The automobile purred along the shell road, past the white-sided, green-blinded houses of the retired ship captains and the other well-to-do people of Herringport.  The car ran so smoothly that Ruth might have read all the way.

But after the first page or two ­those containing the opening scenes of “Plain Mary” ­she dared not read farther.

Not yet.  It was not that there was a familiar phrase in the upright chirography of the old hermit.  The story merely suggested a familiar situation to Ruth’s mind.  Thus far it was only a suggestion.

There was something else she felt she must prove or disprove first of all.  She sat beside Mr. Hammond quite speechless until they came to the camp on the harbor shore of Beach Plum Point.

He went off cheerfully to his letter writing, and Ruth entered the shack she occupied with Helen and Jennie.  She opened her locked writing-case.  Under the first flap she inserted her fingers and drew forth the wrinkled scrap of paper she had picked up on the sands.

A glance at the blurred writing assured her that it was the same as that of the hermit’s scenario.

     “Flash: 

     “As in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be ­”

Shakingly Ruth sat down before the cheap little maple table.  She spread open the newspaper wrapper and stared again at the title page of “Plain Mary.”

That title was nothing at all like the one she had given her lost scenario.  But a title, after all, meant very little.

The several scenes suggested in the beginning of the hermit’s story did not conflict with the plot she had evolved, although they were not her own.  She had read nothing so far that would make this story different from her own.  The names of the characters were changed and the locations for the first scene were different from those in her script.  Nevertheless the action and development of the story might prove to be exactly like hers.

She shrank from going deeper into the hermit’s script.  She feared to find her suspicions true; yet she must know.

Finally she began to read.  Page after page of the large and sprawling writing she turned over, face down upon the table.  Ruth grew so absorbed in the story that she did not note the passing of time.  She was truly aware of but one thing.  And that seized upon her mind to wring from it both bitterness and anger.

“Want to go back to the port, Miss Ruth?” asked Mr. Hammond.  “I want to mail my letters.”

His question startled her.  She sprang up, a spot of crimson in either cheek.  Had he looked at her, the manager would certainly have noted her strange look.

“I’ll come in a minute,” she called to him in a half-stifled voice.

She laved her eyes and cheeks in cool water, removing such marks of her emotion as she could.  Then she bundled up the hermit’s scenario and joined Mr. Hammond in the car.

“Did you look at this?” she asked the producer as he started the motor.

“Bless you, no!  What is it?  As crazy as the old codger himself?”

“Do you really think that man is crazy?” she asked sharply.

“Why, I don’t really know.  Just queer perhaps.  It doesn’t seem as though a sane man would live all stark alone over on that sea-beaten point.”

“He is an actor,” declared Ruth.  “Your director says so.”

“At least, he does not claim to be, and they usually do, you know,” chuckled Mr. Hammond.  “But about this thing ­”

“You read it!  Then I will tell you something,” said the girl soberly, and she refused to explain further.

“You amaze me,” said the puzzled manager.  “If that old codger has succeeded in turning out anything worth while, I certainly shall believe that ‘wonders never cease.’”

“He has got you all fooled.  He is a good actor,” declared Ruth bitterly.  Then, as Mr. Hammond turned a puzzled frown upon her, she added, “Tell me what you think of the script, Mr. Hammond, before you speak to ­er ­John, or whatever his name may be.”

“I certainly am curious now,” he declared.

They got back to the place where the director had arranged to “shoot” the sewing circle scene just as everything was all set for it.  Mother Paisley dominated the half circle of women about the long table under the trees.  Ruth marveled at the types Mr. Hooley had found in the village.  And she marveled further that any group of human beings could appear so wooden.

“Oh, Ruth!” murmured Helen, who was not in this scene, but was an interested spectator, “they will surely spoil the picture again.  Poor Mr. Hooley!  He takes such pains.”

