The Regent by E. Arnold Bennett (page 3)

He seized the telephone.

“Hello!” he said into it. “I want you to put me on to the drawing-room of Suite No. 48, please. Who? Oh, me! I’m in the bedroom of Suite No. 48. Machin, Alderman Machin. Thanks. That’s all right.”

He waited. Then he heard Harrier’s Kensingtonian voice in the telephone asking who he was.

“Is that Mr. Machin’s room?” he continued, imitating with a broad farcical effect the acute Kensingtonianism of Mr. Marrier’s tones. “Is Miss Ra-ose Euclid there? Oh! She is! Well, you tell her that Sir John Pilgrim’s private secretary wishes to speak to her? Thanks. All right. _I_’ll hold the line.”

A pause. Then he heard Rose’s voice in the telephone, and he resumed:

“Miss Euclid? Yes. Sir John Pilgrim. I beg pardon! Banks? Oh, _Banks_! No, I’m not Banks. I suppose you mean my predecessor. He’s left. Left last week. No, I don’t know why. Sir John instructs me to ask if you and Mr. Trent could lunch with him to-morrow at wun-thirty? What? Oh! at his house. Yes. I mean flat. Flat! I said flat. You think you could?”

Pause. He could hear her calling to Carlo Trent.

“Thanks. No, I don’t know exactly,” he went on again. “But I know the arrangement with Miss Pryde is broken off. And Sir John wants a play at once. He told me that! At once! Yes. ‘The Orient Pearl.’ That was the title. At the Royal first, and then the world’s tour. Fifteen months at least in all, so I gathered. Of course I don’t speak officially. Well, many thanks. Saoo good of you. I’ll tell Sir John it’s arranged. One-thirty to-morrow. Good-bye!”

He hung up the telephone. The excited, eager, effusive tones of Rose Euclid remained in his ears. Aware of a strange phenomenon on his forehead, he touched it. He was perspiring.

“I’ll teach ’em a thing or two,” he muttered.

And again:

“Serves her right…. ‘Never, never appear at any other theatre, Mr. Machin!’ … ‘Bended knees!’ … ‘Utterly!’ … Cheerful partners! Oh! cheerful partners!”

He returned to his supper-party. Nobody said a word about the telephoning. But Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent looked even more like conspirators than they did before; and Mr. Marrier’s joy in life seemed to be just the least bit diminished.

“So sorry!” Edward Henry began hurriedly, and, without consulting the poet’s wishes, subtly turned on all the lights. “Now, don’t you think we’d better discuss the question of taking up the option? You know, it expires on Friday.”

“No,” said Rose Euclid, girlishly. “It expires to-morrow. That’s why it’s so _fortunate_ we got hold of you to-night.”

“But Mr. Bryany told me Friday. And the date was clear enough on the copy of the option he gave me.”

“A mistake of copying,” beamed Mr. Marrier. “However, it’s all right.”

“Well,” observed Edward Henry with heartiness, “I don’t mind telling you that for sheer calm coolness you take the cake. However, as Mr. Marrier so ably says, it’s all right. Now I understand if I go into this affair I can count on you absolutely, and also on Mr. Trent’s services.” He tried to talk as if he had been diplomatizing with actresses and poets all his life.

“A–absolutely!” said Rose.

And Mr. Carlo Trent nodded.

“You Iscariots!” Edward Henry addressed them, in the silence of the brain, behind his smile. “You Iscariots!”

The photographer arrived with certain cases, and at once Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent began instinctively to pose.

“To think,” Edward Henry pleasantly reflected, “that they are hugging themselves because Sir John Pilgrim’s secretary happened to telephone just while I was out of the room!”

CHAPTER V

MR SACHS TALKS

I

It was the sudden flash of the photographer’s magnesium light, plainly felt by him through his closed lids, that somehow instantly inspired Edward Henry to a definite and ruthless line of action. He opened his eyes and beheld the triumphant group, and the photographer himself, victorious over even the triumphant, in a superb pose that suggested that all distinguished mankind in his presence was naught but food for the conquering camera. The photographer smiled indulgently, and his smile said: “Having been photographed by me, you have each of you reached the summit of your career. Be content. Retire! Die! Destiny is accomplished.”

“Mr. Machin,” said Rose Euclid, “I do believe your eyes were shut!”

“So do I!” Edward Henry curtly agreed.

“But you’ll spoil the group!”

“Not a bit of it!” said Edward Henry. “I always shut my eyes when I’m being photographed by flash-light. I open my mouth instead. So long as something’s open, what does it matter?”

The truth was that only in the nick of time had he, by a happy miracle of ingenuity, invented a way of ruining the photograph. The absolute necessity for its ruin had presented itself to him rather late in the proceedings, when the photographer had already finished arranging the hands and shoulders of everybody in an artistic pattern. The photograph had to be spoilt for the imperative reason that his mother, though she never read a newspaper, did as a fact look at a picture-newspaper, _The Daily Film_, which from pride she insisted on paying for out of her own purse, at the rate of one halfpenny a day. Now _The Daily Film_ specialized in theatrical photographs, on which it said it spent large sums of money: and Edward Henry in a vision had seen the historic group in a future issue of the _Film_. He had also, in the same vision, seen his mother conning the said issue, and the sardonic curve of her lips as she recognized her son therein, and he had even heard her dry, cynical, contemptuous exclamation: “Bless us!” He could never have looked squarely in his mother’s face again if that group had appeared in her chosen organ! Her silent and grim scorn would have crushed his self-conceit to a miserable, hopeless pulp. Hence his resolve to render the photograph impossible.

“Perhaps I’d better take another one?” the photographer suggested, “though I think Mr.–er–Machin was all right.” At the supreme crisis the man had been too busy with his fireworks to keep a watch on every separate eye and mouth of the assemblage.

“Of course I was all right!” said Edward Henry, almost with brutality. “Please take that thing away, as quickly as you can. We have business to attend to.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed the photographer, no longer victorious.

Edward Henry rang his bell, and two gentlemen-in-waiting arrived.

“Clear this table immediately!”

The tone of the command startled everybody except the gentlemen-in-waiting and Mr. Seven Sachs. Rose Euclid gave vent to her nervous giggle. The poet and Mr. Marrier tried to appear detached and dignified, and succeeded in appearing guiltily confused–for which they contemned themselves. Despite this volition, the glances of all three of them too clearly signified “This capitalist must be humoured. He has an unlimited supply of actual cash, and therefore he has the right to be peculiar. Moreover, we know that he is a card.” … And, curiously, Edward Henry himself was deriving great force of character from the simple reflection that he had indeed a lot of money, real available money, his to do utterly as he liked with it, hidden in a secret place in that very room. “I’ll show ’em what’s what!” he privately mused. “Celebrities or not, I’ll show ’em! If they think they can come it over me–!”

It was, I regret to say, the state of mind of a bully. Such is the noxious influence of excessive coin!

He reproached the greatest actress and the greatest dramatic poet for deceiving him, and quite ignored the nevertheless fairly obvious fact that he had first deceived them.

“Now then,” he began, with something of the pomposity of a chairman at a directors’ meeting, as soon as the table had been cleared and the room emptied of gentlemen-in-waiting and photographer and photographic apparatus, “let us see exactly where we stand.”

He glanced specially at Rose Euclid, who with an air of deep business acumen returned the glance.

“Yes,” she eagerly replied, as one seeking after righteousness. “_Do_ let’s see.”

“The option must be taken up to-morrow. Good! That’s clear. It came rather casual-like, but it’s now clear. L4500 has to be paid down to buy the existing building on the land and so on…. Eh?”

“Yes. Of course Mr. Bryany told you all that, didn’t he?” said Rose, brightly.

“Mr. Bryany did tell me,” Edward Henry admitted sternly. “But if Mr. Bryany can make a mistake in the day of the week he might make a mistake in a few noughts at the end of a sum of money.”

Suddenly Mr. Seven Sachs startled them all by emerging from his silence with the words:

“The figure is O.K.”

Instinctively Edward Henry waited for more; but no more came. Mr. Seven Sachs was one of those rare and disconcerting persons who do not keep on talking after they have finished. He resumed his tranquillity, he re-entered into his silence, with no symptom of self-consciousness, entirely cheerful and at ease. And Edward Henry was aware of his observant and steady gaze. Edward Henry said to himself: “This man is expecting me to behave in a remarkable way. Bryany has been telling him all about me, and he is waiting to see if I really am as good as my reputation. I have just got to be as good as my reputation!” He looked up at the electric chandelier, almost with regret that it was not gas. One cannot light one’s cigarette by twisting a hundred-pound bank-note and sticking it into an electric chandelier. Moreover, there were some thousands of matches on the table. Still further, he had done the cigarette-lighting trick once for all. A first-class card must not repeat himself.

“This money,” Edward Henry proceeded, “has to be paid to Slossons, Lord Woldo’s solicitors, to-morrow, Wednesday, rain or shine?” He finished the phrase on a note of interrogation, and as nobody offered any reply, he rapped on the table, and repeated, half-menacingly: “Rain or shine!”

“Yes,” said Rose Euclid, leaning timidly forward and taking a cigarette from a gold case that lay on the table. All her movements indicated an earnest desire to be thoroughly business-like.

“So that, Miss Euclid,” Edward Henry continued impressively, but with a wilful touch of incredulity, “you are in a position to pay your share of this money to-morrow?”

“Certainly!” said Miss Euclid. And it was as if she had said, aggrieved: “Can you doubt my honour?”

“To-morrow morning?”

“Ye-es.”

“That is to say, to-morrow morning you will have L2250 in actual cash–coin, notes–actually in your possession?”

