“They’re taking a storm exterior down in the meadow,” she explained.  “Perhaps he’s down there, among the visitors—­or perhaps there’s someone who will be able to give you some information.”

I glanced outdoors at the brightly shining sun.  “A storm?” I repeated, incredulously.

“Yes,” she smiled.  “It might interest you to see it.”

Following her directions, we started across country, leaving the studio building some distance behind and entering a broad expanse of meadow beyond a thin clump of trees.  At the farther end we could see a large group of people and paraphernalia which, at the distance, we could not make out.

However, it was not long after we emerged from the trees that we perceived they were photographing squarely in our direction.  Several began waving their arms wildly at us and shouting.  Kennedy and I, understanding, turned and advanced, keeping well out of the camera lines, along the edge of the field.

“Hello!” a voice greeted us as we approached the group standing back and watching the action.

To my surprise it was Millard, with the spectators.  I looked about for Manton but did not see him, nor anyone else we knew.

“It’s a storm and cyclone,” said Millard, his attention rather on what was going on than on us.

For the moment we said nothing.

The scene before us was indeed interesting.  Half a dozen aeroplane engines and propellers had been set up outside the picture, and anchored securely in place.  The wind from them was actually enough to knock a man down.  Rain was furnished by hose playing water into the whirling blades, sending it driving into the scene with the fury of a tropical storm.  Back of the propellers half a dozen men were frantically at work shoveling into them sand and dirt, creating an amazingly realistic cyclone.

We arrived in the midst of the cyclone scene, as the dust storm was ending and the torrential rain succeeded.  For the storm, a miniature village had been constructed in break-away fashion, partially sawed through and tricked for the proper moment.  Many objects were controlled by invisible wires, including an actual horse and buggy which seemed to be lifted bodily and carried away.  Roofs flew off, walls crashed in, actors and actresses were knocked flat as some few of them failed to gain their cyclone cellars.  Altogether, it was a storm of such efficiency as Nature herself could scarcely have furnished, and all staged with the streaming sunlight which made photography possible.

Pandemonium reigned.  Cameras were grinding, directors were bawling through megaphones, all was calculated chaos.  Yet it took only a glance to see that some marvelous effects were being caught here.

At the conclusion I recognized suddenly the little leading lady, It was the girl we had seen with Manton at Jacques’ cabaret.

“That’s the way to take a picture,” exclaimed Millard.  “Everything right—­no expense spared.  I came over to see it done.  It’s wonderful.”