“The Night Cry” was a failure—and a melancholy failure at that. Why this should have been is hard to understand, since, as a play, it compared favourably with many successful productions in Eliphalet Cardomay’s repertoire. Perhaps the truth was that Eliphalet was getting old. The most skilful tricks of lighting and make-up failed to conceal this obvious fact. “He ought to retire,” said the wise playgoers, as they passed sorrowfully from the theatre. “A fine old chap, but he’s stopping too long.” There is nothing in the world destroys confidence more quickly than this kind of talk, and nothing is more easily destroyed than an actor’s reputation. People repeat such phrases for want of something better to say, and slowly but surely it comes back to ears that are ever attentive for a hint of the kind—attentive because their owner’s pockets are affected. For the last five seasons Eliphalet’s receipts had shown a gradual, almost imperceptible decline, but it was not until the production of “The Night Cry” that the fall was considerable. And it was considerable! The vibrations set in motion thereby automatically were felt afar and closed the purses of the four commercial gentlemen who formed his syndicate. Eliphalet was distressed at the want of success, but philosophical. He reflected with gratification that it had not been his wish to do the play. He had asked for support for a production of “Hamlet,” and had been denied; thus, not unreasonably, he conjectured this might prove a lesson to his syndicate for the future to respect his judgments. Besides which, a certain percentage of failures was inevitable, and in all his career that percentage had been very low. Every Christmas he and the syndicate met to discuss the past year’s work and make future plans, and this was always the occasion for a little ceremony. Eliphalet brought with him four boxes of Half Coronas, and one of these he solemnly presented to each member of the board. They, although offering no tangible return, would express a surprised gratification and a vote of cordial appreciation for his artistic energies exerted on their behalf. A luncheon-party would follow, which broke up with handshakes and good and seasonable wishes. But on this particular year Eliphalet felt, no sooner he had entered the room, that there was a strange atmosphere. Each of the four gentlemen showed embarrassment and disinclination to meet his eye. The cigars were presented and accepted, which appeared to heighten the general unease. Then the chairman rose and called upon Dr. Wardluke to address the meeting, as his own powers of speech were affected by a recent cold. So the doctor, after some rustling of papers and a deal of pulling at his waistcoat, came to his feet and spoke.