I

Inigo noticed, without surprise, that the Gatford Hippodrome was elongating itself, swelling, soaring, conjuring out vast darkening sweeps of galleries. This made it all the more difficult to find Susie. It was like playing hide-and-seek in the Albert Hall. After he had walked about quarter of a mile round the back of one enormous empty gallery, he suddenly discovered Mr. Milbrau of Messrs. Felder and Hunterman standing by his side. “ ’Scuse me,” Mr. Milbrau was saying, “but the Tarvins are here.” Somehow this frightened Inigo. He hurried away, ran down a colossal flight of steps, and entered a lower gallery. He must find Susie at once, and he knew that she was in one of these galleries. Halfway round he came upon Mr. Milbrau again. “Here he is,” Mr. Milbrau shouted; and immediately a number of lights were turned on. The next moment, Mr. Tarvin appeared, looking much smaller and fatter than he had ever done before. “Ah, there you are, Jollifant,” he said. “We’re looking⁠—chumha!⁠—for you.” And there, hurrying up behind him, was Mrs. Tarvin, a terrifying figure. Her head was so big. As big as a coal-scuttle and with eyes like flashing lamps! Horrible! He turned and ran, and then all the lights but one dim glow, high up on the roof, went out. He raced frantically through deep menacing shadows. Gallery after gallery, innumerable curved flights of steps were passed in this wild descent, but at last he arrived at the floor of the theatre. And it was packed with people. They were even standing in all the gangways. Now the place was brilliantly lit, and it was obvious that the performance was about to begin. He noticed for the first time that he was already in his stage costume. He would have to push his way through all these people. He pushed and pushed and finally reached the stage, where Jimmy was waiting for him. There was something faintly sinister about Jimmy. “Come on, Inigo,” he croaked. “You’re late. We’ve got a new stunt. Duets at the piano, that’s the idea. Got a new pianist.” And he hustled Inigo over to the piano. And there, waiting for him, was this horrible huge-headed Mrs. Tarvin, nodding and grinning. “I won’t,” Inigo shrieked. But Jimmy’s grip on his arm had tightened. “ ’S all ri’, quite all ri’,” said Mr. Milbrau, who appeared to be holding him now on the other side. Inigo struggled but he could not free himself.

“Hoy, justa minute, ju‑ust a mi‑in‑ute!” This voice did not belong to either Jimmy or Mr. Milbrau. It was a new voice. It had no part in the proceedings. It seemed to stop everything.

Inigo stared at the man opposite, stared at his big blue-veined nose, heavy cheeks, and gingerish moustache. These features, he remembered now, belonged to the man who had entered the carriage with him at Gatford station. Yes, he was in a railway carriage. That was all right⁠—he ought to be in a railway carriage. But why? Then, as he shook himself, yawned and rubbed his eyes, it all came back. It was Saturday morning and he was on his way to see Mr. Pitsner of Felder and Hunterman. He had wired Mr. Pitsner yesterday, Friday morning, and that gentleman, who must have received Mr. Milbrau’s letter, had replied: “Yes come along can hear songs eleven and twelve tomorrow.” And then he had had to work it all out with a timetable. How to get to London and back between the end of Friday night’s show and the beginning of Susie’s birthday tea-party this very afternoon?⁠—that had been the problem. It had meant catching a fiendishly early train from Gatford to Birmingham and then getting the express. And this was that early train. The mere snatch of sleep, the shivering wash and shave in the darkness, the scalding gulp of tea, the dash to the station through the queer dim streets. And here he was. And nobody knew anything about it, he reflected, hugging himself. Not a word about Mr. Milbrau and Felder and Hunterman and this flying visit to London had escaped him. Ah!⁠—that was deep. He meant to spring it on them as a surprise when he returned, that is, of course, if anything happened worth springing. If nothing happened, then nobody would be any the wiser. He was not going to let her think him feebler than ever.

He sat up and rubbed his hands. He felt cold and stiff and unpleasantly empty. It was too early in the day to be riding in trains, absolutely. The windows still showed a flash of angry red sky, and a chilly vapour hung about the flying fields. His eyes were hot and heavy, and somehow he had to stare hard at things to see them properly. Even then they did not seem very real. His dream hung about the fringes of his consciousness like the mist on the fields outside. This world of the cold railway carriage and the dawn breaking over an unknown landscape appeared to have little more solid reality than that other world of the long dark galleries, the ever-appearing Milbrau, and the monstrously-headed Mrs. Tarvin. But this world, though it might have its minor discomforts, was infinitely the more pleasant. And warming, quickening, at the heart of it was his sense of adventure. These two feelings never really left him all that day. In the last little room, the inmost place, of his mind was a tiny Inigo hugging himself and crooning over the adventure. And because the day started, like a dream, in the darkness and hurried him at once into the unfamiliar, it never quite lost its unreality; it might be large and highly-coloured and crowded with moving shapes, but it always remained brittle, ready to be smashed into smithereens by a mere cry of “No, you don’t!”

“ ’Aving a bit of a tussle, wasn’t you?” the man opposite grunted amiably. “Bootin’ ’em a bit, eh? Gave my ankle a good old rap, I can tell yer.”

“Sorry!” said Inigo, and admitted he had been dreaming. The only other person in the compartment, one of those little old women who seem to be forever travelling on unimaginable errands, whatever the hour or route, was dozing in her corner.

“Saw yer drop off just after we starts,” the man went on. “I’ve caught this bleeder three times this last fortnight⁠—’ad to. My missus says we’d better go and live in Brum an’ ’ave done with it. Doesn’t like getting up an’ making me my bit o’ breakfast, an’ yer can’t blame ’er.” He brought out a small tin, selected a cigarette-end, which he contrived to light after it had been tucked away under his large moustache. “I’ve offered to make my own breakfus’ but that don’t do for ’er,” he continued, complacently blowing out smoke. “Muss ’ave a proper breakfas’, she says, me goin’ out like this, an’ so she sees I ’as one.”

Inigo tried to imagine a deliriously domestic Susie insisting upon his having a proper breakfast on a morning like this, but he did not succeed in creating a convincing image of her in the part. Would she ever even share a breakfast with him? He had never thought of her having breakfast, but now that meal, hitherto regarded as a very prosaic business, a mere gobbling of eggs and bacon, became touched with wonder and romance. He heard her voice⁠—he could always hear her voice though he could never call up her face⁠—asking him to pass the marmalade. He saw himself as a delightful attentive breakfast companion, without stopping to reflect that never in his life so far had he given any signs of being any such thing.

