Awaiting him at home was a statement of the week’s account from the manager of Mornice’s tour. The expenses were twenty-two pounds in excess of the takings. He also received a postcard from Mornice saying she was dreadfully miserable that the tour was finishing the following week, but it would be lovely to see him again. “She’ll never be happy unless she’s acting,” he thought. He wrote some figures on the back of an envelope, figures which showed that her tour had realised a loss of eighty pounds. Eighty pounds. He had earned nothing for the last ten weeks save—and he looked at the cheque for thirty-five guineas—money defrauded from a friend, and ill-earned at that. “This is no good,” he argued, his thoughts resting on the cherished wish to play ‘Hamlet.’ “No good—and after all, blessed is he that humbleth his pride.” So he sat down to write, addressing the letter to Mr. Shingles, Chairman of the Syndicate. A reply was received two days later, and he duly entrained for Bradford to attend the meeting. His reception was chilly. “I have re-considered my views, gentlemen,” he said, “and withdraw my proviso with regard to the ‘Hamlet’ production.” “I knew we’d starve you out,” squeaked Mr. Wilfur, rubbing his bony hands. “Oh, yes, money always counts—money wins, money does.” “Not always,” said Eliphalet, thinking of Bulmore. “With some men friendship stands on a higher plane.” “Well, I may say, Cardomay, that you have strained friendship almost to a breaking-point,” commented the obese Mr. Shingles. “Here’s half the autumn gone, and nothing done. Still, if you have come back admitting yourself to be in fault—well—— But what do you say, Doctor?” “No good harbouring ill-feeling. We may as well carry on, but since we’ve lost so much time and all the best dates, the question of reduced percentage asserts itself,” said Mr. Wardluke. And thus the thin edge of the wedge implanted itself daintily into the future fortunes of Eliphalet Cardomay. When he left the meeting he had lost ground, and what was left before him was perilously insecure. On arriving home he sent a letter to Bulmore asking him to supper, and spent the time of waiting purchasing and laying out a really sumptuous spread. In his breast-pocket there was a bulge of banknotes, representing the cashing of Mr. Eastlake’s cheque. “Ha, ha!” he cried when old Bulmore, looking rather down and out, came into the room. “Here’s the man who brought me luck. Congratulate me, my dear old fellow, for I open again in my own management in a month’s time.” His tone rang with enthusiasm, and all through the meal he held forth upon the advantageous terms he had arranged with his syndicate and the big success forecasted for the play. Poor Sefton Bulmore could hardly fail to feel rather out in the cold, but he did his best to reflect the cheerful mood of his host. The effort was pathetically transparent, however, as Eliphalet noted with satisfaction.