The wonderful notices were brought to Eliphalet on the following morning as he lay in bed, and very gravely he read them through—and understood. There was no triumph in his eyes—the meaning of those cuttings was too clear. To Eliphalet they spelt failure, not fame. The words “epic cynicism” rang through his brain. Epic cynicism?—Yes, it was just that. And instead of rising, as for years he had dreamed he would do, and saying to his image in the glass, “Eliphalet, old boy, we’ve knocked ’em—knocked ’em hard,” he pulled the coverlet over his head and buried his face in the pillow. “Benvenuto Cellini” ran ten weeks, during which time the secret of Eliphalet’s success was well preserved. Oddly enough, Sir Owen Frazer, whose voice by this time was restored to him, was singularly free from enthusiasm with regard to the hit his _confrère_ had made. People even went so far as to say that, had he been a lesser man, they would have suspected him of jealousy. Thus there was a good deal of astonishment when it became known that he had offered Eliphalet Cardomay the second lead in his new production. Eliphalet received the part in company with an invitation to supper. He went over it very carefully and very suspiciously. Then he put it in his pocket and went forth to seek Raymond Wakefield. “Read this,” he begged, “and open up your wonderful brain as to its potentialities.” Raymond did so, and explained with fluency and clarity the thousand subtle intricacies with which the part abounded. Eliphalet Cardomay nodded gravely. “Sir Owen Frazer is a very clever man,” he remarked. On his way back he returned the part, with a polite refusal to sup. In a postscript he added: “I am returning to the provinces for good. One should never destroy an illusion. You have had your laugh. It was generous of you to wish to share it with the masses.” * * * * * Eliphalet Cardomay stepped from his first-class compartment to the platform. Potter, his dresser, having descended from the train while it was still in motion, respectfully held open the carriage door lest his august master should soil his beautiful wash-leather gloves. Dear me! this sounds strangely familiar. Why, of course! That’s the worst of starting a story at the wrong end. CHAPTER II PISTOLS FOR TWO Let us avoid repetition, and return to Eliphalet Cardomay where we left him at the dining-table, to march backwards to a past episode.