The London express offered him breakfast as soon as it left Birmingham, and he accepted its offer with alacrity. It was full of people who appeared to be old friends. Even the ticket-collectors and dining-car attendants seemed to know everybody. Men leaned across Inigo to ask one another where old Smith was. He had hardly begun his porridge before the man sitting next to him suddenly turned and shouted: “Hello! Wondered where you were. I say, is there any truth in that story about Bradbury and Torrence?” Inigo, startled, was about to stammer that he had not the least idea, when he discovered that his neighbour was not addressing him at all but a man busy chipping an egg at the other side of the aisle. And though the ticket-collector examined his ticket and the attendants brought him food, they did it impersonally, without any of those remarks about the weather and the number of people on the train that seemed to be offered to everybody else. At first he felt as if he had blundered into a party given by a complete stranger, perhaps the Lord Mayor of Birmingham. After a time, however, he merely felt that he was not really there at all. The train and its passengers did not believe in him.

A chance remark might break the spell. He tried the experiment at the end of breakfast, when the man next to him was lighting a pipe.

“I say⁠—er⁠—what time do we get in?” said Inigo.

“Yes, rather,” the man replied, poking at his pipe. And then he looked across the table at the man opposite, and, raising his voice, said: “I told Mason the other day that the Chamber of Commerce people were making a big mistake.”

“Mistake!” roared the man across the table. “They’re making the biggest bloomer I ever heard of.”

Inigo’s neighbour nodded vigorously, gave another poke or two at his pipe, then turned sharply. “What d’you think?” he inquired.

Inigo was quite ready to damn the Chamber of Commerce heartily, but once more it was the man at the other side of the aisle, the egg-chipper, the man who knew about Bradbury and Torrence, who was being addressed. And this fellow crossed over, put an arm at the back of Inigo’s seat, leaned forward, so far forward indeed that Inigo could easily have set fire to his beard and thought once of doing it, and then replied: “I’m not so sure about that, my boy. Remember what happened after the Stavely Commission? Well, it might easily happen again⁠—in my opinion.”

It was very odd. Inigo did not seem to be there. They did not appear to believe he was a real person. But as he knew very well that he was there and that he was a real person, this only meant that that dreamlike sensation persisted, robbing even a London express of its substantiality and turning roaring tons of businessmen into flitting shadows. Even when they finally chuff-chuffed into the terminus, the sensation still remained. There was nothing about that gloomy phantasmagoria to suggest that reality was breaking through. The place looked as if it had been designed by the same mad architect who had built the colossal Gatford Hippodrome of dreamland. Inigo hurried out of it.

II

It was too early to go to Felder and Hunterman’s, and Inigo was in no mood for exploring London. Besides, the streets were being slashed with cold rain. One minute a pale sun would creep out and set everything glittering, and the next minute the rain would come sweeping down, up would go overcoat collars and umbrellas, and the streets would be full of people running as if for their very lives. A lunatic city. Inigo went into a teashop not far from the station, and there ordered a cup of coffee he did not want. This teashop had the air of still being in the hands of charwomen. There were no charwomen to be seen but the place seemed to smell damply and cheerlessly of their labours, and Inigo felt that at any moment a number of them would come trooping back to dry it off. The waitresses looked as if they had not yet recovered from a bitter reveille that had dragged them out of their little bedrooms, miles away in East Ham and Barking, and brought them sniffing in cold buses and trams and tubes to this teashop. Every customer, every order, was to them an affront. Their day had not really begun; they had hardly washed themselves yet; and as a protest against being disturbed so early they banged down sugar-basins and cruets on the little damp marble-topped tables. At close range they used the sniff, and at a distance the yawn. Such patrons as they had, however, seemed completely indifferent, in no way affected by these marks of contempt. They sat lumpishly, unstirring, at their little tables, as stolid and incurious as the bags they had dumped down beside them. The one exception was Inigo, who found himself compelled to order, receive, and sip his coffee with an apologetic air. There was, however, an Inigo inside, the skipper on the bridge, who was already indignant and protesting. There appeared to be a general conspiracy to pretend that he was feeble, of no account. And this tiny bristling Inigo inside asked everybody and everything in this huge lunatic warren of a London to wait, that’s all, just wait.

It is true that when he was actually on the way to Felder and Hunterman’s he suddenly felt ridiculous. The whole enterprise lost its sanity, seemed daft and hollow. What was he doing here with his parcel of silly songs? He ought to be going to Newman and Watley, the scholastic agents. They were solid and sensible. Their talk of French, History, C. of E., some games, £150 Resident was reasonable, and not at odds with these offices and shops and buses and policemen. But Felder and Hunterman? Jingling songs? “Slippin’ Round the Corner”? Preposterous, absolutely! He was making a fool of himself. Everything he saw in the streets announced that there was probably no such person as Mr. Pitsner. The very name shattered conviction. By the time Inigo had reached Charing Cross Road, he was troubled by a little hollow place somewhere in the region of his stomach. He did not want to go any further.

There was still plenty of time, so he allowed himself to loiter. He began to look at shops. That saved him. Mr. Pitsner became real again. He had strolled into a little world in which the silliest jingle of a song was more important than Newman and Watley and all their clients. He had now no excuse for believing that his visit was ridiculous. Charing Cross Road was bursting with songs. If the shops were not filled with sheets of music, then they were filled with gramophones and records and saxophones and drums and banjos. The place seemed to be a Jazz Exchange. Moreover, he saw rows of songs that he had already played himself and dismissed as poor stuff. He marched into one shop and glanced through about twenty of its newest songs, and most of them were so bad that he found himself gleefully whispering “Tripe, tripe!” His self-confidence returned with a rush. These people thought day and night about these jingles, and even then they could only bring out this muck. He hesitated no longer, but marched upon Felder and Hunterman with all colours flying. He would show them.

