For had she not the pulchritude of Mary? And girlishness could be acquired. And had she not the athletic prowess to cut the didoes of Doug? Thus she could go into the movies--if she could get in--like a sort of one-person band. She could double in sex. Perhaps draw two salaries of $1,500,000 a week each! One lady and one gentleman salary. How to get in? That was the question Verbeena had demanded of herself to answer. And answer it she had. She would disappear into the desert. She would pick up with some nice caravan at a fair rate for board and mileage and stick along with it indefinitely. She had been careful to announce all around the Biscuit that she would be gone exactly one month. When the month was up and no Verbeena she could depend on the Knitting Needle Dearies to start their jaws awagging concerning her and run away and leave them. The foreign correspondents would soon get going on the cable regarding the missing young, daring, delightful, ingenuous, adventurous, amazing, remarkable, willful, bewitching bobbed haired beauty of Mayfair who had recklessly essayed to navigate the Sahara without a male rudder of her own, to journey far and alone save for an escort of wicked and lowering Arabs! As the days passed and the mystery deepened how the columns and columns would accumulate in the dailies and weeklies and on the timely topics movie films! The American papers particularly would rave. Lord Northcliffe would begin by offering a good camera to any person finding trace of her and end by setting up a reward of 1,000,000 pun. No question of it. Hearst would offer the pick of his newspapers to any reporter who could rescue her. But if any reporters got around her caravan it would be so easy to disguise herself. She would not even have to take off her ridin' britches. Just slip a lady jelab around her and bring one end of it up over her nose and get by. Or if the hue and cry got the French Government so all-fired distrait that they ordered a ruthless search of the caravan harems, she had only to show up in her usual ridin' pants, paste a little blackberry jam on her lip and chin for a glossy black Oriental beard and fool 'em all. Perhaps it would be wise to mix camel hair with the jam. But that would be a matter to be decided upon when the emergency arose. Of course, there might be no jam in the caravan commissary. But surely there would never be a lack of gum Arabic. And when she, Verbeena, had thus vaulted into the top skies of notoriety, she would communicate secretly with the largest of the movie concerns. What would they bid to star the "mystery girl of the Sahara" in a magnitudinous thriller with her own company of devil-riding, thrilling, stirring, fierce, wild, startling, arousing Arabs? She saw herself getting a flood of checks from these sources blank of everything but signatures. Or a procession of 2000 camels laden with the gold of the Americas if she preferred to do business that way.