From where he was placed, Dick had a good view of the millionaire. He sat throughout the second part of the programme with closed eyes, and so slow was he to start applauding after each item, that Dick was certain that he had been asleep and the clapping had awakened him. Once he detected the old man stifling a yawn in the very midst of the second movement of Elgar’s violin concerto, which held the audience spellbound by its delicate beauty. With his big hands, now enshrined in white kid gloves, crossed on his stomach, the head of Mr. Maitland nodded and jerked. When at last the concert was over, he looked round fearfully, as though to make absolutely certain that it _was_ over, then rose and made his way out of the hall, his silk hat held clumsily in his hand. A manager came in haste to meet him. “I hope, Mr. Maitland, you enjoyed yourself?” Dick heard him say. “Very pooty—very pooty,” replied Maitland hoarsely. “That fiddler ought to play a few toons, though—nothing like a hornpipe on a fiddle.” The manager looked after him open-mouthed, then hurried out to help the old man into his car. “Gay—he’s gay!” said Elk, as bewildered as the manager. “Jumping snakes! Who was that?” He addressed the unnecessary question to the manager, who had returned from his duty. “That is Maitland, the millionaire, Mr. Elk,” said the other. “First time we’ve had him here, but now that he’s come to live in town——” “Where is he living?” asked Elk. “He has taken the Prince of Caux’s house in Berkeley Square,” said the manager. Elk blinked at him. “Say that again?” “He has taken the Prince of Caux’s house,” said the manager. “And what is more, has bought it—the agent told me this afternoon.” Elk was incapable of comment, and the manager continued his surprising narrative. “I don’t think he knows much about music, but he has booked seats for every big musical event next season—his secretary came in this afternoon. He seemed a bit dazed.” Poor Johnson! thought Dick. “He wanted me to fix dancing lessons for the old boy——” Elk clapped his hand to his mouth—he had an insane desire to scream. “And as a matter of fact, I fixed them. He’s a bit old, but Socrates or somebody learnt Greek at eighty, and maybe Mr. Maitland’s regretting the wasted years of his life. I admit it is a bit late to start night clubs——” Elk laid a chiding hand upon the managerial shoulder. “You certainly deceived me, brother,” he said. “And here was I, drinking it all in, and you with a face as serious as the dial of a poorhouse clock! You’ve put it all over Elk, and I’m man enough to admit you fooled me.” “I don’t think our friend is trying to fool you,” said Dick quietly. “You really mean what you say—old Maitland has started dancing and night clubs?” “Certainly!” said the other. “He hasn’t started dancing, but that is where he has gone to-night—to the Heron’s. I heard him tell the chauffeur.” It was incredible, but a little amusing—most amusing of all to see Elk’s face.