“I want Mr. Pitsner please,” he said sternly, handed over a card, and then without paying any more attention to the assistant, looked about him with a nonchalant, faintly contemptuous air. He refused to be impressed, though there could be no doubt that Mr. Milbrau had been right when he had said that his firm was the biggest in the trade. The place was fantastic. It was a vast bustling warehouse of sugary sentiment and cheap cynicism. Lost sweethearts⁠—in waltz time and the key of E flat⁠—were handled here by the hundredweight. Bewildering rows of smiling Negroes implored you, in spite of the fact that they were clearing anything from two hundred pounds a week upward in London and occupying luxurious suites of rooms and riding about in gigantic cars, to take them back to their shack in Southland. “Just Little Miss Latchkey!” one wall screamed at you. “S’Impossible!” another replied. “She’s a Blonde on Saturdays,” one row sneered, only to be answered, two hundred times over, by a companion row that cried: “She’s All I’ve Got.” And these were not merely songs. The least of them were Gigantic Successes. They were Hits, Whirlwinds, Riots, Ear-Haunters, Red Hots, Stormers. Messrs. Felder and Hunterman announced they were “Handing You Another.” Mr. Felder told you, in large crimson type, to “Get It Now and Watch it Grow!” Mr. Hunterman promised that it would be “The Sensation This Season at Douglas and Blackpool!” And together they implored you to believe them when they said: “It’s the Big Hit They’ll Ask to Have Plugged at Them!” They told you frankly they were compelling every dance band in the country to play it, they were sweeping the North, they were sending the West End crazy. And they were proud of it.

Inigo shrugged his shoulders. He still refused to be impressed. Oh, Mr. Pitsner would see him, would he? Very well. He stalked after the assistant, down the corridor, into the lift. Mr. Pitsner’s room appeared to be at the top of the building and so he had ample time to imagine what Mr. Pitsner would look like. He saw a sort of super Milbrau, older, fatter, and more Hebraic, with even blacker hair and pinker shirt. He braced himself to meet this loud, hearty, designing fellow.

He did not meet him, however. He met a thin grey man, very quiet in manner and dress, a man who looked as if nothing had surprised him for twenty years. He gave Inigo the impression that he was tired and that he knew a great deal. Possibly he was tired of knowing a great deal. There was no mistake, though. This was Mr. Pitsner.

“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Jollifant,” he said in a low and rather mournful voice. “I’m not always here on Saturday. In fact, I’m nearly always at home. But this time you’ve caught me. People don’t usually get into this room when they’ve just brought a few new numbers to us. If they did, I should never be able to get into it myself. But I had Milbrau’s letter about your things, you see. And Milbrau’s a very smart man.”

Inigo, who had accepted one of the fat Egyptian cigarettes that Mr. Pitsner had silently offered him, agreed that Mr. Milbrau was a very smart man.

“Yes,” Mr. Pitsner continued sadly, “he’s one of our smartest young men. In fact, I’m thinking of taking him off the road. He’s got something of a flair, something. I’ve backed his judgement once or twice and been rather fortunate. He seems to have been quite carried away by these things of yours. It’s surprising,” he added, in exactly the same mournful low tone, “but that doesn’t happen once in five years, really new work coming from⁠—well, if you don’t mind my saying so⁠—from an outsider. People think it’s always happening, but it isn’t. You’re a pianist, aren’t you?”

Inigo briefly explained what he was and what he had done, and Mr. Pitsner listened politely but with a sort of quiet despair. When Inigo had done, Mr. Pitsner touched a bell and told the girl who answered to send Mr. Porry in. “I’d like Porry to hear them,” he said, watching the smoke curl from his cigarette. “He’s our memory man. He never forgets a tune.”

Inigo was bold enough to say that he hoped Mr. Porry would not remember these tunes too well. The moment he had spoken, he regretted having done so, but Mr. Pitsner, though it had been hinted to him that he might be a possible thief, showed no signs of resentment. He merely shook his head. “We shan’t steal them, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “It wouldn’t pay us. Some people would, people in a small way. But it wouldn’t be worth our while. As a matter of fact, Porry’s here to prevent you stealing. No old stuff, you see, with a note or two altered. That won’t do. If we want anything like that, we can manufacture it here. Now would you like Porry to run through them on the piano or will you do it yourself?”

Inigo said he would do it himself, but he did not feel very cheerful about it. No worse audience than Mr. Pitsner could possibly be imagined. It was incredible that he could be connected in any way with the rows of silly songs and the photographs and the screaming placards below. It did not look as if earthquakes and revolutions could arouse in him the least interest, let alone a few jingles. Mr. Porry, a nondescript middle-aged man, arrived and accepted one of those cynical Egyptian cigarettes, and then Inigo dashed into one of his later numbers. Having got through one, he did not wait to hear any comment from the two sitting behind him, but went straight on to the next, keeping that Going Home number of Susie’s and “Slippin’ Round the Corner” until the last. By the time he had come to these two, he had lost any feeling of diffidence. He was simply enjoying himself at the piano again, and if Messrs. Pitsner and Porry did not like it, they could jolly well lump it. He slipped round the corner with all his old mischievous spirit. The music was in front of him, just as a matter of form; he never looked at it. He let the old tune rip, and as he played, odd little images of people and places, from Mrs. Tarvin and Washbury Manor to Rawsley and Sandybay and Susie and Elsie, Miss Trant and Oakroyd, came glimmering and joggling through his mind.

“A-ha, a-ha!” a great voice roared in his ear. “What have we here? Listen to this, Monte. Tumpty-tum-tidee-dee. Don’t stop, ol’ man, don’t stop. Let her have it once more.”

Two other men were now in the room. The one who was imploring Inigo not to stop was a big fellow with a paunch, a swollen face, and a humorous eye. That was Mr. Tanker. The other, Monte, was no other than Mr. Monte Mortimer, whose name was known even to Inigo, who did not pretend to much knowledge of the theatre, as a producer of revues. Mr. Mortimer was rather like a smallish, plump, and shaven Assyrian. He would have looked perfectly at home superintending the preparations for some gorgeous and possibly depraved entertainment at the Court of Nineveh. This life of big hits and gigantic successes had not left him so weary as it had Mr. Pitsner, but on the other hand he had nothing of Mr. Tanker’s gusto and good-fellowship.

“I’d like to hear those things through,” said Mr. Mortimer, after there had been introductions and explanations.

Mr. Pitsner nodded. “You ought to. I’d thought about you before you came in. I rather think they’re what you’re looking for,” he added, in his usual tones of quiet despair.

