Читать книгу First Person Paramount - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 4

My name is Agar Hume. My mother died when I was two years old. My father was the first violin in a second-rate music hall orchestra at Birmingham. He had once been a gentleman. He taught me French and how to play the flute. Between whiles he treated me like a dog. He wished me to become a member of his orchestra. My tastes, however, inclined to the stage. From early childhood I had possessed an almost perfect talent for mimicry. When I was nineteen years old, there was not an artist I had ever seen whom I could not represent to the life. One morning, about that time, in a fit of drunken rage my father gave me a terrible beating. I was then somewhat undersized—the result of irregular meals and bad food. I could neither retaliate nor defend myself. That night, as soon as my father had set off for the theatre, I ran away from home. I walked to Liverpool, and easily obtained employment at a music hall, where for three years I nightly imitated every actor and person of note whom the Liverpudlians wished to see. They grew tired of me at last and ceased to applaud my turn. I was promptly discharged by the management. Not caring to return to Birmingham, as my father had never forgiven me for deserting him, I made my way to London. I had saved a little money, and I thought that before it was spent I should procure a new engagement. The London market, however, was simply glutted with mimics, and before three months had passed I was penniless and still without a place. I haunted the theatres and employment agencies to no purpose. I was obliged to pawn my wardrobe, and at last a day came when I stood in the Strand owning nothing in the world but the suit of decent black I wore and my make-up box, which I carried in my hand because I had been turned out of my lodging-house that morning. I had not tasted food for four-and-twenty hours. I mentioned the latter fact ten minutes later to the manager of the next employment agency I visited. He had seen me so often that he knew me well, and he sympathized with my misfortune.

"Look here," said he, "if you are so hard up as all that, your only hope is to try your hand at something else. There is no chance for you at the theatres."

"I'm ready to turn boot-black!" I assured him.

"Well, well," said he, "a client of ours inquired yesterday for a valet. If you are really willing to put your pride in your pocket, I shall personally recommend you."

"I have no pride," I answered, "but I have also no experience."

He gave me a pitying smile. "Certainly not, but I believe that you are hungry—you look it!"

I was so hungry indeed that I thanked him warmly, and a few minutes afterwards I was walking as fast as I could towards Piccadilly with a letter in my pocket which bore the following address:—"Sir William Dagmar, Bart., 22a Curzon Street."

It was a small two-storied house, but it looked good, and I raised the knocker tremblingly.

A footman opened the door, to whom I gave my precious letter. He was civil because my clothes were well cut, and because I have the appearance of a gentleman. He invited me to a seat in an anteroom, and went off with my letter. When he returned, he carried his nose in the air, and his bearing was unaffectedly contemptuous.

"Huh!" he sniffed. "Step this way, but wipe your shoes on that mat first, please!"

I obeyed. He led me to a room on the first floor, opened the second door and announced in an oily voice

"The valet—Sir William."

Had I been a man of pride, I should have felt offended. As it was I walked into the room quite undisturbed, and with the most respectful mien I was able to assume.

The door closed behind me. The walls of the room, which was a large one, were piled from floor to ceiling with books, which ran in long straggling tiers, on shelves of carven oak. Books littered the carpet about the bases of the shelves. Rows of books lying one upon another, were heaped upon an immense table that occupied the centre of the room. Dust covered the books. A revolving bookcase crammed with books stood beside the chair upon which Sir William Dagmar sat. The apartment resembled, except for its air of general untidiness, nothing so much as a corner in the British Museum library. It possessed no windows, and was lighted from the roof like a gallery of pictures. I am a keenly observant man by nature, and from a lad I had persistently developed my peculiar faculty for the sake of my profession. At that time it was only necessary for me to glance at a place, person or thing in order to photograph its character and details on my mind. A second after I entered the room I looked at Sir William, but I had already said to myself: "A book-worm!"

So he appeared, and nothing to my surprise. He was of middle size and age. His features were regular and even handsome. His complexion was yellow and bloodless. He possessed a broad rather high forehead, and a large head covered with a mass of stubbly iron-grey hair. His nose was long and straight. His chin was a trifle weak. He was clean shaven. The key to his face was his mouth. It was large and sensitive. It had a trick of screwing itself up at the corners, and sending the upper lip into a curl of sneering querulousness, which I immediately experienced an itch to imitate. His teeth were long, even and very white, but the right incisor was lacking, and this circumstance made his voice sound slightly sibilant. His eyes were grey like my own, but they were set deeper in his head, and the man had twice my weight of years stooping his narrow shoulders.

