn’t fit. The damned turn-turtle didn’t turn!” Dolores was too charged with an inspired decision to realize his displeasure. She turned to him; stretched out her hand; touched his arm. “You said you could put me in spiritual connection with the women of Earth,” she reminded him. “Could you also with men--with John?” “And why, pray, with John?” The cruelty of the smile which had been so charming awhile back should have warned her, but she must have been blinded by that light from within.