“Two sure winners there at least, if you ask me,” Mr. Pony put in, with the air of a man who knows the value of his opinion even though it has not been sought.

“That last is one, Porry,” cried the genial Mr. Tanker. “It’s tricky. It really is, by God it is. Tricky. You could plug that one till the roof went, Monte, and they wouldn’t mind. Not like most of the bitchy stuff we have to keep playing. Have you got the words there, ol’ man? Good. Well, when you come round to that one again, I’ll sing it. I will, I’ll sing it. And don’t let anybody tell me after this that we baton-waggers are jealous. We don’t know what jealousy is. Now then, ol’ man, let her have it again.”

Inigo did let her have it, and Mr. Tanker, who was Mortimer’s musical director and a composer of these things himself, stood by the piano, humming and tapping and beating time, putting in some amusing little saxophone, banjo, and trombone parts. When they came to “Slippin’ Round the Corner,” he produced a husky little tenor voice that battled manfully with the song. Inigo, who by this time had decided that he did not give a damn for any of them, darted and flashed among the keys, in which antics he was finally assisted by Mr. Tanker, who put in fantastic little variations, in the high treble. And now another voice was there, humming away. It had brought with it all the perfumes of Araby. Inigo was aware of a presence, somewhere near him, but until he had banged the final chord there was no time to make out what it was.

“Whoa!” cried Mr. Tanker, mopping his brow. “Hello, Ethel! Isn’t that a beauty? They’re all damned good, but the last two are real hell-busters.”

“Don’t tell me you wrote that, Jimmy,” said the lady who had just arrived. She spoke in a strong metallic voice, and indeed she looked a strong metallic person. Inigo recognized her at once as Miss Ethel Georgia, the well-known revue and musical-comedy artiste. He had seen her on the stage once or twice, and had seen dozens of photographs of her. Behind the footlights she was a ravishing creature, but at close range everything about her, her face, her figure, her clothes, her voice, her whole personality, was overpowering, too stunning. Inigo felt as if he were being introduced to an amiable blonde tigress.

“He’s just popped in from Little Woozlum or Puddleton-on-the-Slag,” Mr. Tanker explained, “and brought in a bunch of winners. That’s one you’ve just heard.”

“What you have just heard, ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Georgia wheezed nasally, in a parody of those dance-band men who announce their tunes, “is Ethel Georgia’s new number, to be featured with sensational success in Mr. Monte Mortimer’s forthcoming revue Who Did?”

“I’m not so sure about that, Ethel,” Mr. Mortimer called out.

“I am, Monte,” she retorted, with a flash of personality that was like a magnesium fire. “I want it.”

“We’ll see about that,” he replied easily. There was, however, a certain suggestion that he had tamed tigresses in his Assyrian days and could still do the trick, if necessary.

They all began talking at once, even the mournful Pitsner, who somehow contrived to hold his own with the others without raising his flat sad voice. Meanwhile, however, Inigo found himself talking to another new arrival who must have come in with Miss Georgia. He was a rotund fellow, most unwisely dressed in a plus-fours suit of glaring Harris tweed. As he peered at Inigo through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, Inigo felt that there was something familar about this rather droll face.

“I’d like to have a look through those other numbers,” he said, “before Ethel grabs the lot.” Miss Georgia was now in the middle of the room, arguing with Mortimer and Tanker. “If she gets her lily-white hand on ’em, no earthly chance for yours truly. She’s a terror. I’ll bet you’re wondering what the devil I’m doing here in these clothes. Well, I’ll tell you. I ought to be just laying one nicely on the green now, out at Esher, but she rings me up, not ten minutes before I was due to start. And did I get my golf? Be yourself! Drags me round here, round everywhere. And I’ve got a matinée this afternoon. I’ve to be funny from ten to three until five to five. She’s all right, she’s not working till Monte puts on his new show. But look at me. Still working, rehearsing Monte’s show⁠—or what there is of it⁠—and then can’t get a round of golf in. Oh, she’s wicked! Here, even the wife’s frightened of her. ‘Tell her you won’t go,’ she says to me. ‘Tell her yourself,’ I says. And did she? What a hope! Now let’s have a look at these songs.”

By this time Inigo thought he had recognized him. “Aren’t you Mr. Alfred Nott?”

“I am. I’m the only man in England who is not not Mr. Alfred Nott. Can you squeeze a laugh out of that? I thought not. Trouble about that gag is, if you’re sober it doesn’t amuse you and if you’re canned, you can’t work it out. Every time I used to meet old Billy Crutch when he was soaked, I used to tell him that one, and believe me or believe me not, it bothered him so much he always ordered a black coffee and then went home in a cab, to think it out. Here, this looks a good number. Just tiddle it quietly, will you, old boy?”

But Inigo was not allowed to do any quiet tiddling. The others pounced upon him, though even when they had him in their midst they still went on talking to one another. It is true they were talking about him. He could not help wondering what would happen if he quietly walked out.

“The point is, Pitsner, you’ve got to let me have the first cut,” said Mr. Mortimer. “And so long as the rights are tied up⁠—”

“So long as they are,” said Mr. Pitsner, out of the depths of his weary cynicism and Egyptian smoke.

“Well, you know that’s all right so far as we’re concerned. You can tie that string on the dog’s tail now,” Mr. Mortimer continued.

Miss Georgia yawned spectacularly at the lot of them. “Hurry up, for God’s sake, Monte, and buy that bunch, anyhow. You’ve got one number so far that’s worth a damn, and I brought that one in.”

“Right, Ethel, quite right,” said Mr. Tanker heartily. “I know ’cos I wrote some of the duds myself. But then I’m not jealous. I’m not a comedienne.”

“Aren’t you, Jimmy?” she cried. And then she let out a sudden hard peal of laughter. “You never know till you’ve tried. A bit of crêpe de Chine, Jimmy, and some powder might work miracles. Come round and I’ll see what I can do for you, sweetie.”

“Keep the big gags for the night, Miss Georgia,” said Mr. Tanker with tremendous mock severity. “And now let’s get on with the business. I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Pitsner held up his hand and looked at Inigo. “We like these things of yours, Mr.⁠—er⁠—Jollifant⁠—”

“You’ve got it in you, old boy,” the irrepressible Mr. Tanker put in, clapping Inigo on the shoulder. “Your fortune’s made⁠—nearly.”