Miss Euclid’s disengaged hand was feeling out behind her again for some surface upon which to express its emotion and hers.

“Well–” she stopped, flushing.

(“These people are astounding,” Edward Henry reflected, like a god. “She’s not got the money. I knew it!”)

“It’s like this, Mr. Machin,” Marrier began.

“Excuse me, Mr. Marrier,” Edward Henry turned on him, determined if he could to eliminate the optimism from that beaming face. “Any friend of Miss Euclid’s is welcome here, but you’ve already talked about this theatre as ‘ours,’ and I just want to know where you come in.”

“Where I come in?” Marrier smiled, absolutely unperturbed. “Miss Euclid has appointed me general manajah.”

“At what salary, if it isn’t a rude question?”

“Oh! We haven’t settled details yet. You see the theatre isn’t built yet.”

“True!” said Edward Henry. “I was forgetting! I was thinking for the moment that the theatre was all ready and going to be opened to-morrow night with ‘The Orient Pearl.’ Have you had much experience of managing theatres, Mr. Marrier? I suppose you have.”

“Eho yes!” exclaimed Mr. Marrier. “I began life as a lawyah’s clerk, but–“

“So did I,” Edward Henry interjected.

“How interesting!” Rose Euclid murmured with fervency, after puffing forth a long shaft of smoke.

“However, I threw it up,” Marrier went on.

“I didn’t,” said Edward Henry. “I got thrown out!”

Strange that in that moment he was positively proud of having been dismissed from his first situation! Strange that all the company, too, thought the better of him for having been dismissed! Strange that Marrier regretted that he also had not been dismissed! But so it was. The possession of much ready money emits a peculiar effluence in both directions–back to the past, forward into the future.

“I threw it up,” said Marrier, “because the stage had an irresistible attraction for me. I’d been stage-manajah for an amateur company, you knaoo. I found a shop as stage-manajah of a company touring ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ I stuck to that for six years, and then I threw that up too. Then I’ve managed one of Miss Euclid’s provincial tours. And since I met our friend Trent I’ve had the chance to show what my ideas about play-producing really are. I fancy my production of Trent’s one-act play won’t be forgotten in a hurry…. You know–‘The Nymph’? You read about it, didn’t you?”

“I did not,” said Edward Henry. “How long did it run?”

“Oh! It didn’t run. It wasn’t put on for a run. It was part of one of the Sunday night shows of the Play-Producing Society, at the Court Theatre. Most intellectual people in London, you know. No such audience anywhere else in the wahld!” His rather chubby face glistened and shimmered with enthusiasm. “You bet!” he added. “But that was only by the way. My real game is management–general management. And I think I may say I know what it is?”

“Evidently!” Edward Henry concurred. “But shall you have to give up any other engagement in order to take charge of The Muses’ Theatre? Because if so–“

Mr. Marrier replied:

“No.”

Edward Henry observed:

“Oh!”

“But,” said Marrier, reassuringly, “if necessary I would throw up any engagement–you understand me, any–in favour of The Intellectual Theatah–as I prefer to call it. You see, as I own part of the option–“

By these last words Edward Henry was confounded, even to muteness.

“I forgot to mention, Mr. Machin,” said Rose Euclid, very quickly. “I’ve disposed of a quarter of my half of the option to Mr. Marrier. He fully agreed with me it was better that he should have a proper interest in the theatre.”

“Why of course!” cried Mr. Harrier, uplifted.

“Let me see,” said Edward Henry, after a long breath, “a quarter. That makes it that you have to find L562, 10s. to-morrow, Mr. Marrier.”

“Yes.”

“To-morrow morning–you’ll be all right?”

“Well, I won’t swear for the morning, but I shall turn up with the stuff in the afternoon, anyhow. I’ve two men in tow, and one of them’s a certainty.”

“Which?”

“I don’t know which,” said Mr. Marrier. “How-evah, you may count on yours sincerely, Mr. Machin.”

There was a pause.

“Perhaps I ought to tell you,” Rose Euclid smiled, “perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr. Trent is also one of our partners. He has taken another quarter of my half.”

Edward Henry controlled himself.

“Excellent!” said he, with glee. “Mr. Trent’s money all ready, too?”

“I am providing most of it–temporarily,” said Rose Euclid.

“I see. Then I understand you have your three quarters of L2250 all ready in hand.”

She glanced at Mr. Seven Sachs.

“Have I, Mr. Sachs?”

And Mr. Sachs, after an instant’s hesitation, bowed in assent.

“Mr. Sachs is not exactly going into the speculation, but he is lending us money on the security of our interests. That’s the way to put it, isn’t it, Mr. Sachs?”

Mr. Sachs once more bowed.

And Edward Henry exclaimed:

“Now I really do see!”

He gave one glance across the table at Mr. Seven Sachs, as who should say: “And have you too allowed yourself to be dragged into this affair? I really thought you were cleverer. Don’t you agree with me that we’re both fools of the most arrant description?” And under that brief glance Mr. Seven Sachs’s calm deserted him as it had never deserted him on the stage, where for over fifteen hundred nights he had withstood the menace of revolvers, poison, and female treachery through three hours and four acts without a single moment of agitation.

Apparently Miss Rose Euclid could exercise a siren’s charm upon nearly all sorts of men. But Edward Henry knew one sort of men upon whom she could not exercise it–namely, the sort of men who are born and bred in the Five Towns. His instinctive belief in the Five Towns as the sole cradle of hard practical common sense was never stronger than just now. You might by wiles get the better of London and America, but not of the Five Towns. If Rose Euclid were to go around and about the Five Towns trying to do the siren business, she would pretty soon discover that she was up against something rather special in the way of human nature!

Why, the probability was that these three–Rose Euclid (only a few hours since a glorious name and legend to him), Carlo Trent, and Mr. Marrier–could not at that moment produce even ten pounds between them!… And Marrier offering to lay fivers!… He scornfully pitied them. And he was not altogether without pity for Seven Sachs, who had doubtless succeeded in life by sheer accident and knew no more than an infant what to do with his too-easily-earned money.

II

“Well,” said Edward Henry, “shall I tell you what I’ve decided?”

“Please do!” Rose Euclid entreated him.

“I’ve decided to make you a present of my half of the option.”

“But aren’t you going in with us?” exclaimed Rose, horror-struck.

“No, madam.”

“But Mr. Bryany told us positively you were! He said it was all arranged!”

“Mr. Bryany ought to be more careful,” said Edward Henry. “If he doesn’t mind he’ll be telling a downright lie some day.”

“But you bought half the option!”

“Well,” said Edward Henry, reasoning. “What _is_ an option? What does it mean? It means you are free to take something or leave it. I’m leaving it.”

“But why?” demanded Mr. Marrier, gloomier.

Carlo Trent played with his eyeglasses and said not a word.

“Why?” Edward Henry replied. “Simply because I feel I’m not fitted for the job. I don’t know enough. I don’t understand. I shouldn’t go the right way about the affair. For instance, I should never have guessed by myself that it was the proper thing to settle the name of the theatre before you’d got the lease of the land you’re going to build it on. Then I’m old-fashioned. I hate leaving things to the last moment; but seemingly there’s only one proper moment in these theatrical affairs, and that’s the very last. I’m afraid there’d be too much trusting in providence for my taste. I believe in trusting in providence, but I can’t bear to see providence overworked. And I’ve never even tried to be intellectual, and I’m a bit frightened of poetry plays–“

“But you’ve not read my play!” Carlo Trent mutteringly protested.

“That is so,” admitted Edward Henry.

“Will you read it?”

“Mr. Trent,” said Edward Henry, “I’m not so young as I was.”

“We’re ruined!” sighed Rose Euclid, with a tragic gesture.

“Ruined?” Edward Henry took her up smiling. “Nobody is ruined who knows where he can get a square meal. Do you mean to tell me you don’t know where you’re going to lunch to-morrow?” And he looked hard at her.

It was a blow. She blenched under it.

“Oh, yes,” she said, with her giggle, “I know that.”

(“Well you just don’t!” he answered her in his heart. “You think you’re going to lunch with John Pilgrim. And you aren’t. And it serves you right!”)

“Besides,” he continued aloud, “how can you say you’re ruined when I’m making you a present of something that I paid L100 for?”

“But where am I to find the other half of the money–L2250?” she burst out. “We were depending absolutely on you for it. If I don’t get it, the option will be lost, and the option’s very valuable.”

“All the easier to find the money then!”

“What? In less than twenty-four hours? It can’t be done. I couldn’t get it in all London.”

“Mr. Marrier will get it for you … one of his certainties!” Edward Henry smiled in the Five Towns manner.

“I _might_, you knaoo!” said Marrier, brightening to full hope in the fraction of a second.

But Rose Euclid only shook her head.

“Mr. Seven Sachs, then?” Edward Henry suggested.

“I should have been delighted,” said Mr. Sachs, with the most perfect gracious tranquillity. “But I cannot find another L2250 to-morrow.”

“I shall just speak to that Mr. Bryany!” said Rose Euclid, in the accents of homicide.

“I think you ought to,” Edward Henry concurred. “But that won’t help things. I feel a little responsible, especially to a lady. You have a quarter of the whole option left in your hands, Miss Euclid. I’ll pay you at the same rate as Bryany sold to me. I gave L100 for half. Your quarter is therefore worth L50. Well, I’ll pay you L50.”

“And then what?”

“Then let the whole affair slide.”

“But that won’t help me to my theatre!” Rose Euclid said, pouting. She was now decidedly less unhappy than her face pretended, because Edward Henry had reminded her of Sir John Pilgrim, and she had dreams of world-triumphs for herself and for Carlo Trent’s play. She was almost glad to be rid of all the worry of the horrid little prospective theatre.

