After an all-night sitting, in which the name of every prominent male member of the profession was suggested, and in which Mr. Oscar Raven and his part collaborator, Julian Franks, nearly came to blows with every member of the Syndicate, each other included, the producer, a young man whose youth was only exceeded by his brilliance, rose and standing, flamingo-like, on one leg, addressed the meeting. “For God’s sake, get to bed,” he said. “You are talking bilge, the whole lot of you. I’ll find someone—in fact, I have already. You will say I am mad,” he continued, in response to a chorus of inquiries which greeted his statement, “but even at so great a risk I will tell you his name. It is Eliphalet Cardomay.” Raymond Wakefield was quite right when saying they would accuse him of madness. Sir Owen Frazer wrote on a piece of paper the opinion that he was probably dangerous as well. But Wakefield only laughed. “Commend me to authors for stupidity and to syndicates for lack of intelligence,” he observed. “It is evident none of you have the smallest acquaintance with the character of Cellini or the art of Eliphalet.” “But the man can’t act.” “My dear Raven!” expostulated Wakefield. “The man never ceases to act.” “But not the kind we want,” from Franks. “It will be my duty to stop him acting.” “He has no brains,” contributed Sir Owen, more by gesture than sound. “I, on the other hand, have plenty,” the producer modestly remarked. “Just consider the character of Cellini, and what do we find? Conceit, bombast. Probably he had a beautiful voice, certainly a chivalrous manner, unquestionably an incapacity to realise his own ineffability. Turn to Eliphalet and you find the exact prototype. _Compris?_” “By George, yes!” said Julian Franks. But Oscar Raven stretched out a silencing hand. “Does this man Cardomay strike you as the kind of personality that could ever have achieved the masterpieces which came from the hand of Cellini?” “Well, of course, that is pure rot,” returned Wakefield. “That was where Frazer was all over the place in the part. Trying to convey an undercurrent of massive brain-power. Believe me, the work of great artists is entirely spontaneous—they carry no stamp of genius. Look at Raven, for instance! He has written quite a remarkably good play. Does his exterior suggest it? No. Anyone’d mistake him for a haberdasher’s assistant. But I’m off to bed. Fix it up amongst yourselves.” And that was how Eliphalet Cardomay was dragged from the provinces and hurled into the forefront of the London stage, with a great part and eight days in which to study it. As the train bore him towards the Metropolis, he repeated over and over to himself: “It has come at last. They want me.” His mind flew back to the old press-cutting of twenty-five years ago. “One day this young man will mature and become big.”