“The point is this.” It was Mr. Mortimer’s turn now. “I can use all those numbers you’ve got there. And some more, if they’re as good. And some more after that. Performing rights, sheet music, gramophone records⁠—well, you know what happens or you ought to do. There’s bags of money in it, as you know, bags and bags. And Mr. Pitsner here and I can start you going. All right. Well, I understand you came up to see Felder and Hunterman. You’re not tied up to anybody else, not even negotiating with ’em, is that right?”

“Correct, absolutely,” replied Ingio cheerfully. “Nobody in London has heard these things, though I don’t mind telling you they’ve been a colossal hit in all sorts of places you’ve never heard of. With my troupe, you know.”

“That’s what Milbrau wrote to me,” said Mr. Pitsner sadly. “Getting over tremendously in⁠—where is it? Gatford. He said they were eating it.”

“Good! I’ll bet they were,” cried Mr. Mortimer, who seemed to be in an excellent temper now. “Well, my⁠—Mr.⁠—er⁠—Jollifant⁠—you’ve come to the right firm, no doubt about that, and of course you’ll be willing to publish here. That right?”

“I should think so.”

“And as you happen to be a lucky man,” Mr. Mortimer continued smoothly, “you’ve struck⁠—this morning of all mornings⁠—the one man who’s looking for you. That’s me. I could easily come the old game, discourage you, say we’ve plenty of stuff just as good, and so on, but that’s not my style, and if it was, I shouldn’t be Monte Mortimer⁠—”

“So three cheers for the red, white, and blue,” cried Miss Georgia derisively. “Band, please!”

“If you’re solid with Felder and Hunterman, that’ll do Mr. Pitsner here. Now I come in. I use those numbers”⁠—he paused impressively⁠—“and I use some more.”

“Bravo!” cried Mr. Tanker.

“Now you’re talking like a man, Monte,” said Miss Georgia, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. Give the boy his chance. And give this little girl one too. That number about slipping is mine from now on, eh?”

“So there you are,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling at Inigo. “And now what do you say?”

This was when Inigo began. “I’ve a good deal to say,” he announced, with a highly creditable appearance of complete calm.

“I know.” Mr. Mortimer waved a hand. Messrs. Pitsner, Tanker and Porry smiled in concert. “Terms, of course. Don’t you worry. The terms will be all right. They’re going to surprise you.”

Inigo grinned. “That’s what we’re going to talk about. I’ve got some terms too. I hope they won’t surprise you. But they might.”

They all stared at him, and Miss Georgia pursed up her scarlet lips and produced a droll little whistle. Then Mr. Mortimer looked at Mr. Pitsner, and Mr. Tanker looked at Mr. Porry. If one of the armchairs had suddenly made a remark, had perhaps pointed out that it was getting rather tired of that room, they could hardly have been more astonished. Inigo walked over to where Mr. Alfred Nott was still examining the manuscript music.

“I fancy this one,” said Mr. Nott. “Here, ol’ man, you’re not taking it away, are you?”

“For the time being,” replied Inigo firmly, “I am.” And he gathered the sheets together and then put them in the small attaché case he had brought with him. He did this with great deliberation, and reminded himself that no man who could justifiably be called feeble would have been able to achieve such calm and poise.

Somebody coughed. Then Miss Georgia, who was clearly enjoying the situation, suddenly let out a harsh scream of laughter. There was a murmur of voices. Inigo turned and rejoined the group.

“I must say I don’t quite⁠—” Mr. Pitsner began.

Mr. Mortimer interrupted him. “Leave this to me, Pitsner,” he said. “You’re all right in this. Now then, Mr. Jollifant⁠—”

“What about a drink?” cried Mr. Tanker jovially. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Monte? For God’s sake, let’s have a drink before there’s any more talking.”

“I’m agreeable,” said Mr. Mortimer. “We’ll run round and have a look at Robert. He ought to be having an inspiration about now. Come on, Mr. Jollifant. Bye-bye, Pitsner, that’ll be all right.”

As they filed out, Inigo was rewarded with a huge friendly grimace from the redoubtable Miss Georgia. “I don’t know what you’re pulling,” she whispered, “but some of you nice boys from college have got a Nerve. You’d get away with murder.” She squeezed his arm. “You freeze him a bit. It’ll do Monte good.”

But Inigo could only stammer vaguely in reply to this. Faced with Miss Georgia, he had no nerve. She terrified him.

III

Robert proved to be a grave, white-coated American who stood behind a cocktail bar in the glittering basement of one of the West End hotels. Inigo did not know which hotel it was. He knew very little about these establishments, and then everything had happened so quickly. Leaving Messrs. Pitsner and Porry behind, the four of them had rushed down and entered an enormous car; the car had shot them round several corners; and after that he found himself looking at Robert. The entry of Robert upon the scene did not make for clarity and a steady progression of events. After two of his cocktails, the very largest and strongest that Inigo had ever tasted, Inigo found the day tended to slip further and further into unreality. He himself was all right, solidly there in the centre and quite determined to do all that he had planned to do, but everything else, however bright and noisy it might be, was at some remove from himself and reality, all phantasmagoria. Throughout he realized that Mr. Monte Mortimer was a personage of great power and influence, who had only to clap his hands and your name would be in all the papers and on all the hoardings, but he did not feel any respect for him because, after all, Mr. Mortimer too was a figure in the phantasmagoria.

That is why Inigo, after being asked what the idea was, did not hesitate to speak out boldly. “You like these things I’ve written, don’t you?” he said. “You want to use them, and you’d like me to write some more?”

“That’s it. And you’re lucky, as I told you before. Hello, Tommy! Yes, I want to talk to you, but you’ll have to wait. All right, make it Tuesday.” These last remarks, of course, were not addressed to Inigo but to some stranger who wanted to join them. The place was filling with people, and most of them seemed to be anxious to talk to Mr. Mortimer. “Yes you’re lucky.”

“No doubt you’re right, absolutely,” said Inigo, speaking with great firmness and looking sternly at two people, a very large man and a very small woman, who threatened to break in. “But I don’t care much about that. In fact I don’t give a damn.”

“What!” Mr. Mortimer was horrified.