“I have bank-notes,” cooed Edward Henry, softly.

Her head sank.

Edward Henry rose in the incomparable yellow dressing-gown and walked to and fro a little, and then from his secret store he produced a bundle of notes, and counted out five tens and, coming behind Rose, stretched out his arm, and laid the treasure on the table in front of her under the brilliant chandelier.

“I don’t want you to feel you have anything against me,” he cooed still more softly.

Silence reigned. Edward Henry resumed his chair, and gazed at Rose Euclid. She was quite a dozen years older than his wife, and she looked more than a dozen years older. She had no fixed home, no husband, no children, no regular situation. She accepted the homage of young men, who were cleverer than herself save in one important respect. She was always in and out of restaurants and hotels and express trains. She was always committing hygienic indiscretions. She could not refrain from a certain girlishness which, having regard to her years, her waist and her complexion, was ridiculous. His wife would have been afraid of her and would have despised her, simultaneously. She was coarsened by the continual gaze of the gaping public. No two women could possibly be more utterly dissimilar than Rose Euclid and the cloistered Nellie…. And yet, as Rose Euclid’s hesitant fingers closed on the bank-notes with a gesture of relief, Edward Henry had an agreeable and kindly sensation that all women were alike, after all, in the need of a shield, a protection, a strong and generous male hand. He was touched by the spectacle of Rose Euclid, as naive as any young lass when confronted by actual bank-notes; and he was touched also by the thought of Nellie and the children afar off, existing in comfort and peace, but utterly, wistfully, dependent on himself.

“And what about me?” growled Carlo Trent.

“You!”

The fellow was only a poet. He negligently dropped him five fivers, his share of the option’s value.

Mr. Marrier said nothing, but his eye met Edward Henry’s, and in silence five fivers were meted out to Mr. Marrier also…. It was so easy to delight these persons who apparently seldom set eyes on real ready money.

“You might sign receipts, all of you, just as a matter of form,” said Edward Henry.

A little later the three associates were off.

“As we’re both in the hotel, Mr. Sachs,” said Edward Henry, “you might stay for a chat and a drink.”

Mr. Seven Sachs politely agreed.

Edward Henry accompanied the trio of worshippers and worshipped to the door of his suite, but no further, because of his dressing-gown. Rose Euclid had assumed a resplendent opera-cloak. They rang imperially for the lift. Lackeys bowed humbly before them. They spoke of taxi-cabs and other luxuries. They were perfectly at home in the grandeur of the hotel. As the illuminated lift carried them down out of sight, their smiling heads disappearing last, they seemed exactly like persons of extreme wealth. And indeed for the moment they were wealthy. They had parted with certain hopes, but they had had a windfall; and two of them were looking forward with absolute assurance to a profitable meal and deal with Sir John Pilgrim on the morrow.

“Funny place, London!” said the provincial to himself as he re-entered his suite to rejoin Mr. Seven Sachs.

III

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Seven Sachs, “I have to thank you for getting me out of a very unsatisfactory situation.”

“Did you really want to get out of it?” asked Edward Henry.

Mr. Sachs replied simply:

“I did, sir. There were too many partners for my taste.”

They were seated more familiarly now in the drawing-room, being indeed separated only by a small table, upon which were glasses. And whereas on a night in the previous week Edward Henry had been entertained by Mr. Bryany in a private parlour at the Turk’s Head, Hanbridge, on this night he was in a sort repaying the welcome to Mr. Bryany’s master in a private parlour at Wilkins’s, London. The sole difference in favour of Mr. Bryany was that while Mr. Bryany provided cigarettes and whisky, Edward Henry was providing only cigarettes and Vichy water. Mr. Seven Sachs had said that he never took whisky; and though Edward Henry’s passion for Vichy water was not quite ungovernable, he thought well to give rein to it on the present occasion, having read somewhere that Vichy water placated the stomach.

Joseph had been instructed to retire.

“And not only that,” resumed Mr. Seven Sachs, “but you’ve got a very good thing entirely into your own hands! Masterly, sir! Masterly! Why, at the end you positively had the air of doing them a favour! You made them believe you _were_ doing them a favour.”

“And don’t you think I was?”

Mr. Sachs reflected, and then laughed.

“You were,” he said. “That’s the beauty of it. But at the same time you were getting away with the goods!”

It was by sheer instinct, and not by learning, that Edward Henry fully grasped, as he did, the deep significance of the American idiom employed by Mr. Seven Sachs. He too laughed, as Mr. Sachs had laughed. He was immeasurably flattered. He had not been so flattered since the Countess of Chell had permitted him to offer her China tea, meringues, and Berlin pancakes at the Sub Rosa tea-rooms in Hanbridge–and that was a very long time ago.

“You really _do_ think it’s a good thing?” Edward Henry ventured, for he had not yet been convinced of the entire goodness of theatrical enterprise near Piccadilly Circus.

Mr. Seven Sachs convinced him–not by argument but by the sincerity of his gestures and tones. For it was impossible to question that Mr. Seven Sachs knew what he was talking about. The shape of Mr. Seven Sachs’s chin was alone enough to prove that Mr. Sachs was incapable of a mere ignorant effervescence. Everything about Mr. Sachs was persuasive and confidence-inspiring. His long silences had the easy vigour of oratory, and they served also to make his speech peculiarly impressive. Moreover, he was a handsome and a dark man, and probably half a dozen years younger than Edward Henry. And the discipline of lime-light had taught him the skill to be forever graceful. And his smile, rare enough, was that of a boy.

“Of course,” said he, “if Miss Euclid and the others had had any sense they might have done very well for themselves. If you ask me, the option alone is worth ten thousand dollars. But then they haven’t any sense! And that’s all there is to it.”

“So you’d advise me to go ahead with the affair on my own?”

Mr. Seven Sachs, his black eyes twinkling, leaned forward and became rather intimately humorous:

“You look as if you wanted advice, don’t you?” said he.

“I suppose I do–now I come to think of it!” agreed Edward Henry, with a most admirable quizzicalness; in spite of the fact that he had not really meant to “go ahead with the affair,” being in truth a little doubtful of his capacity to handle it.

But Mr. Seven Sachs was, all unconsciously, forcing Edward Henry to believe in his own capacities; and the two as it were suddenly developed a more cordial friendliness. Each felt the quick lifting of the plane of their relations, and was aware of a pleasurable emotion.

“I’m moving onwards–gently onwards,” crooned Edward Henry to himself. “What price Brindley and his half-crown now?” Londoners might call him a provincial, and undoubtedly would call him a provincial; he admitted, even, that he felt like a provincial in the streets of London. And yet here he was, “doing Londoners in the eye all over the place,” and receiving the open homage of Mr. Seven Sachs, whose name was the basis of a cosmopolitan legend.

And now he made the cardinal discovery, which marks an epoch in the life of every man who arrives at it, that world-celebrated persons are very like other persons. And he was happy and rather proud in this discovery, and began to feel a certain vague desire to tell Mr. Seven Sachs the history of his career–or at any rate the picturesque portions of it. For he too was famous in his own sphere; and in the drawing-room of Wilkins’s one celebrity was hob-nobbing with another! (“Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Brindley!”) Yes, he was happy, both in what he had already accomplished, and in the contemplation of romantic adventures to come.

And yet his happiness was marred–not fatally but quite appreciably–by a remorse that no amount of private argument with himself would conjure away. Which was the more singular in that a morbid tendency to remorse had never been among Edward Henry’s defects! He was worrying, foolish fellow, about the false telephone-call in which, for the purpose of testing Rose Euclid’s loyalty to the new enterprise, he had pretended to be the new private secretary of Sir John Pilgrim. Yet what harm had it done? And had it not done a lot of good? Rose Euclid and her youthful worshipper were no worse off than they had been before being victimized by the deceit of the telephone-call. Prior to the call they had assumed themselves to be deprived for ever of the benefits which association with Sir John Pilgrim could offer, and as a fact they were deprived for ever of such benefits. Nothing changed there! Before the call they had had no hope of lunching with the enormous Sir John on the morrow, and as a fact they would not lunch with the enormous Sir John on the morrow. Nothing changed there, either! Again, in no event would Edward Henry have joined the trio in order to make a quartet in partnership. Even had he been as convinced of Rose’s loyalty as he was convinced of her disloyalty, he would never have been rash enough to co-operate with such a crew. Again, nothing changed!

On the other hand, he had acquired an assurance of the artiste’s duplicity, which assurance had made it easier for him to disappoint her, while the prospect of a business repast with Sir John had helped her to bear the disappointment as a brave woman should. It was true that on the morrow, about lunch-time, Rose Euclid and Carlo Trent might have to live through a few rather trying moments, and they would certainly be very angry; but these drawbacks would have been more than compensated for in advance by the pleasures of hope. And had they not between them pocketed seventy-five pounds which they had stood to lose?

Such reasoning was unanswerable, and his remorse did not attempt to answer it. His remorse was not open to reason; it was one of those stupid, primitive sentiments which obstinately persist in the refined and rational fabric of modern humanity.

He was just sorry for Rose Euclid.

“Do you know what I did?” he burst out confidentially, and confessed the whole telephone-trick to Mr. Seven Sachs.

Mr. Seven Sachs, somewhat to Edward Henry’s surprise, expressed high admiration of the device.

“A bit mean, though, don’t you think?” Edward Henry protested weakly.

“Not at all!” cried Mr. Sachs. “You got the goods on her. And she deserved it.”

(Again this enigmatic and mystical word “goods”! But he understood it.)