It was like playing a child’s game for most of the members of the Herringport Union congregation.  They were selfconscious, and felt that they were in a silly situation.  Those who were not too serious of demeanor were giggling like schoolgirls.

Yet everything was ready for the cameras.  Mr. Hooley’s keen eye ran over all the group.  He waved a hand to the camera men.

“Ready camera ­action ­go!”

The women remained speechless.  They merely looked at each other in a helpless way.  It was evident they had forgotten all the instructions the director had given them.

But suddenly into the focus of the cameras ran a barefooted urchin waving a newspaper.  This was the Alectrion Company’s smartest “kid” actor and a favorite wherever his tousled head, freckled face, and wide grin appeared on the screen.  He plunged right at Mother Paisley and thrust the paper into her hand, while he pointed at a certain place on the front page.

“Read that, Ma Bassett!” cried the news vender.

Mrs. Paisley gave expression first to wonder, then utter amazement, as she read the item Ruth had had inserted in this particular “edition” of the Harpoon.  She was a fine old actress and her facial registering of emotion was a marvel.  Mr. Hooley had seldom to advise her.

Now his voice was heard above the clack of the cameras: 

“Pass it to the lady at your left.  That’s it!  Cling to the paper.  Get your heads together ­three of you now!”

The amateur players looked at each other and began to grin.  The scene promised to be as big a “fizzle” as the one shot the previous day.

But the woman next to Mrs. Paisley, after looking carelessly at the paper, of a sudden came to life.  She seized the Harpoon with both hands, fairly snatching it out of the actress’ hands.  She was too startled to be polite.

“What under the canopy is this here?” she sputtered.

She was a small, wiry, vigorous woman, and she had an expressive, if a vinegary, face.  She rose from her seat and forgot all about her “play-acting.”

“What d’you think it says here?” she demanded of her sister-members of the ladies’ aid.

“Sh!”

“Ella Painter, you’re a-bustin’ up the show!” admonished a motherly old person at the end of the table.

But Mrs. Painter did not notice these hushed remarks.  She read the item in the paper aloud ­and so extravagantly did she mouth the astonishing words that Ruth feared they might be read on her lips when shown on the screen.

“Listen!” Mrs. Painter cried.  “Right at the top of the marriage notices!  ’Garside ­Smythe.  At Perleyvale, Maine, on August twenty-second, the Reverend Elton Garside, of Herringport, and Miss Amy Smythe, of Perleyvale.’  What do you know about that?”

The gasp of amazement that went up from the women of the Herringport Union Church was almost a chorus of anguish.  The paper was snatched from hand to hand.  Nobody could accuse the amateurs now of being “wooden.”

Not until Mrs. Paisley in the character of Ma Bassett, at the signal from Mr. Hooley, fell back in her chair, exclaiming:  “My mercy me!  Luella Sprague and the teacher!  Who’d have thought it?” did the company in general suspect that something had been “put over on them.”

“All right!  All right!” shouted Jim Hooley in high delight, stopping his camera men.  “That’s fine!  It’s great!  Miss Fielding, your scheme worked like a charm.”

The members of the sewing circle began to ask questions.

“Do you mean to say this is in the play?” demanded Mrs. Ella Painter, waving the newspaper and inclined to be indignant.

“Yes, Mrs. Painter.  That marriage notice is just a joke,” the director told her.  “It certainly gave you ladies a start and ­ Well, wait till you see this scene on the screen!”

“But ain’t it so?” cried another.  “Why, Mr. Garside ­ Why! it’s in the Harpoon.”

“But you won’t find it in another Harpoon,” laughed the director, recovering possession of the newspaper.  “It’s only a joke.  But I positively had to give you ladies a real shock or we’d never have got this scene right.”

“Well, of all the impudence!” began Mrs. Painter.

However, she joined in the laughter a minute later.  At best, the women had won from Mr. Hammond enough money to pay for the painting of their church edifice, and they were willing to sacrifice their dignity for that.