Once the plot was finally determined, the actual writing of the play began. In this Eliphalet did most of the work. Bulmore’s temperament was such that he could not sit still, and must needs pace up and down, gesticulating and pouring forth a ceaseless stream of red-hot ideas. In itself this method proved a somewhat disturbing factor, and tended to retard the progression of the work; but Eliphalet strove manfully, and some eleven months from the day of their first meeting had the exquisite pleasure of subscribing the word “Curtain” on the final page. Then he and his partner gripped hands with a pride too full for words. “Read it aloud, Eliphalet, old man,” said Bulmore. “Let’s have it! Let it go! Here, old man—wait a minute!” He rushed from the room, returning a moment later with the breathless landlady, Mrs. Wattle, and her anæmic niece, Annie. These he literally flung (no other word is possible) one at each end of the plush settee. “Don’t make a sound,” he warned them, with a threatening gesture. “You are going to hear the finest play that ever was written—a masterpiece! On you go, Eliphalet, with all your voice, and all you’ve got. Give ’em a bit of the old.” So Eliphalet filled his lungs, and read. Both he and his audience were in tears when he intoned the final heart-rending passages. Then he closed the book and laid his hand upon it—his eyes filled with the light of triumph. “What did you think of it, Annie?” demanded Mrs. Wattle, when she and her niece were restored to the kitchen. “Be-utiful, be-utiful,” replied Annie. “It was just like any drama you might see on the stage.” There was no intended satire in this truest of criticisms. The reading had proved altogether too much for Sefton Bulmore, and being so elevated by the marvels of their achievement, he went forth and indulged in a debauch, beside which his previous excesses were as child’s play. Eliphalet sat alone with the glory he had created. He turned his eyes to the level of the gods, and prayed aloud. “Be pleased to bless our work, O Lord!” Then a cold tremor crept down his spine—brought to existence by the sight of an unopened letter leaning against the clock. He knew what it was—a statement of credit from the bank—and had delayed breaking the seal, until the play should be finished, lest, perhaps, the tidings should divert his attention from the final scene. But now that reason no longer existed. So he rose and tore open the envelope. Fifty-seven pounds was all that was left between two old men and starvation. Almost miraculously the rest had melted away. Fifty-seven pounds—and the Play. “_AND_ the play, old boy,” said Eliphalet. He tore the sheet in two and dropped it in the fire; then, picking up the manuscript, made his way to bed.