Thus encouraged, he was now quite determined to give Mr. Seven Sachs a brief episodic account of his career. A fair conversational opening was all he wanted in order to begin.

“I wonder what will happen to her–ultimately?” he said, meaning to work back from the ends of careers to their beginnings, and so to himself.

“Rose Euclid?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Sachs shook his head compassionately.

“How did Mr. Bryany get in with her?” asked Edward Henry.

“Bryany is a highly peculiar person,” said Mr. Seven Sachs, familiarly. “He’s all right so long as you don’t unstrap him. He was born to convince newspaper reporters of his own greatness.”

“I had a bit of a talk with him myself,” said Edward Henry.

“Oh, yes! He told me all about you.”

“But _I_ never told him anything about myself,” said Edward Henry, quickly.

“No, but he has eyes, you know, and ears too. Seems to me the people of the Five Towns do little else of a night but discuss you, Mr. Machin. _I_ heard a good bit when _I_ was down there, though I don’t go about much when I’m on the road. I reckon I could write a whole biography of you.”

Edward Henry smiled self-consciously. He was, of course, enraptured, but at the same time it was disappointing to find Mr. Sachs already so fully informed as to the details of his career. However, he did not intend to let that prevent him from telling the story afresh, in his own manner.

“I suppose you’ve had your adventures, too,” he remarked with nonchalance, partly from politeness but mainly in order to avoid the appearance of hurry in his egotism.

IV

“You bet I have!” Mr. Seven Sachs cordially agreed, abandoning the end of a cigarette, putting his hands behind his head, and crossing his legs.

Whereupon there was a brief pause.

“I remember–” Edward Henry began.

“I daresay you’ve heard–” began Mr. Seven Sachs, simultaneously.

They were like two men who by inadvertence had attempted to pass through a narrow doorway abreast. Edward Henry, as the host, drew back.

“I beg your pardon!” he apologized.

“Not at all,” said Seven Sachs. “I was only going to say you’ve probably heard that I was always up against Archibald Florance.”

“Really!” murmured Edward Henry, impressed in spite of himself. For the renown of Archibald Florance exceeded that of Seven Sachs as the sun the moon, and was older and more securely established than it as the sun the moon. The renown of Rose Euclid was as naught to it. Doubtful it was whether, in the annals of modern histrionics, the grandeur and the romance of that American name could be surpassed by any renown save that of the incomparable Henry Irving. The retirement of Archibald Florance from the stage a couple of years earlier had caused crimson gleams of sunset splendour to shoot across the Atlantic and irradiate even the Garrick Club, London, so that the members thereof had to shade their offended eyes. Edward Henry had never seen Archibald Florance, but it was not necessary to have seen him in order to appreciate the majesty of his glory. No male in the history of the world was ever more photographed, and few have been the subject of more anecdotes.

“I expect he’s a wealthy chap in his old age,” said Edward Henry.

“Wealthy!” exclaimed Mr. Sachs. “He’s the richest actor in America, and that’s saying in the world. He had the greatest reputation. He’s still the handsomest man in the United States–that’s admitted–with his white hair! They used to say he was the cruellest, but it’s not so. Though of course he could be a perfect terror with his companies.”

“And so you knew Archibald Florance?”

“You bet I did. He never had any friends–never–but I knew him as well as anybody could. Why, in San Francisco, after the show, I’ve walked with him back to his hotel, and he’s walked with me back to mine, and so on and so on till three or four o’clock in the morning. You see, we couldn’t stop until it happened that he finished a cigar at the exact moment when we got to his hotel door. If the cigar wasn’t finished, then he must needs stroll back a bit, and before I knew where I was he’d be lighting a fresh one. He smoked the finest cigars in America. I remember him telling me they cost him three dollars apiece.”

And Edward Henry then perceived another profound truth, his second cardinal discovery on that notable evening: namely, that no matter how high you rise, you will always find that others have risen higher. Nay, it is not until you have achieved a considerable peak that you are able to appreciate the loftiness of those mightier summits. He himself was high, and so he could judge the greater height of Seven Sachs; and it was only through the greater height of Seven Sachs that he could form an adequate idea of the pinnacle occupied by the unique Archibald Florance. Honestly, he had never dreamt that there existed a man who habitually smoked twelve-shilling cigars–and yet he reckoned to know a thing or two about cigars!

“I am nothing!” he thought modestly. Nevertheless, though the savour of the name of Archibald Florance was agreeable, he decided that he had heard enough for the moment about Archibald Florance, and that he would relate to Mr. Sachs the famous episode of his own career in which the Countess of Chell and a mule had so prominently performed.

“I remember–” he recommenced.

“My first encounter with Archibald Florance was very funny,” proceeded Mr. Seven Sachs, blandly deaf. “I was starving in New York,–trying to sell a new razor on commission–and I was determined to get on to the stage. I had one visiting-card left–just one. I wrote ‘Important’ on it, and sent it up to Wunch. I don’t know whether you’ve ever heard of Wunch. Wunch was Archibald Florance’s stage-manager, and nearly as famous as Archibald himself. Well, Wunch sent for me upstairs to his room, but when he found I was only the usual youngster after the usual job he just had me thrown out of the theatre. He said I’d no right to put ‘Important’ on a visiting-card. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘I’m going to get back into that theatre somehow!’ So I went up to Archibald’s private house–Sixtieth Street I think it was–and asked to see him, and I saw him. When I got into his room he was writing. He kept on writing for some minutes, and then he swung round on his chair.

“‘And what can I do for you, sir?’ he said.

“‘Do you want any actors, Mr. Florance?’ I said.

“‘Are you an actor?’ he said.

“‘I want to be one,’ I said.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘there’s a school round the corner.’

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘you might give me a card of introduction, Mr. Florance.’

“He gave me the card. I didn’t take it to the school. I went straight back to the theatre with it, and had it sent up to Wunch. It just said, ‘Introducing Mr. Sachs, a young man anxious to get on.’ Wunch took it for a positive order to find me a place. The company was full, so he threw out one poor devil of a super to make room for me. Curious thing–old Wunchy got it into his head that I was a _protege_ of Archibald’s, and he always looked after me. What d’ye think about that?”

“Brilliant!” said Edward Henry. And it was! The simplicity of the thing was what impressed him. Since winning a scholarship at school by altering the number of marks opposite his name on a paper lying on the master’s desk, Edward Henry had never achieved advancement by a device so simple. And he thought: “I am nothing! The Five Towns is nothing! All that one hears about Americans and the United States is true. As far as getting on goes, they can make rings round us. Still, I shall tell him about the Countess and the mule–“

“Yes,” continued Mr. Seven Sachs, “Wunch was very kind to me. But he was pretty well down and out, and he left, and Archibald got a new stage-manager, and I was promoted to do a bit of assistant stage-managing. But I got no increase of salary. There were two women stars in the play Archibald was doing then–‘The Forty-Niners.’ Romantic drama, you know! Melodrama you’d call it over here. He never did any other sort of play. Well, these two women stars were about equal, and when the curtain fell on the first act they’d both make a bee line for Archibald to see who’d get to him first and engage him in talk. They were jealous enough of each other to kill. Anybody could see that Archibald was frightfully bored, but he couldn’t escape. They got him on both sides, you see, and he just _had_ to talk to ’em, both at once. I used to be fussing around fixing the properties for the next act. Well, one night he comes up to me, Archibald does, and he says:

“‘Mr.–what’s your name?’

“‘Sachs, sir,’ I says.

“‘You notice when those two ladies come up to me after the first act. Well, when you see them talking to me, I want you to come right along and interrupt,’ he says.

“‘What shall I say, sir?’

“‘Tap me on the shoulder and say I’m wanted about something very urgent. You see?’

“So the next night when those women got hold of him, sure enough I went up between them and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Mr. Florance,’ I said. ‘Something very urgent.’ He turned on me and scowled: ‘What is it?’ he said, and he looked very angry. It was a bit of the best acting the old man ever did in his life. It was so good that at first I thought it was real. He said again louder, ‘What is it?’ So I said, ‘Well, Mr. Florance, the most urgent thing in this theatre is that I should have an increase of salary!’ I guess I licked the stuffing out of him that time.”

Edward Henry gave vent to one of those cordial and violent guffaws which are a specialty of the humorous side of the Five Towns. And he said to himself: “I should never have thought of anything as good as that.”

“And did you get it?” he asked.

“The old man said not a word,” Mr. Seven Sachs went on in the same even, tranquil, smiling voice. “But next pay-day I found I’d got a rise of ten dollars a week. And not only that, but Mr. Florance offered me a singing part in his new drama, if I could play the mandolin. I naturally told him I’d played the mandolin all my life. I went out and bought a mandolin and hired a teacher. He wanted to teach me the mandolin, but I only wanted him to teach me that one accompaniment. So I fired him, and practised by myself night and day for a week. I got through all the rehearsals without ever singing that song. Cleverest dodging I ever did! On the first night I was so nervous I could scarcely hold the mandolin. I’d never played the infernal thing before anybody at all–only up in my bedroom. I struck the first chord, and found the darned instrument was all out of tune with the orchestra. So I just pretended to play it, and squawked away with my song, and never let my fingers touch the strings at all. Old Florance was waiting for me in the wings. I knew he was going to fire me. But no! ‘Sachs,’ he said, ‘that accompaniment was the most delicate piece of playing I ever heard. I congratulate you.’ He was quite serious. Everybody said the same! Luck, eh?”

