“We’ll show ’em, old boy!” he said. Yet behind it all was a strange fear—a queer, nervous doubt—the same doubt which had ever stood between him and his cherished dreams of appearing in the West End with a production of his own. He had never taken the plunge—he had never swum across the Thames from the Surrey side, and it is probable he never would have done. But now the great ones had stretched out their hands and said, “Come over.” London is a chilling place to the stranger, and Eliphalet felt the chill almost before his foot touched the platform. There was no genial cap-touching from the porters—no polite salutation from the official at the ticket-barrier. He took a cab. There was no particular point in walking—he could scarcely expect to be recognised. Fur-coated and Trilby-hatted, Eliphalet Cardomay entered the stage-door of the Duke of Connaught’s and mixed with the company. It was curious what little notice was taken of him. He might have been nobody. Presently a business-manager came and asked if he were Mr. Cardomay, and, learning this was the case, carried him off to an office near the roof to sign contracts and discuss details. “I shall require my own poster to be used,” said Eliphalet. The business manager shook his head. “Sorry,” was all he said. Then added, “Reiter is doing the posters, you see.” It was said so conclusively that argument was out of the question. Eliphalet fell back on his second line of defences. “I take it that my name will come first on the bills.” “No. Characters in order of their appearance is the way we are working it. Shall we get back to the stage?” He was led down through countless corridors until they arrived at their destination. Here Oscar Raven came forward and introduced him to several of his fellow-players. “Let’s get at it,” came a voice from the stalls. “How de do, Mr. Cardomay. You’ve read the part, I suppose?” “I have not only read the part,” he replied, “I have studied the first act.” “Sorry to hear that,” Wakefield cheerfully replied. “You may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Here, wait a bit. I’ll come up.” Eliphalet turned in surprise to the author. “Who is that very young man?” he demanded. “Raymond Wakefield—our producer,” replied Raven, as one who spoke of the gods. “Indeed?” with raised eyebrows. Just then Wakefield appeared through the iron door and skated on to the stage. “I meant to read it to you first,” he said, without any preamble. “But never mind. Now, what’s your idea of the part?” Mr. Cardomay had never been cross-examined before, and didn’t like it; but he replied, politely enough: “It’s a very good part.” “Yes, yes; but I mean, how are you taking it? Comedy, tragedy, farce?” “There can scarcely exist two opinions, Mr. Wakefield, Cellini is a great thinker—a poet—a philosopher.” “Lord, no! Light comedy is what we want; light comedy to the verge of farce.” “Mr. Wakefield, I do not appreciate jokes in regard to my work.”