For twenty-five years had Eliphalet Cardomay “featured on the road,” and there was little left for him to learn about Provincial Theatrical Management. The poster which preceded him to town displayed a well-proportioned man, whose head tilted fearlessly upon broad shoulders, and whose eyes shone as with a smouldering fire. A full growth of hair projected from under the curving brim of a Trilby hat. He wore a flowing tie, a fur-collared coat, and in his right hand carried an ivory-topped Malacca cane of original design. It was a striking poster, executed many years before, and everyone who knew it, and knew Eliphalet, marvelled how the original still continued to realise the picture in every detail. The reader will have judged, and judged rightly, that our hero is one of the Old School—the school of graceful calisthenics, and meticulous elocution—but let him beware of anticipating too far; for, although Eliphalet Cardomay’s histrionics might savour of the obsolete, he will not find in the man himself those traits usually allied to actors of this calibre. In all his long career no one had ever heard Eliphalet address a fellow-performer as “laddie,” nor a theatrical landlady as “Ma.” Neither did he borrow half-crowns at the Bodega, nor absorb tankards of Guinness’s stout in the wings. In fact, Eliphalet Cardomay was a very estimable fellow, hedged about and wing-clipped by stale conventions of his calling, which, in spite of his bitterly-learnt knowledge of their existence, he was never able to supersede by modern methods. The almost impertinent disregard for old stage processes and old accepted technique which brings notoriety and admiration to the actor of to-day was as unattainable to Eliphalet as the peak of Mount Parnassus. Twenty-five years before, a London newspaper had prophesied that he would mature and become big. He did mature, but on the lines of his beginning, and when at last he returned to London—the Mecca of his dreams—he was driven by laughter back to the provinces whence he had come. In the hearts of provincial playgoers there were still warm places for Eliphalet Cardomay, and the rich cadences of his voice never failed to arouse strange emotions and irrepressible yearnings in the bosoms of impressionable young ladies, who wrote and confided their admiration with surpassing regularity and singular lack of reserve. To his own company he was always courteous and considerate, but a trifle remote. He wrapped himself about in mystery, and as no one knew exactly how to take him very few made the attempt. “The public man should always be an enigma.” He addressed this statement to a very voluble young member of his company, who frequented bars and lavished cigarettes upon total strangers. “Be mysterious if you wish to succeed,” he continued, developing the theme. “Your never-ceasing ‘Have a spot,’ and your ever-open cigarette-case, are the most obvious things that ever happened.”