“I should say so,” said Edward Henry, gradually beginning to be interested in the odyssey of Mr. Seven Sachs. “I remember a funny thing that happened to me–“

“However,” Mr. Sachs swept smoothly along, “that piece was a failure. And Archibald arranged to take a company to Europe with ‘Forty-Niners.’ And I was left out! This rattled me, specially after the way he liked my mandolin-playing. So I went to see him about it in his dressing-room one night, and I charged around a bit. He did rattle me! Then I rattled him. I would get an answer out of him. He said:

“‘I’m not in the habit of being cross-examined in my own dressing-room.’

“I didn’t care what happened then, so I said:

“‘And I’m not in the habit of being treated as you’re treating me.’

“All of a sudden he became quite quiet, and patted me on the shoulder. ‘You’re getting on very well, Sachs,’ he said. ‘You’ve only been at it one year. It’s taken me twenty-five years to get where I am.’

“However, I was too angry to stand for that sort of talk. I said to him:

“‘I daresay you’re a very great and enviable man, Mr. Florance, but I propose to save fifteen years on your twenty-five. I’ll equal or better your position in ten years.’

“He shoved me out–just shoved me out of the room…. It was that that made me turn to play-writing. Florance wrote his own plays sometimes, but it was only his acting and his face that saved them. And they were too American. He never did really well outside America except in one play, and that wasn’t his own. Now I was out after money. And I still am. I wanted to please the largest possible public. So I guessed there was nothing for it but the universal appeal. I never write a play that won’t appeal to England, Germany, France just as well as to America. America’s big, but it isn’t big enough for me…. Well, as I was saying, soon after that I got a one-act play produced at Hannibal, Missouri. And the same week there was a company at another theatre there playing the old man’s ‘Forty-Niners.’ And the next morning the theatrical critic’s article in the Hannibal _Courier-Post_ was headed: ‘Rival attractions. Archibald Florance’s “Forty-Niners” and new play by Seven Sachs.’ I cut that heading out and sent it to the old man in London, and I wrote under it, ‘See how far I’ve got in six months.’ When he came back he took me into his company again…. What price that, eh?”

Edward Henry could only nod his head. The customarily silent Seven Sachs had little by little subdued him to an admiration as mute as it was profound.

“Nearly five years after that I got a Christmas card from old Florance. It had the usual printed wishes–‘Merriest possible Christmas and so on’–but, underneath that, Archibald had written in pencil, ‘You’ve still five years to go.’ That made me roll my sleeves up, as you may say. Well, a long time after that I was standing at the corner of Broadway and Forty-fourth Street, and looking at my own name in electric letters on the Criterion Theatre. First time I’d ever seen it in electric letters on Broadway. It was the first night of ‘Overheard.’ Florance was playing at the Hudson Theatre, which is a bit higher up Forty-fourth Street, and _his_ name was in electric letters too, but further off Broadway than mine. I strolled up, just out of idle curiosity, and there the old man was standing in the porch of the theatre, all alone! ‘Hullo, Sachs,’ he said, ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you. It’s saved me twenty-five cents.’ I asked how. He said, ‘I was just going to send you a telegram of congratulations.’ He liked me, old Archibald did. He still does. But I hadn’t done with him. I went to stay with him at his house on Long Island in the spring. ‘Excuse me, Mr. Florance,’ I says to him. ‘How many companies have you got on the road?’ He said, ‘Oh! I haven’t got many now. Five, I think.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘I’ve got six here in the United States, two in England, three in Austria, and one in Italy.’ He said, ‘Have a cigar, Sachs; you’ve got the goods on me!’ He was living in that magnificent house all alone, with a whole regiment of servants!”

V

“Well,” said Edward Henry, “you’re a great man!”

“No, I’m not,” said Mr. Seven Sachs. “But my income is four hundred thousand dollars a year, and rising. I’m out after the stuff, that’s all.”

“I say you are a great man!” Edward Henry repeated. Mr. Sachs’s recital had inspired him. He kept saying to himself: “And I’m a great man, too. And I’ll show ’em.”

Mr. Sachs, having delivered himself of his load, had now lapsed comfortably back into his original silence, and was prepared to listen. But Edward Henry, somehow, had lost the desire to enlarge on his own variegated past. He was absorbed in the greater future.

At length he said very distinctly:

“You honestly think I could run a theatre?”

“You were born to run a theatre,” said Seven Sachs.

Thrilled, Edward Henry responded:

“Then I’ll write to those lawyer people, Slossons, and tell ’em I’ll be around with the brass about eleven to-morrow.”

Mr. Sachs rose. A clock had delicately chimed two.

“If ever you come to New York, and I can do anything for you–” said Mr. Sachs, heartily.

“Thanks,” said Edward Henry. They were shaking hands. “I say,” Edward Henry went on. “There’s one thing I want to ask you. Why _did_ you promise to back Rose Euclid and her friends? You must surely have known–” He threw up his hands.

Mr. Sachs answered:

“I’ll be frank with you. It was her cousin that persuaded me into it–Elsie April.”

“Elsie April? Who’s she?”

“Oh! You must have seen them about together–her and Rose Euclid! They’re nearly always together.”

“I saw her in the restaurant here to-day with a rather jolly girl–blue hat.”

“That’s the one. As soon as you’ve made her acquaintance you’ll understand what I mean,” said Mr. Seven Sachs.

“Ah! But I’m not a bachelor like you,” Edward Henry smiled archly.

“Well, you’ll see when you meet her,” said Mr. Sachs. Upon which enigmatic warning he departed, and was lost in the immense glittering nocturnal silence of Wilkins’s.

Edward Henry sat down to write to Slossons by the 3 A.M. post. But as he wrote he kept saying to himself: “So Elsie April’s her name, is it? And she actually persuaded Sachs–Sachs–to make a fool of himself!”

CHAPTER VI

LORD WOLDO AND LADY WOLDO

I

The next morning, Joseph, having opened wide the window, informed his master that the weather was bright and sunny, and Edward Henry arose with just that pleasant degree of fatigue which persuades one that one is if anything rather more highly vitalized than usual. He sent for Mr. Bryany, as for a domestic animal, and Mr. Bryany, ceremoniously attired, was received by a sort of jolly king who happened to be trimming his beard in the royal bathroom but who was too good-natured to keep Mr. Bryany waiting. It is remarkable how the habit of royalty, having once taken root, will flourish in the minds of quite unmonarchical persons. Edward Henry first inquired after the health of Mr. Seven Sachs, and then obtained from Mr. Bryany all remaining papers and trifles of information concerning the affair of the option. Whereupon Mr. Bryany, apparently much elated by the honour of an informal reception, effusively retired. And Edward Henry too was so elated, and his faith in life so renewed and invigorated, that he said to himself:

“It might be worth while to shave my beard off, after all!”

As in his electric brougham he drove along muddy and shining Piccadilly, he admitted that Joseph’s account of the weather had been very accurate. The weather was magnificent; it presented the best features of summer combined with the salutary pungency of autumn. And flags were flying over the establishments of tobacconists, soothsayers and insurance companies in Piccadilly. And the sense of Empire was in the very air, like an intoxication. And there was no place like London. When, however, having run through Piccadilly into streets less superb, he reached the Majestic, it seemed to him that the Majestic was not a part of London, but a bit of the provinces surrounded by London. He was very disappointed with the Majestic, and took his letters from the clerk with careless condescension. In a few days the Majestic had sunk from being one of “London’s huge caravanserais” to the level of a swollen Turk’s Head. So fragile are reputations!

From the Majestic Edward Henry drove back into the regions of Empire, between Piccadilly and Regent Street, and deigned to call upon his tailors. A morning-suit which he had commanded being miraculously finished, he put it on, and was at once not only spectacularly but morally regenerated. The old suit, though it had cost five guineas in its time, looked a paltry and a dowdy thing as it lay, flung down anyhow, on one of Messrs Quayther & Cuthering’s cane chairs in the mirrored cubicle where baronets and even peers showed their braces to the benign Mr. Cuthering.

“I want to go to Piccadilly Circus now. Stop at the fountain,” said Edward Henry to his chauffeur. He gave the order somewhat defiantly, because he was a little self-conscious in the new and gleaming suit, and because he had an absurd idea that the chauffeur might guess that he, a provincial from the Five Towns, was about to venture into West End theatrical enterprise and sneer at him accordingly.

But the chauffeur merely touched his cap with an indifferent and lofty gesture, as if to say:

“Be at ease. I have driven persons more moon-struck even than you. Human eccentricity has long since ceased to surprise me.”

The fountain in Piccadilly Circus was the gayest thing in London. It mingled the fresh tinkling of water with the odour and flame of autumn blossoms and the variegated colours of shawled women who passed their lives on its margin engaged in the commerce of flowers. Edward Henry bought an aster from a fine bold, red-cheeked, blowsy, dirty wench with a baby in her arms, and left some change for the baby. He was in a very tolerant and charitable mood, and could excuse the sins and the stupidity of all mankind. He reflected forgivingly that Rose Euclid and her friends had perhaps not displayed an abnormal fatuity in discussing the name of the theatre before they had got the lease of the site for it. Had not he himself bought all the option without having even seen the site? The fact was that he had had no leisure in his short royal career for such details as seeing the site. He was now about to make good the omission.

It is a fact that as he turned northwards from Piccadilly Circus, to the right of the County Fire Office, in order to spy out the land upon which his theatre was to be built, he hesitated, under the delusion that all the passers-by were staring at him! He felt just as he might have felt had he been engaged upon some scheme nefarious. He even went back and pretended to examine the windows of the County Fire Office. Then, glancing self-consciously about, he discerned–not unnaturally–the words “Regent Street” on a sign.

