Yet here beside them was the motion-picture camera, clicking steadily away and operated by a man in his shirt-sleeves who watched the scene with sharp eyes, now frowning and now nodding approval.  Beside him at times, but rushing from one point to another just outside the chalk-marks that indicated the “dead line,” was the director of this production, who shouted commands in a nervous, excited manner and raged and tore his hair when anything went wrong.

Something went very wrong presently, for the director blew a shrill blast on his whistle and suddenly everything stopped short.  The camera man threw a cloth over his lenses and calmly lighted a cigarette.  The procession halted in uncertainty and became a disordered rabble; but the director sprang into the open space and shouted at his actors and actresses in evident ill temper.

“There it is again!” he cried.  “Five hundred feet of good film, ruined by the stupidity of one person.  Get out of that priest’s robe, Higgins, and let Jackson take your place.  Where’s Jackson, anyhow?”

“Here,” answered a young man, stepping out from a group of spectators.

“Do you know the work?  Can you lead that procession into the temple so they will leave room for Delilah to enter, and not crowd her off the platform?” asked the director.

Jackson merely nodded as he scrambled into the priest’s robe which the discomfited Higgins resigned to him.  Evidently the bungling actor was in disgrace, for he was told to go to the office and get his pay and then “clear out.”

So now the procession was sent back into the passage and rearranged in proper order; the signal was given to begin and in an instant the camera renewed its clicking as the operator slowly revolved the handle that carried the long strip of film past the lenses.  The musicians played, the girls danced, the procession slowly emerged from the passage.

This time it advanced properly and came to a halt just at the head of the staircase leading up to the entrance to the temple.

“Delilah!” shouted the director, and now appeared a beautiful girl who made a low obeisance to the chief priest.

“Why—­goodness me!” cried Patsy.  “It’s—­it’s Maud Stanton!”

“Nonsense!” returned Arthur, sharply; and then he looked again and drew a long breath; for unless it were indeed the elder niece of Mrs. Montrose, there must be two girls in the world identically alike.

Mr. Werner settled the question by quietly remarking:  “Of course it’s Maud Stanton.  She’s our bright, particular star, you know, and the public would resent it if she didn’t appear as the heroine of all our best pictures.”

“An actress!” exclaimed Arthur.  “I—­I didn’t know that.”

“She and her sister Flo are engaged by us regularly,” replied Werner, with an air of pride.  “They cost us a lot of money, as you may imagine, but we can’t afford to let any competitor have them.”