Then, one day, about three weeks after his illness began, two more copies of the play were returned. In one there was no comment at all, and in the other a letter stating that a market for such stereotyped work no longer existed. “Oh, oh!” cried Eliphalet, with the tone of a wounded child. “They don’t understand.” “There was something that time,” exclaimed Bulmore, as he slowly entered the room. “Quick—what was it?” “Lambert has written,” he said. “Wants to see me in Bradford—to-morrow.” The old comedian’s body relaxed, and he gave a sigh of wonderful relief. “Good God! To-morrow, eh? That will be to discuss terms—yes. You’ll have to be firm—he’s slippery—’ll want watching. Pity I’m like this. Pity—pity!” Then followed a mass of details that Eliphalet must be sure to observe, and in the midst of them the doctor arrived. “You’ll want that nurse,” he said, as Eliphalet conducted him downstairs. “He’s very rocky—practically living on nervous energy. A bit intemperate in the past, I should say. Well, well! I’ll send her in to-night. Good-bye.” “Good-bye,” said Eliphalet, and turned into the sitting-room to review the situation. At the present rate of expenditure his finances could scarcely be relied upon to last much longer. Yet what could he do? Bulmore must have everything he wanted, of course, and the lie about the play must be maintained. He re-addressed the two returned copies and posted them, with a silent, fervent prayer. There were but six managers in all to whom the play would be of possible use, and half of these had already refused. “Even chances, old boy; we mustn’t throw up the sponge yet.” Then he returned to minister to his partner. “I’ll have some champagne to-day—champagne, a sole, and a dish of quails. We can afford ’em now,” croaked old Bulmore. “No longer any need for economy.” And to maintain the lie Eliphalet bought all he asked for, and more besides. When the nurse came he told her of his deception, and between them they kept the story going. Eliphalet invented a wonderful interview with Lambert, in which he had asked for and been accorded exceptional terms. Rehearsals would be beginning in a very short while—— “And, by Jove, Sefton, we shall have such a cast!” And so the poor fraud went on, and twice more the play was returned. It was almost more than Eliphalet could endure, but he kept a firm lower lip, and saw it through. About three o’clock one night the nurse awoke him. “I think he’s going,” she said. Old Sefton Bulmore was propped up in bed, and looked a very sick man. “Laddie!” he gasped. “It’s up! Fate’s cheating me—you—you’ve been a real friend—but I’m paying it all back. Here—under my pillow!” Eliphalet drew from beneath the pillow a scrap of paper, scrawled over with the words, “I bequeath all the interests that will accrue to me from the play, ‘Right Triumphant,’ to my friend, colleague and benefactor, Eliphalet Cardomay.” “It’s a fortune, o’ man—a fortune.”