“Not really⁠—not a damn. If you don’t mind my putting it that way. I’m not trying to be offensive, you know, please understand that. Hello, is this for me?” For two more glasses, charged with the sorceries of the grave Robert, had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

“It is,” replied Mr. Mortimer, a trifle grimly. Could this fantastic young man be drunk? The query, a hopeful one, was there in his quick glance at the glass.

“I want you,” Inigo continued, after smiling at Mr. Nott, who intimated from a distance that the latest drink had been provided by him, “I want you to see a friend of mine, one of the girls in our concert party.”

“Ah!” And Mr. Mortimer put a great deal of meaning into this single syllable.

“I don’t want you to engage her, naturally,” said Inigo with dignity. “You haven’t seen her. But once you see her you’ll want to give her a part. She’s a genius.”

Mr. Mortimer smiled. Then he nodded to several people, presumably important people, people with names and careers in the profession, people who would only be too glad if he would give them even the smallest part. And then he smiled again.

“Genius,” said Inigo again. “The real thing.”

The other was paternal. “Don’t you bother your head about your concert party, my boy. You’ve done with that. In a month or two, you’ll laugh when you think of it. You will.”

“Because you’ve taken my songs, you mean?”

“That’s right. You’ll be too busy.”

“Can’t be done,” said Inigo, who felt vaguely that this was a good hard businesslike phrase. “Can’t be done, absolutely. Those are my terms. You’ve got to have a look at this girl⁠—‘see her working’ as they say in The Stage advertisements. Otherwise, no songs. I don’t want to be vulgar⁠—though I feel it’s all in the part⁠—but take it or leave it.”

“But my dear chap,” the great man protested, “it’s absurd. It’s all right standing by your friends⁠—done it myself⁠—but who d’you think I am? Of course I know there’s always a certain amount of new talent knocking about in the provinces⁠—I’ve gone down and spotted a few myself in my time⁠—but really you can’t expect me, Monte Mortimer, to go and have a look at a girl in a concert party I never heard of, you can’t expect it, you can’t really! No, damn it!”

“If you saw this girl⁠—her name’s Susie Dean, by the way,” Inigo added, with a little thrill of pleasure, “you’d jump at her. Somebody will very soon, I can tell you that. And it might as well be you.”

Mr. Mortimer shook his head and smiled like one who pities innocent and impressionable youth, ignorant as yet of this hard world.

This would not do for Inigo. “You never heard of these songs of mine before, did you? Well, this girl’s better than those songs. And as a matter of fact there’s a fellow too in the party, a light comedian and dancer, who’s first-class too. This is no ordinary concert party, I can tell you. Hang it, I ought to know. This girl’s worth fifty of that Georgia woman. Take my word for it. Why, if somebody had told you yesterday about these songs of mine, you wouldn’t have believed them.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Mortimer dubiously. “But now I’ve heard the songs.”

“And tonight you’ll see this girl,” Inigo told him.

“Tonight! You’re crazy.”

“The place is Gatford.”

“I never heard of it,” Mr. Mortimer moaned. “What d’you call it? Gatford? My God! Tonight at Gatford! Oh, come now, you’ve had your laugh⁠—let’s talk sense, let’s get down to business.”

“I have got down to it,” Inigo pointed out. “I’m up to the neck in it, absolutely. No Gatford, no songs.”

“It’s blackmail, my dear chap, it really is. You can’t dictate to me like that. You’re cutting your own throat.”

“As to that,” Inigo told him, at once heartily and firmly, “I don’t give a damn. Have another of Robert’s potions?”

“We must get a bit of food,” said Mr. Mortimer. “I ordered a table here. You must lunch with me.”

“Delighted! And, thank you. But I warn you,” Inigo added, “I shan’t unbend. The more food and drink I have, the more iron goes into my will. Even now it’s got a metallic sound.”

“Hang on a minute, my boy,” said Mr. Mortimer, darting Assyrian glances to left and right. “Hello, Jeff! ’Lo, Milly. Yes, in a minute.” And off he went.

Inigo found himself talking to Mr. Alfred Nott, who popped up as quickly and quietly as a fish out of the sea. The place was very full now, and Robert and his assistants or acolytes were concocting and shaking and pouring out and handing over their liquid fire-and-ice as fast as they could. Everybody talked at once, at full speed, and at the top of his voice. Inigo was trying to tell Mr. Nott, who was a friendly little man, all about the Good Companions, but other people’s conversations or, rather, monologues were forever getting in the way. He was compelled to learn that about twenty shows were rotten, their theatres full of paper every night; that various gentlemen of the profession had been touched for tenners; that various ladies had said once and for all that they were not going to have their salaries slashed like that and that if Mr. Fenkel didn’t like it he could do the other thing; that Queenie was at her old game, grabbing all the fat; that it was as much as your life was, worth at the Pall Mall to get a laugh when Tommy Mawson was on.

“Did you say you knew Jimmy Nunn?” roared Inigo.

“Know him well,” replied Mr. Nott, in his wheezing voice. “Me and Jimmy⁠ ⁠… panto in Burnley in nineteen⁠—let me see⁠—it must have been⁠—”

“What?”

“It died standing, believe me,” said a voice right in Inigo’s ear.

He jumped and looked round. “What? I beg your pardon,” he gasped.

“Granted,” said the owner of the voice, with grave politeness. “I said it died standing. The remark was not addressed to you.”

“I know it wasn’t, now,” said Inigo. “I’m sorry.”

“But for your information, I may say it referred to the act of Kramer and Konley at the New York Palace,” the man continued bitterly. “The act died standing and now they’re through with Big Time. Isn’t that so, Oby?”

“I’ll say it is,” said a voice from the other side.

“Thanks very much,” said Inigo. He did not understand what they were talking about, but by this time it did not matter. This was not the ordinary sane world.

“Laugh,” cried Mr. Nott, who was apparently just finishing a story, “I thought I should never stop for weeks. You oughter seen him, ol’ man.” And he laughed himself, and so Inigo laughed too, having no doubt at all that it had been very funny indeed.

