In these surroundings he was moderately happy. There were plenty of theatrical papers to read, for the neighbourhood was patronised by the lesser geniuses of the dramatic and music-hall world. In a way he became something of a local character, and many an old “pro” would step in of a morning to exchange reminiscences. Once or twice he was recognised, but on these occasions he always begged his discoverers not to disclose his identity. “It is not that I am ashamed,” he said, “but there are many I knew who, if they heard, would pity me—and pity is a quality more blessed to bestow than to receive.” So his wishes were respected, and for six tranquil months the Old Card sold his papers and followed in the dramatic columns the movements of members of his old companies. Thus he learned that Freddie Manning had abandoned the Road for the business managership of the Royal Theatre, New Brighton. “Good boy, Manning,” he said. “That’s capital. New Brighton, too!” Rather a twisted smile came to the corners of his mouth, for he could not help thinking of that Dream Villa, facing the sea. It would have been very pleasant with Manning so close at hand, dropping in of an evening, maybe, for a bit of late supper and a chat about old times. Through the same medium he learnt how Mornice had sprung to Fame as a Film Artiste and was commanding a truly Chaplinesque salary. This was a matter that gave him less pleasure, for, although rejoicing in her success, he could not conquer the underlying conviction that the Cinema was the bastard child of the stage, and an ignoble art. “I wonder what she thought of my play,” he ruminated. “I would like to have known.” One day there burst into the shop a little music-hall comedian named Dwyer. He was one of the very few who had recognised Eliphalet, and something of friendship had sprung up between them. “Seen this week’s _Foot-Lights_?” he demanded. Then, without waiting for an answer, “They’re advertising for you.” He produced a crumpled periodical, flung it on the counter and pointed to a certain passage with a nicotine-stained forefinger. “If Eliphalet Cardomay will call upon or communicate with Messrs, Newman & Stranger, 108A, Henrietta Street, W. C., he will hear something greatly to his advantage.” “Good gracious!” said Eliphalet. “I wonder what that means. I must step round there this evening.” “You’ll step round now, old cock.” “I can hardly leave the shop——” “That for a tale!” yelled the little comedian; then, making a megaphone of his hands, he shouted, “Mother!” at the very top of his voice. In response to the call the owner of the shop appeared, a baby in her arms and the little girl towed along by her skirts. “He’s come into a fortune—see this! Mustn’t wait a minute—You can spare him. Tell him to get his hat! Shop’ll look after itself!”