He regarded me appraisingly. "I need a valet," he began. His voice was querulous like his mouth.

"Yes, sir," said I.

"You are recommended by Mr. Bray. You look young—rather too young. Why did you leave your last place?"

"My employer could not afford to keep me any longer. I was with him for three years, sir."

"Show me your references."

I had expected that demand. "I gave them to Mr. Bray, sir," I answered glibly. "Did he not send them on to you? He said he would enclose them in his letter!"

Sir William shook his head, and a bored look crept into his eyes. "I suppose they are all right," he muttered wearily. "I like your voice; it is soft. If you want to please me never raise it. My head aches very easily."

"I shall remember, sir," I answered in my mildest accents.

"When could you commence your duties?"

"At once, sir."

He raised his eyebrows, then nodded languidly.

"Very well. I shall give you a trial. Your wages will be £5 a month and your keep. Butts, the footman, will show you to your room and explain my ways to you. I shall ring when I require you."

"Thank you, sir."

"By the way, Bray writes me that your name is Agar Hume. I dislike it. Once upon a time I had a friend named Hume. I shall call you Brown."

"Very good, sir."

I backed out of the room, and as I half expected found the footman in the passage. His air of defiant indifference informed me that he had been listening through the keyhole. He was an owlish looking creature, but there were garrulous wrinkles about his eyes and lips which determined me to treat him civilly.

"Sir William has engaged me, Mr. Butts," I said in a low voice. "Will you be good enough to show me to my room. I am to start work at once."

"You won't stay here long," he mumbled as he tip-toed off. "They never do."

I had no intention of staying one day longer than I could help. But I did not confide the fact to Butts. As I followed him my one thought was to get my hands on food as soon as possible. I was desperately hungry. He took me upstairs to an attic room at the back of the house. It was small, but well lighted and clean, also it smelt of lavender. It contained a deal wardrobe with a full length mirror, a truckle bed, a dressing table and a wash stand. There was also a carpet on the floor. I felt pleased, but I was famished.

"Here you hare!" growled Butts.

I put down my make-up box, and faced him.

"I should like to be friends with you, Mr. Butts," I said. "I dare say we shall be cast a good deal in each other's company. What do you say?" I offered him my hand.

He grinned and took it. My apparent ingenuousness had melted him at once. He was not a bad hearted fellow, it seemed.

"All right," he said. "What's yer name?"

"Brown."

"What did yer think of 'im," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"A book-worm, isn't he—but what do you say if we discuss him over a glass of beer and some bread and cheese?"

"Good!" said Butts, and with an alacrity that delighted me, he led the way by the servants' staircase to the pantry on the ground floor. For beer, however, he gave me port wine, and for bread and cheese a cold partridge.

"You seem to live well here," I commented with my mouth full.

"So so!" answered Butts with a sigh. "Tucker's all right—but it's so cursed lonely. Master never goes out, except to meals, and it's very seldom he hever has any company here, honly about once a month."

"Oh! a bit of a hermit, eh?"

"A bloomin' misanthrope—that's what I call him! He 'ates noise like poison. Hif I was to drop a plate 'e'd ring to know what the devil I meant by it?"

"Married?"

"No. He 'ates women wors'n noise, I believe."

"How does he pass his time?"

"Reads all day—half the night too."

"What does he want with a valet, then?"

"You'll soon find out," said Butts with a snort of contempt.

"Please tell me."

Butts wagged his head. "Bar shavin' him you won't 'ave much to do, 'cept give him his medicines at the proper hours. He's a sick man is Sir William Dagmar! The last valet 'e had here, Joe Bates, was a real smart un he was. He'd done for Lord X—— and Mr. Francis, and a lot more tip-toppers. He was just celebrated for fixing hevenin' dress ties; and Sir William always wears ready made ones to save trouble. Bates got the miserables in a week, an' hup an' cleared out before the fortnight was up."

"What is the matter with Sir William?"

"Consumption! He's got it bad!"

"Oh! is he rich?"

"Rich as Croesus."

"Any relatives?"

"A cousin he 'ates wors'n noise and wors'n women. A young chap name o' Sefton Dagmar. He's heir to the title, but I'm not thinkin' he'll get much o' the splosh. Sir William's got it all in Government bonds and he can leave it as he likes."

"What is this Sefton Dagmar like?"