Then Mr. Mortimer arrived again, with various people swarming and crying in his wake, and said it was time they had a bit of food and led the way out of Robert’s domain into a much larger room, more glittering and noisier still, a medley of little tables and hurrying waiters and popping corks and Madame Butterfly with full tremolo effects. Mr. Nott went with them, and then Miss Georgia appeared again, bringing with her Mr. Tanker and two other people whose names Inigo never caught, a Semitic youth with waved hair and a small dark girl with the whitest face and reddest lips Inigo had ever seen. The moment they had sat down, waiters descended upon them with oysters and caviar and champagne and other things that Inigo ate and drank in a dim sort of way. Everybody talked at once, and Miss Georgia and Mr. Tanker, the Semitic youth and the small dark girl, all shouted to friends of theirs at other tables, and sometimes people stopped at the table because they “just had to tell you” and then Miss Georgia or the Semitic youth “just had to tell” them something back, so that it was like lunching in a painted and gilded pandemonium. Inigo, however, even when the champagne was still bubbling inside him, kept hold of the thread that had guided him from the real world into this sumptuous craziness, and though Mr. Mortimer affected the utmost incredulity and dismay, Inigo held on and only repeated his “terms”; a word he liked to bring out as often as possible because he felt it was a word of power. Mr. Mortimer began looking at him with increasing respect. He condescended to ask questions, to which Inigo bellowed back (you had to bellow) the most enthusiastic replies. It was obvious that the great man was weakening. Inigo referred pointedly to the afternoon train he was catching, back to Gatford. The songs would be returning on that train too. Though of course they might come up to London again, those songs, quite soon.

“Get me a boy,” said Mr. Mortimer to a waiter. Though the lunch was still going on, he took Inigo to one side, away from the table. A great man does not announce a decision when he is barely eighteen inches from a mixed grill. “I’ll do it,” he said impressively. “It wrecks the rest of this day, but I can fix that. Tell me where I’ve got to go and don’t forget to see I’ve got a decent seat. Better wire now. I can run you down myself in my car. No, I can’t⁠—shan’t get down till about eight. How far is this place? About a hundred miles or so, eh? Do it under three hours and get back sometime tonight. You don’t think so? You don’t know my car, my boy. I’ll eat it.” And when the pageboy arrived, he gave him instructions and messages innumerable, and among them was one from Inigo, a wire to the Gatford Hippodrome to reserve one stall. The great Monte Mortimer would see the Good Companions. Inigo did not say so in his wire; he sang it softly but triumphantly in his heart. And all the lights in the place seemed to grow brighter; the waiters suddenly began bringing nectar and ambrosia; the tables were crowded with the drollest good fellows and the prettiest women in London, such laughter, such wit; and the orchestra stopped making an irritating noise and decided to play the most delicious little tunes, to fiddle you into a happy trance.

“I should like to ask you a question,” said Inigo carefully, when he was taking leave of Mr. Mortimer. “You’re a man of experience, you know the world. Do you honestly think I can be described as feeble?”

“As what?”

“Feeble is the word.”

“I could call you many things,” said Mr. Mortimer, perhaps a trifle grimly. “You’re a young man who could be called many things. But not feeble. If you’re feeble, most of the young men who work for me have been dead a long time. I don’t know what you’re like at pulling out the teeth of sharks, but in the ordinary way, just doing the ordinary sort of things, such as making a very busy and quite well-known theatrical producer go across England to see a pierrot show he’s never heard of before, you’re⁠—er⁠—well, you’re not feeble. And⁠—er⁠—” he paused, artfully.

“Well?”

“You can tell her that from me. And that’s where I get one in, don’t I? Thought so. See you tonight then, and my God, if this girl of yours is a frost, you’ll hear something from me. And, don’t forget, these numbers of yours have got to go with a bang. I’m banking on them, not the girl. Bye-bye.”

Inigo caught the 3:15. It sent him to sleep and then wakened him at Birmingham. The train from Birmingham to Gatford was crowded with young men who all seemed far more excited than Inigo was, though they had only been to a football match, whereas he had been⁠—well, where had he been? Oh, he didn’t know, it was all so absurd. Perhaps on the borders of a dream⁠—by train, and at a reduced fare, namely a single fare and a third for the double journey⁠—to a Charing Cross Road that might easily have begun swelling and quivering like a bubble. Felder and Hunterman, Pitsner and Porry⁠—the Anthropophagi and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. Gatford station, however, contrived to hint that it knew what was going on in his own head. “Stuff and nonsense!” it said, platforms, porters, kiosks, and all.

IV

Susie’s birthday tea-party, held in a large upstairs room in Miss Trant’s hotel was just finishing when Inigo arrived. There were signs that Mr. Morton Mitcham was about to make a speech over the ruins of the feast. Inigo, a little dazed and breathless, stammered something. Susie looked suddenly frozen; not a glimmer of welcome on her face. Miss Mamie Potter was not there because she had not been invited. But Jerry Jerningham was not there, either, though Inigo knew that he had been invited. All the others were present and were now looking at him reproachfully. No one knew where he had been.

“Nay, Inigo,” said Mr. Oakroyd, who liked to speak his mind on all occasions, “this is no time to turn up, lad. I thowt you’d ha’ been t’first here, I did an’ all.”

“That’s right,” said Joe, with that complacent want of tact which made Mrs. Joe, even yet, despair of him. “Where in the name of goodness have you been to, young feller? We want an apology from you.”

“Oh, shut up, Joe,” cried Susie. “We don’t want anything of the kind. It doesn’t matter. What were you saying, Jimmy?”

“I’m awfully sorry, Susie,” said Inigo. “You see⁠—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, coldly and wearily, and then she looked at Jimmy as if it were a pleasure to see a real human being.

Inigo sat down, and, though he knew his triumph was at hand, he could not help wishing that Mr. Monte Mortimer was waiting outside. They all began talking again, and he felt out of it. “Where’s Jerningham?” he asked finally.

“Couldn’t come, he said,” replied Mrs. Joe, in a whisper that carried further than any ordinary tone. “He sent a note and a present⁠—very nice, too⁠—I mean the present⁠—a box of handkerchiefs, all in good taste, and very acceptable, upon my word, I was surprised. That young man is a Mystery to me, and I don’t believe in making them⁠—mysteries, you know. If he’d come and brought nothing, that wouldn’t have surprised me. If he’d brought his present himself, that wouldn’t have surprised me, either. But not coming himself and yet sending such a nice present, now that is surprising. He’s a Mystery.”