“There you are!” he murmured, with a thrill. “There you are! There’s obviously only one name for that theatre–‘The Regent.’ It’s close to Regent Street. No other theatre is called ‘The Regent.’ Nobody before ever had the idea of ‘Regent’ as a name for a theatre. ‘Muses’ indeed!… ‘Intellectual’! … ‘The Regent Theatre’! How well it comes off the tongue! It’s a great name! It’ll be the finest name of any theatre in London! And it took yours truly to think of it!”

Then he smiled privately at his own weakness…. He too, like the despised Rose, was baptizing the unborn! Still, he continued to dream of the theatre, and began to picture to himself the ideal theatre. He discovered that he had quite a number of startling ideas about theatre-construction, based on his own experience as a playgoer.

When, with new courage, he directed his feet towards the site, upon which he knew there was an old chapel known as Queen’s Glasshouse Chapel, whose ownership had slipped from the nerveless hand of a dying sect of dissenters, he could not find the site and he could not see the chapel. For an instant he was perturbed by a horrid suspicion that he had been victimized by a gang of swindlers posing as celebrated persons. Everything was possible in this world and century! None of the people who had appeared in the transaction had resembled his previous conceptions of such people! And confidence-thieves always operated in the grandest hotels! He immediately decided that if the sequel should prove him to be a simpleton and gull, he would at any rate be a silent simpleton and gull. He would stoically bear the loss of two hundred pounds and breathe no word of woe.

But then he remembered with relief that he had genuinely recognized both Rose Euclid and Seven Sachs; and also that Mr. Bryany, among other documents, had furnished him with a photograph of the Chapel and surrounding property. The Chapel therefore existed. He had a plan in his pocket. He now opened this plan and tried to consult it in the middle of the street, but his agitation was such that he could not make out on it which was north and which was south. After he had been nearly prostrated by a taxi-cab, a policeman came up to him and said, with all the friendly disdain of a London policeman addressing a provincial:

“Safer to look at that on the pavement, sir!”

Edward Henry glanced up from the plan.

“I was trying to find the Queen’s Glasshouse Chapel, officer,” said he. “Have you ever heard of it?”

(In Bursley, members of the Town Council always flattered members of the Force by addressing them as “officer”; and Edward Henry knew exactly the effective intonation.)

“It _was there_, sir,” said the policeman, less disdainful, pointing to a narrow hoarding behind which could be seen the back-walls of high buildings in Shaftesbury Avenue. “They’ve just finished pulling it down.”

“Thank you,” said Edward Henry, quietly, with a superb and successful effort to keep as much colour in his face as if the policeman had not dealt him a dizzying blow.

He then walked towards the hoarding, but could scarcely feel the ground under his feet. From a wide aperture in the palisades a cart full of earth was emerging; it creaked and shook as it was dragged by a labouring horse over loose planks into the roadway; a whip-cracking carter hovered on its flank. Edward Henry approached the aperture and gazed within. An elegant young man stood solitary inside the hoarding and stared at a razed expanse of land in whose furthest corner some navvies were digging a hole….

The site!

But what did this sinister destructive activity mean? Nobody was entitled to interfere with property on which he, Alderman Machin, held an unexpired option! But was it the site? He perused the plan again with more care. Yes, there could be no doubt that it was the site. His eye roved round and he admitted the justice of the boast that an electric sign displayed at the southern front corner of the theatre would be visible from Piccadilly Circus, Lower Regent Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, etc., etc. He then observed a large notice-board, raised on posts above the hoardings, and read the following:

SITE

OF THE

FIRST NEW THOUGHT CHURCH

to be opened next Spring.

Subscriptions invited.

Rollo Wrissell: _Senior Trustee_. Ralph Alloyd: _Architect_. Dicks & Pato: _Builders_.

The name of Rollo Wrissell seemed familiar to him, and after a few moments’ searching he recalled that Rollo Wrissell was one of the trustees and executors of the late Lord Woldo, the other being the widow–and the mother of the new Lord Woldo. In addition to the lettering the notice-board held a graphic representation of the First New Thought Church as it would be when completed.

“Well,” said Edward Henry, not perhaps unjustifiably, “this really is a bit thick! Here I’ve got an option on a plot of land for building a theatre, and somebody else has taken it to put up a church!”

He ventured inside the hoarding, and addressing the elegant young man asked:

“You got anything to do with this, mister?”

“Well,” said the young man, smiling humorously, “I’m the architect. It’s true that nobody ever pays any attention to an architect in these days.”

“Oh! You’re Mr. Alloyd?”

“I am.”

Mr. Alloyd had black hair, intensely black, changeful eyes, and the expressive mouth of an actor.

“I thought they were going to build a theatre here,” said Edward Henry.

“I wish they had been!” said Mr. Alloyd. “I’d just like to design a theatre! But of course I shall never get the chance.”

“Why not?”

“I know I shan’t,” Mr. Alloyd insisted with gloomy disgust. “Only obtained this job by sheer accident! … You got any ideas about theatres?”

“Well, I have,” said Edward Henry.

Mr. Alloyd turned on him with a sardonic and half-benevolent gleam.

“And what are your ideas about theatres?”

“Well,” said Edward Henry, “I should like to meet an architect who had thoroughly got it into his head that when people pay for seats to see a play they want to be able to _see_ it, and not just get a look at it now and then over other people’s heads and round corners of boxes and things. In most theatres that I’ve been in the architects seemed to think that iron pillars and wooden heads are transparent. Either that, or the architects were rascals! Same with hearing! The pit costs half-a-crown, and you don’t pay half-a-crown to hear glasses rattled in a bar or motor-omnibuses rushing down the street. I was never yet in a London theatre where the architect had really understood that what the people in the pit wanted to hear was the play and nothing but the play.”

“You’re rather hard on us,” said Mr. Alloyd.

“Not so hard as you are on _us_!” said Edward Henry. “And then draughts! I suppose you think a draught on the back of the neck is good for us!… But of course you’ll say all this has nothing to do with architecture!”

“Oh, no, I shan’t! Oh, no, I shan’t!” exclaimed Mr. Alloyd. “I quite agree with you!”

“You _do_?”

“Certainly. You seem to be interested in theatres?”

“I am a bit.”

“You come from the north?”

“No, I don’t,” said Edward Henry. Mr. Alloyd had no right to be aware that he was not a Londoner.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I come from the Midlands.”

“Oh!… Have you seen the Russian Ballet?”

Edward Henry had not–nor heard of it. “Why?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Mr. Alloyd. “Only I saw it the night before last in Paris. You never saw such dancing. It’s enchanted–enchanted! The most lovely thing I ever saw in my life. I couldn’t sleep for it. Not that I ever sleep very well!–I merely thought, as you were interested in theatres–and Midland people are so enterprising!… Have a cigarette?”

Edward Henry, who had begun to feel sympathetic, was somewhat repelled by these odd last remarks. After all the man, though human enough, was an utter stranger.

“No thanks,” he said. “And so you’re going to put up a church here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wonder whether you are.”

He walked abruptly away under Alloyd’s riddling stare, and he could almost hear the man saying, “Well, he’s a queer lot, if you like.”

At the corner of the site, below the spot where his electric sign was to have been, he was stopped by a well-dressed middle-aged lady who bore a bundle of papers.

“Will you buy a paper for the cause?” she suggested in a pleasant, persuasive tone. “One penny.”

He obeyed, and she handed him a small blue-printed periodical of which the title was “_Azure_, the Organ of the New Thought Church.” He glanced at it, puzzled, and then at the middle-aged lady.

“Every penny of profit goes to the Church Building Fund,” she said, as if in defence of her action.

Edward Henry burst out laughing; but it was a nervous, half-hysterical laugh that he laughed.

II

In Carey Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he descended from his brougham in front of the offices of Messrs Slosson, Hodge, Budge, Slosson, Maveringham, Slosson & Vulto–solicitors–known in the profession by the compendious abbreviation of Slossons. Edward Henry, having been a lawyer’s clerk some twenty-five years earlier, was aware of Slossons. Although on the strength of his youthful clerkship he claimed, and was admitted, to possess a very special knowledge of the law–enough to silence argument when his opponent did not happen to be an actual solicitor–he did not in truth possess a very special knowledge of the law–how should he, seeing that he had only been a practitioner of shorthand?–but the fame of Slossons he positively was acquainted with! He had even written letters to the mighty Slossons.

Every lawyer and lawyer’s clerk in the realm knew the greatness of Slossons, and crouched before it, and also, for the most part, impugned its righteousness with sneers. For Slossons acted for the ruling classes of England, who only get value for their money when they are buying something that they can see, smell, handle, or intimidate–such as a horse, a motor-car, a dog, or a lackey. Slossons, those crack solicitors, like the crack nerve specialists in Harley Street and the crack fortune-tellers in Bond Street, sold their invisible, inodorous and intangible wares of advice at double, treble, or decuple their worth, according to the psychology of the customer. They were great bullies. And they were, further, great money-lenders–on behalf of their wealthier clients. In obedience to a convenient theory that it is imprudent to leave money too long in one place, they were continually calling in mortgages, and re-lending the sums so collected on fresh investments, thus achieving two bills of costs on each transaction, and sometimes three, besides employing an army of valuers, surveyors and mortgage-insurance brokers. In short, Slossons had nothing to learn about the art of self-enrichment.

Three vast motor-cars waited in front of their ancient door, and Edward Henry’s hired electric vehicle was diminished to a trifle.

He began by demanding the senior partner, who was denied to him by an old clerk with a face like a stone wall. Only his brutal Midland insistence, and the mention of the important letter which he had written to the firm in the middle of the night, saved him from the ignominy of seeing no partner at all. At the end of the descending ladder of partners he clung desperately to Mr. Vulto, and he saw Mr. Vulto–a youngish and sarcastic person with blue eyes, lodged in a dark room at the back of the house. It occurred fortunately that his letter had been allotted to precisely Mr. Vulto for the purpose of being answered.