"Not a bad sort. He's always haffable enough to me. He lives at Newhaven, but he calls here once in a while to see how Sir William is. But he hardly ever sees him. Hi! there's master's bell—I'll be back in a minute."

As soon as Butts had disappeared I gave my appetite free rein and a very hearty meal I made. He was absent a quarter of an hour, and on his return he wore a look of annoyance. "Nuisance!" he began. "He's halways worriting about this time. He's goin' to give a dinner party to-morrow night. He gives one every month. But he wants you! Hurry up, he 'ates to be kep waitin'."

I was up the stairs in a twinkle, and again standing before Sir William. He looked bored to death.

"Some gentlemen will dine with me to-morrow night, Brown," he drawled. "Six in all. Their names are on this paper, and their table places marked. I wish you to serve—Butts is a clumsy waiter."

I received the paper with a deferential bow. "Very good, sir!" I murmured.

"You will also see that card tables are arranged in the smoking room. Butts will order the dinner, he knows my ways. But you will take charge of the arrangements. You seem a capable young fellow."

"Thank you, sir!"

"And Brown," he frowned heavily.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't fill my glass too often. I am an invalid, you know, and wine does not agree with me. That is all. I shall not want you again until seven o'clock this evening, when you may dress me for dinner!"

Butts and I studied the paper that Sir William had given me, with the greatest attention. I soon gathered that the six gentlemen who were to dine with my master were not members of the smart set of society such as Butts called "tip-toppers," but men of intellectual attainment, and leaders of thought, if not of fashion. Butts knew them all. "They belong to Sir William's club, the 'Athenian,'" he remarked. "This here Sir Charles Venner who's to take the seat of honour is a cove what cuts up dead dogs and such like while they are alive."

"A vivisectionist?" I asked smiling.

"Don't know what you call 'em," responded Butts. "But he's doctor, and so is Mr. Fulton, who is to sit opposite on master's left. The next chap on the right—Luke Humphreys—is a hauthor, on political economy. Mr. Husband is the chap who wrote that article in the National Review on the weakness of the Navy, which kicked up such a blessed fuss a while since. You must have heard of him?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, George Cavanagh is an artist and a R.A. Master has one of his pictures in the dining room—you'll see it presently: a naked woman with a chap—'Love and Death' it's called."

I had much ado not to laugh outright. "I've seen prints of it," I muttered. "Who is the last, Mr. Nevil Pardoe, Butts?"

"He's a playwright," answered Butts with a sigh. "They're playin' one of his pieces now at the Kensington Theatre. I went there the other night and got my pocket picked for my trouble." He kicked over a chair as he spoke, as if carried away by temper in remembering his misfortune. The bell rang on instant. "Oh, Lor!" groaned Butts. "I'm in for it again, that man has the ears of a mole!"

He came back a few minutes later looking very sour. "Called me a clod hopper!" he growled in a low voice. "He's got a reptile tongue. But come upstairs, Brown, and I'll show you his bedroom—an' where he keeps his clothes an' things!"

It was an immense apartment, magnificently furnished. But it was very untidy and medicine bottles, some full, some empty, crowded the mantelpiece and dressing tables. The place smelt like a druggist's store. "I'll clear that rubbish away first thing," I declared. But the footman seized my arm as I caught up the first bottle. "He'd go ravin' stark starin' mad if one of them was shifted," he cried. "Don't you touch 'em, lad."

I shrugged my shoulders, and watched Butts ransack our master's wardrobe, he explaining to me the while certain preferences in matters of taste and dress which Sir William had always manifested. It appeared that he detested colours. All his suits were black, also his boots and gloves.

"You seem to know him so well, Butts," I remarked at last, "that I wonder more and more why he has not made you his valet."

"It's my haccent!" sighed Butts. "He can't abear it. Whenever I drop a haitch, in his 'earing, he shrivels up."

During the afternoon I borrowed half a sovereign from Butts, and purchased some fresh linen.

While dressing Sir William Dagmar later in the evening, I only spoke when he addressed me, and then in softest monosyllables. He seemed pleased with my attentions. But then I have frequently noticed that no man is hard to please whose idiosyncrasies are humoured when detected. He gave me a list of his medicines and the hours when they should be administered, after which he departed to dine at a neighbouring restaurant, in which his habit was to take most of his meals in a private room, perfectly alone.

Butts and I dined together in the pantry, and a merry time we spent, until our master's return, when noise was prohibited.