But Inigo was not listening. He did not care whether Jerry Jerningham was a mystery or not. He was busy cursing himself because he had forgotten Susie’s present. He had meant to buy it in London. They had all given Susie something⁠—he could see the little parcels on the table⁠—only he had forgotten. True there was Mr. Monte Mortimer, who was really a large gift, but that was not the same thing. Here was Susie, twenty-one, never to be twenty-one again, though new solar systems should arise and new planets dawn in the blue, and he had not been here to wish her many happy returns and hand over something gloriously sumptuous and see her look at it, eager, excited, happy. She did not look a bit excited and happy now. Had her birthday party been a frost? Damn Felder and Hunterman and Monte Mortimer! He ought not to have bothered about them. And what did Jerningham, the little bounder, mean by not turning up, merely sending some snivelling handkerchiefs?

“Well, Miss Trant, boys and girls,” said Jimmy rising, “time to go, if you ask me. We’ll wish Susie all the good luck she deserves⁠—and good health, that’s a great thing in the profession, I give you my word⁠—after the show tonight. We ought to go and have a bit of a rest. It’s a big night tonight, house booked right up, and all for Susie here. Gatford’s going to get the show of its life tonight, I say, so we’d better take it easy for an hour or so before we start. That’s all right, isn’t it, Susie?”

Susie nodded, smiling at him but not too cheerfully. They all drifted away from the table. There was a movement towards the door. Susie began gathering up her little packages. This was Inigo’s opportunity.

“Look here, Susie, I’m awfully sorry,” he began.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and turned away. The others were going now.

This would not do at all. He grabbed hold of her wrist. “I’m awfully sorry I couldn’t get here in time,” he added quickly, “and I’ve gone and forgotten your present too. No, you must listen, you must.”

“I don’t want to hear anything about it. Let me go.”

“I won’t until you’ve heard what I have to say. You see, I had to go up to London today⁠—”

“London!” There was a quick change of tone.

“Yes, London. I didn’t tell anybody I was going. I had to see Felder and Hunterman, the music people⁠—”

“Inigo, your songs! They’ve been hearing them. Have they taken them? Do tell me, quick!” She was excited enough now, and all her eagerness was for him and his songs; she was not thinking about herself at all. And this was a wonderful moment for him. He had sometimes thought she was selfish, and many a time, long after that day, he was to think so again, but the recollection of that moment in the hotel at Gatford always drove the thought out of his head.

“They want them all right,” he began slowly.

“Oh, go on, go on. You’re so slow. Tell me all about it quick. If you don’t I shall think you’re feeble again.”

“Well, you see, that man Monte Mortimer heard them too and wants them for a new revue of his.”

“Inigo!” She gave a little scream of delight. Then her face fell. “You’re pulling my leg. You never saw Monte Mortimer.”

“I did, I tell you, Susie.” And he told her what had happened in Mr. Pitsner’s room. She listened, breathless.

“You’re made, my dear,” she cried. “You’ll be rolling soon. Marvellous! I am glad. And now the poor old Good Companions are busted. Yes, they are⁠—bound to be.” Then, after a pause: “But I’ll tell you straight, I hate to think of Ethel Georgia singing those numbers. You ought to have told him about me,” she added wistfully.

“I did, woman, I did,” roared Inigo in triumph. “I told him about nothing else.”

“You didn’t, did you? Did he say anything? Laugh, I suppose?”

“Laugh be blowed! I’d have given him laugh. What he said doesn’t matter. The point is he’s coming to the show tonight.”

“What!” This time it was a scream. She shook him hard. “Inigo, don’t be so daft. He’s not coming here.”

“He’s coming here to see the show tonight,” he repeated with great deliberation and emphasis. “As a matter of fact he’s coming to see you.”

“Monte Mortimer!”

“The great chief himself⁠—if he is a great chief.”

“But how?⁠—why?⁠—I mean, how did you do it? Oh, I don’t believe it.”

“I just told him to come down, and he’s coming down. I’ve reserved a seat for him. I may be feeble, but when I start⁠—”

“Oh, shut up about being feeble! I never meant it anyhow. Let me think a minute. No, I can’t think. Oh, I shall be all in bits. I’ve thought about something like this happening so many times that now I can’t bear it. I feel funny already. I shall make a mess of it.”

Inigo was alarmed. “Perhaps I ought not to have told you.”

“Of course you ought, silly. I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t. I shall be all right when the time comes. If I’m not, then I’m no good. Gosh, what a chance!” She went twirling away, then just as suddenly came back to him, looking thoughtful. “Suppose he doesn’t like me. That’ll be a ghastly washout, won’t it?”

“He’ll like you all right,” said Inigo. “If he doesn’t he’s a fathead, absolutely. And he won’t get any songs of mine. Under which king, Besonian, speak or die! That’s what I shall say to him.”

“Darling! But look here, Inigo, I’m not going to let you tie those songs of yours to me like that⁠—”

“Listen to me. Never mind about that.” He caught hold of her hands. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner for your party⁠—”

“Don’t rub it in. I couldn’t help it, being furious, could I? You ought to have told me what you were going to do. Though it’s more exciting like this, I must say, Inigo.”

“That’s the point. If nothing had happened, you’d have been disappointed and your birthday would have been mucked up, absolutely. As it is, I forgot your present⁠—”

“You didn’t. The great Monte’s my present. Marvellous present!”

“And I never wished you anything. It isn’t too late, is it? Many happy returns of the day, Susie.”

“Thank you.” She said this quietly, demurely. But then, with a glorious rush: “Oh⁠—I’m an idiot⁠—but I’m so happy. Inigo, you are a darling.” And her arms were about his neck and she had kissed him, all in a flash.

For a minute or two he held her there. No, not for a minute or two. These were not minutes, to be briskly ticked away by the marble clock on the mantelpiece and then lost forever; the world of Time was far below, wrecked, a darkening ruin, forgotten; he had burst through into that enchanted upper air where suns and moons rise, stand still, and fall at the least whisper of the spirit. Let us leave him there. We must remember that he was a romantic and extravagant youth and very much in love⁠—a young ass. Nor must we forget that such asses do have such moments. Isis still appears to them as she once appeared to that Golden Ass of the fable, and they still feed upon her roses and are transfigured.