“You got my letter?” said Edward Henry, cheerfully, as he sat down at Mr. Vulto’s flat desk on the side opposite from Mr. Vulto.

“We got it, but frankly we cannot make head or tail of it!… _What_ option?” Mr. Vulto’s manner was crudely sarcastic.

“_This_ option!” said Edward Henry, drawing papers from his pocket, and putting down the right paper in front of Mr. Vulto with an uncompromising slap.

Mr. Vulto picked up the paper with precautions, as if it were a contagion, and, assuming eyeglasses, perused it with his mouth open.

“We know nothing of this,” said Mr. Vulto, and it was as though he had added: “Therefore this does not exist.” He glanced with sufferance at the window, which offered a close-range view of a whitewashed wall.

“Then you weren’t in the confidence of your client?”

“The late Lord Woldo?”

“Yes.”

“Pardon me.”

“Obviously you weren’t in his confidence as regards this particular matter.”

“As you say,” said Mr. Vulto, with frigid irony.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Well–nothing.” Mr. Vulto removed his eyeglasses and stood up.

“Well, good morning. I’ll walk round to _my_ solicitors.” Edward Henry seized the option.

“That will be simpler,” said Mr. Vulto. Slossons much preferred to deal with lawyers than, with laymen, because it increased costs and vitalized the profession.

At that moment a stout, red-faced and hoary man puffed very authoritatively into the room.

“Vulto,” he cried sharply. “Mr. Wrissell’s here. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Yes, Mr. Slosson,” answered Vulto, suddenly losing all his sarcastic quality, and becoming a very junior partner. “I was just engaged with Mr.”–(he paused to glance at his desk)–“Machin, whose singular letter we received this morning about an alleged option on the lease of the Chapel site at Piccadilly Circus–the Woldo estate, sir. You remember, sir?”

“This the man?” inquired Mr. Slosson, ex-president of the Law Society, with a jerk of the thumb.

Edward Henry said, “This is the man.”

“Well,” said Mr. Slosson, lifting his chin, and still puffing, “it would be extremely interesting to hear his story at any rate. I was just telling Mr. Wrissell about it. Come this way, sir. I’ve heard some strange things in my time, but–” He stopped. “Please follow me, sir,” he ordained.

“I’m dashed if I’ll follow you!” Edward Henry desired to say, but he had not the courage to say it. And because he was angry with himself he determined to make matters as unpleasant as possible for the innocent Mr. Slosson, who was so used to bullying, and so well paid for bullying that really no blame could be apportioned to him. It would have been as reasonable to censure an ordinary person for breathing as to censure Mr. Slosson for bullying. And so Edward Henry was steeling himself: “I’ll do him in the eye for that, even if it costs me every cent I’ve got.” (A statement characterized by poetical license!)

III

Mr. Slosson, senior, heard Edward Henry’s story, but seemingly did not find it quite as interesting as he had prophesied it would be. When Edward Henry had finished the old man drummed on an enormous table, and said:

“Yes, yes. And then?” His manner was far less bullying than in the room of Mr. Vulto.

“It’s your turn now, Mr. Slosson,” said Edward Henry.

“My turn? How?”

“To go on with the story.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ve brought it up to date–11.15 o’clock this morning _anno domini_.” And as Mr. Slosson continued to drum on the table and to look out of the window, Edward Henry also drummed on the table and looked out of the window.

The chamber of the senior partner was a very different matter from Mr. Vulto’s. It was immense. It was not disfigured by japanned boxes inartistically lettered in white, as are most lawyer’s offices. Indeed in aspect it resembled one of the cosier rooms in a small and decaying but still comfortable club. It had easy chairs and cigar boxes. Moreover, the sun got into it, and there was a view of the comic yet stately Victorian Gothic of the Law Courts. The sun enheartened Edward Henry. And he felt secure in an unimpugnable suit of clothes; in the shape of his collar, the colour of his necktie, the style of his creaseless boots; and in the protuberance of his pocket-book in his pocket.

As Mr. Slosson had failed to notice the competition of his drumming, he drummed still louder. Whereupon Mr. Slosson stopped drumming. Edward Henry gazed amiably around. Right at the back of the room–before a back-window that gave on the whitewashed wall–a man was rapidly putting his signature to a number of papers. But Mr. Slosson had ignored the existence of this man, treating him apparently as a figment of the disordered brain or as an optical illusion.

“I’ve nothing to say,” said Mr. Slosson.

“Or to do?”

“Or to do.”

“Well, Mr. Slosson,” said Edward Henry, “your junior partner has already outlined your policy of masterly inactivity. So I may as well go. I did say I’d go to my solicitors. But it’s occurred to me that as I’m a principal I may as well first of all see the principals on the other side. I only came here because it mentions in the option that the matter is to be completed here–that’s all.”

“You a principal!” exclaimed Mr. Slosson. “It seems to me you’re a long way removed from a principal. The alleged option is given to a Miss Rose Euclid–“

“Excuse me–_the_ Miss Rose Euclid.”

“Miss Rose Euclid. She divides up her alleged interest into fractions, and sells them here and there, and you buy them up one after another.” Mr. Slosson laughed, not unamiably. “You’re a principal about five times removed.”

“Well,” said Edward Henry, “whatever I am, I have a sort of idea I’ll go and see this Mr. Gristle or Wrissell. Can you–“

The man at the distant desk turned his head. Mr. Slosson coughed. The man rose.

“This is Mr. Wrissel,” said Mr. Slosson, with a gesture from which confusion was not absent.

“Good morning,” said the advancing Mr. Rollo Wrissell, and he said it with an accent more Kensingtonian than any accent that Edward Henry had ever heard. His lounging and yet elegant walk assorted well with the accent. His black clothes were loose and untidy. Such boots as his could not have been worn by Edward Henry even in the Five Towns without blushing shame, and his necktie looked as if a baby or a puppy had been playing with it. Nevertheless, these shortcomings made absolutely no difference whatever to the impressivness of Mr. Rollo Wrissell, who was famous for having said once, “I put on whatever comes to hand first, and people don’t seem to mind.”

Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to one of the seven great families which once governed–and by the way still do govern–England, Scotland and Ireland. The members of these families may be divided into two species: those who rule, and those who are too lofty in spirit even to rule–those who exist. Mr. Rollo Wrissell belonged to the latter species. His nose and mouth had the exquisite refinement of the descendant of generations of art-collectors and poet-patronizers. He enjoyed life–but not with rude activity, like the grosser members of the ruling caste–rather with a certain rare languor. He sniffed and savoured the whole spherical surface of the apple of life with those delicate nostrils, rather than bit into it. His one conviction was that in a properly–managed world nothing ought to occur to disturb or agitate the perfect tranquillity of his existing. And this conviction was so profound, so visible even in his lightest gesture and glance, that it exerted a mystic influence over the entire social organism–with the result that practically nothing ever did occur to disturb or agitate the perfect tranquillity of Mr. Rollo Wrissell’s existing. For Mr. Rollo Wrissell the world was indeed almost ideal.

Edward Henry breathed to himself, “This is the genuine article.”

And, being an Englishman, he was far more impressed by Mr. Wrissell than he had been by the much vaster reputations of Rose Euclid, Seven Sachs and Mr. Slosson, senior. At the same time he inwardly fought against Mr. Wrissell’s silent and unconscious dominion over him, and all the defiant Midland belief that one body is as good as anybody else surged up in him–but stopped at his lips.

“Please don’t rise,” Mr. Wrissell entreated, waving both hands. “I’m very sorry to hear of this unhappy complication,” he went on to Edward Henry, with the most adorable and winning politeness. “It pains me.” (His martyred expression said, “And really I ought not to be pained!”) “I’m quite convinced that you are here in absolute good faith–the most absolute good faith–Mr.–“

“Machin,” suggested Mr. Slosson.

“Ah! pardon me! Mr. Machin. And naturally in the management of enormous estates such as Lord Woldo’s little difficulties are apt to occur…. I’m sorry you’ve been put in a false position. You have all my sympathies. But of course you understand that in this particular case … I myself have taken up the lease from the estate. I happen to be interested in a great movement. The plans of my church have been passed by the County Council. Building operations have indeed begun.”

“Oh! chuck it!” said Edward Henry, inexcusably–but such were his words. A surfeit of Mr. Wrissell’s calm egotism and accent and fatigued harmonious gestures drove him to commit this outrage upon the very fabric of civilization.

Mr. Wrissell, if he had ever met with the phrase–which is doubtful–had certainly never heard it addressed to himself; conceivably he might have once come across it in turning over the pages of a slang dictionary. A tragic expression traversed his bewildered features–and then he recovered himself somewhat.

“I–“

“Go and bury yourself!” said Edward Henry, with increased savagery.

Mr. Wrissell, having comprehended, went. He really did go. He could not tolerate scenes, and his glance showed that any forcible derangement of his habit of existing smoothly would nakedly disclose the unyielding adamantine selfishness that was the basis of the Wrissell philosophy. His glance was at least harsh and bitter. He went in silence, and rapidly. Mr. Slosson, senior, followed him at a great pace.

Edward Henry was angry. Strange though it may seem, the chief cause of his anger was the fact that his own manners and breeding were lower, coarser, clumsier, more brutal than Mr. Wrissell’s.

After what appeared to be a considerable absence Mr. Slosson, senior, returned into the room. Edward Henry, steeped in peculiar meditations, was repeating:

“So this is Slosson’s!”

