It was a grave confession of ignorance, but Brandon owned that the name of Urban Meyer conveyed nothing. “He’s the biggest thing of his kind in existence. He controls four hundred theaters in the United States, and about the same number in Europe.” “A sort of Haroun-al-Raschid,” laughed Brandon. “I’ve already mentioned the play to him. And he’s reading it now. If you will come with me to the Ritz you may get further light on the matter. But if you’re wise you won’t be quite so frank with him as you’ve been with me. A little bird tells me that he’s interested. But he’s a regular Napoleon in business. Still you may like to hear what he has to say, and there’s just a chance that he may save you a journey to New York.” “He may,” said Brandon, “but I’m not hopeful. His name bewrayeth him.” “A hyphenated American,” said Pomfret, “but he began life as a little Frankfort Jew. A remarkable man with a still more remarkable career behind him. Exact study of the public taste has made him a millionaire. Still, we’re old friends and I’m bound to say I’ve always found him a very decent fellow. And if you care for human documents I think he will interest you.” In a fraternal manner they passed the time till one o’clock. About noon a wintry sun came out and they took a gentle turn in the Green Park to get an appetite for luncheon. The shrewdly humorous man of affairs was so full of advice that he was like a kindly uncle. “Whatever you do, my son, don’t talk to Urban Meyer as you’ve talked to me,” was the burden of his homily. Even now the practical Pomfret had not quite overcome a feeling of sheer amazement. A fantastic illusion had declared itself in a brilliant mind, and no matter how cautiously he approached the subject he felt the oppression of its shadow. Continuing his sage advice, he finally led his freakish friend through the revolving doors of the Ritz on the very stroke of one o’clock. XXXVII IN the hall was an odd little man in a brown hat. Appearance marched with intellect in such a naïve way, that Urban Meyer had an unmistakable air of being the only one of his kind in existence. And this was fit and proper. There was only one Urban Meyer in the world, and nature had been at some pains to emphasize the fact for the benefit of all whom it might concern.