The erring brother returned, accompanied by several customers. “Bring a detective to arrest this man,” ordered the father. One of the customers stepped out to return with a detective. Again Merton was slightly disquieted at perceiving that the detective was the cross-eyed man. This person bustled about the place, tapping the cooked meats and the cheeses, and at last placed his hand upon the shoulder of the supposed thief. Merton, at Baird’s direction, drew back and threatened him with a blow. The detective cringed and said: “I will go out and call a policeman.” The others now turned their backs upon the guilty man. Even the girl drew away after one long, agonized look at the lover to whose embrace she had so lately submitted. He raised his arms to her in mute appeal as she moved away, then dropped them at his side. “Give her all you got in a look,” directed Baird. “You’re saying: ‘I go to a felon’s cell, but I do it all for you.’ Dream your eyes at her.” Merton Gill obeyed. The action progressed. In this wait for the policeman the old mother crept forward. She explained to Merton that the money was in the ice-box where the real thief had placed it, and since he had taken the crime of another upon his shoulders he should also take the evidence, lest the unfortunate young man be later convicted by that; she also urged him to fly by the rear door while there was yet time. He did these things, pausing for a last embrace of the weeping old lady, even as the hand of the arriving policeman was upon the door. “All for to-day, except some close-ups,” announced Baird when this scene had been shot. There was a breaking up of the group, a relaxation of that dramatic tension which the heart-values of the piece had imposed. Only once, while Merton was doing some of his best acting, had there been a kind of wheezy tittering from certain members of the cast and the group about the cameras. Baird had quickly suppressed this. “If there’s any kidding in this piece it’s all in my part,” he announced in cold, clear tones, and there had been no further signs of levity. Merton was pleased by this manner of Baird’s. It showed that he was finely in earnest in the effort for the worth-while things. And Baird now congratulated him, seconded by the Montague girl. He had, they told him, been all that could be expected. “I wasn’t sure of myself,” he told them, “in one scene, and I wanted to ask you about it, Mr. Baird. It’s where I take that money from the ice-box and go out with it. I couldn’t make myself feel right. Wouldn’t it look to other people as if I was actually stealing it myself? Why couldn’t I put it back in the safe?”