That night he slept with a fortune beneath his pillow. Of course the play had to be typed. They were too old at the game to risk spoiling chances by sending it in MS. form. The bill for the typing was four pounds—a big lump from a capital of fifty-seven. Eliphalet had a long talk with Bulmore, and pointed out the need for economy during the next few weeks, while managers were considering their work. Bulmore was quite huffy about it. “Seems a sin not to have a good time, with a fortune like this waiting to be picked up,” he grumbled. But Eliphalet was firm, and for the first time a slight estrangement arose between them. To mark his disapproval, Bulmore went out and got drunk. The three copies of the play were duly registered and posted to the three likeliest managers. “I’m sending the original manuscript to Mornice,” said Eliphalet, “I would like her to see the part she might have played, had she not given up the legitimate stage to play in pictures.” So he packed it up, with a fatherly little note, and despatched it to Mornice, c/o Raphaeli Film Company, at some unpronounceable city in the United States. Then, in a fever of excitement, they sat down and waited for the herald of their fortunes to sound the trumpet of success. And quite suddenly Sefton Bulmore was taken ill. The first-class doctor whom Eliphalet sent for at once, shook his head over the case. “The machinery is worn out,” he said. “You can do nothing, Mr. Cardomay, beyond care and attention. A nurse may be necessary later on. Give him plenty of light food—chickens, fish, and so forth, and above all keep him cheerful.” “What’s he say?” demanded Bulmore, when Eliphalet returned after seeing the doctor out. “That you must take things easily for a while.” “Ha! that’s all very well, but rehearsals will be starting soon, and I’ve got to be there, y’know—I must be there. Any news?” “Not at present. There’s hardly time yet.” “A fortnight. Ought to be hearing something soon.” “And depend upon it, we shall,” soothed Eliphalet. And he was right, for the first copy was returned that evening, with a curt note of refusal. Eliphalet took it into the sitting-room and read it again and again. It was unbelievable. Power, the likeliest of all managers, had refused his play. “Can’t have read it,” thought Eliphalet. “Can’t possibly have read it! I mustn’t let Sefton know this.” So he put the play in a fresh envelope and despatched it elsewhere, and to salve his conscience for the deceit he meant to perpetrate, he bought Bulmore some hothouse grapes and a bottle of calf’s-foot jelly. Poor old Bulmore was an indifferent patient—subject to fits of depression and excitement. The sound of the postman’s knock in the street brought him to his elbow at once. “Down you go, down you go!” he would cry; then when Eliphalet returned empty-handed, he would work himself into a passion and curse the dilatoriness of managers or accuse Eliphalet of having addressed the envelopes wrongly.