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Slosson with a challenge in his ancient but powerful voice.

“Nowt!” said Edward Henry.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Slosson, “we’d better come to an understanding about this so-called option. It’s not serious, you know.”

“You’ll find it is.”

“It’s not commercial.”

“I fancy it is–for me!” said Edward Henry.

“The premium mentioned is absurdly inadequate, and the ground-rent is quite improperly low.”

“That’s just why I look on it as commercial–from my point of view,” said Edward Henry.

“It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” said Mr. Slosson.

“Why?”

“Because, seeing the unusual form of it, it ought to be stamped, and it isn’t stamped.”

“Listen here, Mr. Slosson,” said Edward Henry, “I want you to remember that you’re talking to a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?”

“I was in the law for years,” said Edward Henry. “And you know as well as I do that I can get the option stamped at any time by paying a penalty–which at worst will be a trifle compared to the value of the option.”

“Ah!” Mr. Slosson paused, and resumed his puffing, which exercise–perhaps owing to undue excitement–he had pretermitted. “Then further, the deed isn’t drawn up.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Further, the option is not transferable.”

“We shall see about that.”

“And the money ought to be paid down to-day, even on your own showing–every cent of it, in cash.”

“Here is the money,” said Edward Henry, drawing his pocket-book from his breast. “Every cent of it, in the finest brand of bank-notes!”

He flung down the notes with the impulsive gesture of an artist; then, with the caution of a man of the world, gathered them in again.

“The whole circumstances under which the alleged option is alleged to have been given would have to be examined,” said Mr. Slosson.

“I shan’t mind,” said Edward Henry. “Others might.”

“There is such a thing as undue influence.”

“Miss Euclid is fifty if she’s a day,” replied Edward Henry.

“I don’t see what Miss Euclid’s age has to do with the matter.”

“Then your eyesight must be defective, Mr. Slosson.”

“The document might be a forgery.”

“It might. But I’ve got an autograph letter written entirely in the late Lord Woldo’s hand, enclosing the option.”

“Let me see it, please.”

“Certainly–but in a court of law,” said Edward Henry. “You know you’re hungry for a good action, followed by a bill of costs as long as from here to Jericho.”

“Mr. Wrissell will assuredly fight,” said Mr. Slosson. “He has already given me the most explicit instructions. Mr. Wrissell’s objection to a certain class of theatres is well known.”

“And does Mr. Wrissell settle everything?”

“Mr. Wrissell and Lady Woldo settle everything between them, and Lady Woldo is guided by Mr. Wrissell. There is an impression abroad that because Lady Woldo was originally connected–er–with the stage, she and Mr. Wrissell are not entirely at one in the conduct of her and her son’s interests. Nothing could be further from the fact.”

Edward Henry’s thoughts dwelt for a few moments upon the late Lord Woldo’s picturesque and far-resounding marriage.

“Can you give me Lady Woldo’s address?”

“I can’t,” said Mr. Slosson, after an instant’s hesitation.

“You mean you won’t!”

Mr. Slosson pursed his lips.

“Well, you can do the other thing!” said Edward Henry, insolent to the last.

As he left the premises he found Mr. Rollo Wrissell, and his own new acquaintance, Mr. Alloyd, the architect, chatting in the portico. Mr. Wrissell was calm, bland and attentive; Mr. Alloyd was eager, excited and deferential.

Edward Henry caught the words “Russian Ballet.” He reflected upon an abstract question oddly disconnected with the violent welter of his sensations: “Can a man be a good practical architect who isn’t able to sleep because he’s seen a Russian Ballet?”

The alert chauffeur of the electric brougham, who had an excellent idea of effect, brought the admirable vehicle to the kerb exactly in front of Edward Henry as Edward Henry reached the edge of the pavement. Ejaculating a brief command, Edward Henry disappeared within the vehicle and was whirled away in a style whose perfection no scion of a governing family could have bettered.

IV

The next scene in the exciting drama of Edward Henry’s existence that day took place in a building as huge as Wilkins’s itself. As the brougham halted at its portals an old and medalled man rushed forth, touched his cap, and assisted Edward Henry to alight. Within the groined and echoing hall of the establishment a young boy sprang out and, with every circumstance of deference, took Edward Henry’s hat and stick. Edward Henry then walked a few steps to a lift, and said “smoking-room” to another menial, who bowed humbly before him, and at the proper moment bowed him out of the lift. Edward Henry, crossing a marble floor, next entered an enormous marble apartment chiefly populated by easy-chairs and tables. He sat down to a table and fiercely rang a bell which reposed thereon. Several of her menials simultaneously appeared out of invisibility, and one of them hurried obsequiously towards him.

“Bring me a glass of water and a peerage,” said Edward Henry.

“I beg pardon, sir. A glass of water and–“

“A peerage. P double e, r, a, g, e.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t catch. Which peerage, sir? We have several.”

“All of them.”

In a hundred seconds, the last menial having thanked him for kindly taking the glass and the pile of books, Edward Henry was sipping water and studying peerages. In two hundred seconds he was off again. A menial opened the swing-doors of the smoking-room for him and bowed. The menial of the lift bowed, wafted him downwards and bowed. The infant menial produced his hat and stick and bowed. The old and medalled menial summoned his brougham with a frown at the chauffeur and a smile at Edward Henry, bowed, opened the door of the brougham, helped Edward Henry in, bowed, and shut the door.

“Where to, sir?”

“262 Eaton Square,” said Edward Henry.

“Thank you, sir,” said the aged menial, and repeated in a curt and peremptory voice to the chauffeur, “262 Eaton Square!” Lastly he touched his cap.

And Edward Henry swiftly left the precincts of the headquarters of political democracy in London.

V

As he came within striking distance of 262 Eaton Square he had the advantage of an unusual and brilliant spectacle.

Lord Woldo was one of the richest human beings in England–and incidentally he was very human. If he had been in a position to realize all his assets and go to America with the ready money, his wealth was such that even amid the luxurious society of Pittsburg he could have cut quite a figure for some time. He owned a great deal of the land between Oxford Street and Regent Street, and again a number of the valuable squares north of Oxford Street were his, and as for Edgware Road–just as auctioneers advertise a couple of miles of trout-stream or salmon-river as a pleasing adjunct to a country estate, so, had Lord Woldo’s estate come under the hammer, a couple of miles of Edgware Road might have been advertised as among its charms. Lord Woldo owned four theatres, and to each theatre he had his private entrance and in each theatre his private box, over which the management had no sway. The Woldos in their leases had always insisted on this.

He never built in London; his business was to let land for others to build upon, the condition being that what others built should ultimately belong to him. Thousands of people in London were only too delighted to build on these terms; he could pick and choose his builders. (The astute Edward Henry himself, for example, wanted furiously to build for him, and was angry because obstacles stood in the path of his desire.) It was constantly happening that under legal agreements some fine erection put up by another hand came into the absolute possession of Lord Waldo without one halfpenny of expense to Lord Woldo. Now and then a whole street would thus tumble all complete into his hands. The system, most agreeable for Lord Woldo and about a dozen other landlords in London, was called the leasehold system; and when Lord Woldo became the proprietor of some bricks and mortar that had cost him nothing, it was said that one of Lord Woldo’s leases had “fallen in,” and everybody was quite satisfied by this phrase.

In the provinces, besides castles, forests and moors, Lord Woldo owned many acres of land under which was coal, and he allowed enterprising persons to dig deep for this coal, and often explode themselves to death in the adventure, on the understanding that they paid him sixpence for every ton of coal brought to the surface, whether they made any profit on it or not. This arrangement was called “mining rights,” another phrase that apparently satisfied everybody.

It might be thought that Lord Woldo was, as they say, on velvet. But the velvet, if it could be so described, was not of so rich and comfortable a pile after all. For Lord Woldo’s situation involved many and heavy responsibilities and was surrounded by grave dangers. He was the representative of an old order going down in the unforeseeable welter of twentieth-century politics. Numbers of thoughtful students of English conditions spent much of their time in wondering what would happen one day to the Lord Woldos of England. And when a really great strike came, and a dozen ex-artisans met in a private room of a West End hotel, and decided, without consulting Lord Woldo or the Prime Minister or anybody, that the commerce of the country should be brought to a standstill, these thoughtful students perceived that even Lord Woldo’s situation was no more secure than other people’s; in fact that it was rather less so.

There could be no doubt that the circumstances of Lord Woldo furnished him with food for thought–and very indigestible food too…. Why, at least one hundred sprightly female creatures were being brought up in the hope of marrying him. And they would all besiege him, and he could only marry one of them–at once!

Now as Edward Henry stopped as near to No. 262 as the presence of a waiting two-horse carriage permitted, he saw a grey-haired and blue-cloaked woman solemnly descending the steps of the portico of No. 262. She was followed by another similar woman, and watched by a butler and a footman at the summit of the steps and by a footman on the pavement and by the coachman on the box of the carriage. She carried a thick and lovely white shawl, and in this shawl was Lord Woldo and all his many and heavy responsibilities. It was his fancy to take the air thus, in the arms of a woman. He allowed himself to be lifted into the open carriage, and the door of the carriage was shut; and off went the two ancient horses, slowly, and the two adult fat men and the two mature spinsters, and the vehicle weighing about a ton; and Lord Woldo’s morning promenade had begun.

“Follow that!” said Edward Henry to the chauffeur and nipped into his brougham again. Nobody had told him that the being in the shawl was Lord Woldo, but he was sure that it must be so.

In twenty minutes he saw Lord Woldo being carried to and fro amid the groves of Hyde Park (one of the few bits of London earth that did not