On the morrow the house was more or less in the hands of a bevy of restaurateurs preparing for the dinner. Sir William went out early in the morning, and he was absent all day, but he returned in time for me to dress him, and he appeared to be pleased with our arrangements. The table indeed looked magnificent, for I had taken care to deck it with flowers, and my taste in such matters is excellent. I did not see the guests until dinner was served, and they were all seated at the table. I wore an evening suit of my master's, which on Butts' advice I had borrowed beforehand without the formality of asking permission, having none of my own. Sir William was not an observant man, grace au Dieu! I entered the room noiselessly, and slipped behind my master's chair. The table had been previously spread with oysters. No one spoke, until the shells were emptied; meanwhile I studied the six attentively. They were intelligent, but cold-faced men. Sir Charles Venner had an enormous nose, and very small grey eyes. Dr. Fulton possessed a hare-lip. Mr. Humphreys rejoiced in a squint. George Cavanagh might have stepped from a portrait by Van Dyck, but he had a trick of screwing up the tip of his nose under the influence of excitement, at intervals, as a rabbit does. Mr. Husband put out his tongue, to meet his fork as he ate, he possessed a prodigious chin; and Mr. Nevil Pardoe had watchful heavy lidded eyes. These traits were their key-notes so to speak—their individual and predominant peculiarities, which distinguished them from each other and from other distinguished men. From the rest of the world, they were one and all distinguished by a common pallor of complexion, and a curious cough, which stamped them as consumptives.

As I removed their plates, Sir Charles Venner broke a silence that I at least was beginning to find oppressive. "I believe you will be the first to go after all, Dagmar!" he remarked in French, casting a keen glance at my master. "Pardoe seems picking up. He doesn't cough so much to-night." It was evident that no one suspected me of an acquaintanceship with French.

Sir William shrugged his shoulders. "I am ready," he returned. "But I don't think so. Will you bet, or any one?"

"I'll lay you even money that Pardoe turns up his toes before you, Dagmar!" cut in Mr. Husband.

"Very good," said Sir William. "How much?"

"A hundred!"

"It is a wager!" Sir William took out his pencil and scrawled some figures on his shirt cuff.

"I'll take you too, Husband," cried Mr. Cavanagh.

"And I," chorused Dr. Fulton and Sir Charles.

"No thanks," retorted Mr. Husband drily. "My book is full. How are you feeling yourself, Venner?"

"Nice and poorly, thanks, but with care I'll out-last the lot of you!" He broke out into a fit of coughing as he finished speaking, and the others bending forward, watched him eagerly. Their expressions reminded me of a lot of hungry carnivora eyeing a bone held just beyond their reach.

They drank their soup in silence, but while I served to them the entrée, they conversed again.

"I'm in the hands of a quack," began Nevil Pardoe. "The enterprising devil has agreed to cure me for the sake of an advertisement."

"Oh! How long?"

"Ten days now. Upon honour I feel a little better already."

"Where is he to be found?" demanded my master suddenly.

A roar of laughter drowned the reply. But Sir William looked annoyed. "It's not that I want to live," he explained in tones of anger. "I know I'm doomed, but Cavanagh stands to lose two thousand pounds—if I predecease Pardoe, and as he is only a poor devil of an artist—I'd like to improve his chances!"

"Quite so," sneered Sir Charles. "We all know your affection for Cavanagh. But my dear Dagmar, fair play is a jewel you know. You must kill or cure yourself off your own bat, unless you choose to pair with Pardoe and adopt his treatment altogether. Those are the rules."

"You need not remind me," said my master drily. "By the way, Husband, what was the result of your last examination?"

"Two pounds short of my former weight, but the hole in my remaining lung has not sensibly increased. Jackson gives me solid assurance of at least twelve months."

"Lucky devil!" sighed Mr. Cavanagh. "I'm booked in half the time, though I might drag on for a year or two if I were to try Egypt!"

"Has your limit been changed since our last meeting, Fulton," asked Mr. Pardoe.

"Only by effluxion of the intervening time. I'll feed the worms in just under ten months, unless a cab runs over me, or some other accident occurs."

Sir William raised his wineglass. "Gentlemen," said he, "I drink to the Tubercle Bacillus!"

"Our master!" chorused the others, and every glass was drained.

I quickly refilled all but Sir William's, wondering the while whether I had fallen among an assembly of ghouls, or if I was not the victim of some ghastly joke. The pièce de résistance of the dinner was a dressed calf's head, which Sir William Dagmar carved. Not one of his guests began to eat until all were helped. But when that was done, my master suddenly ordered me to leave the room. Butts regarded me enquiringly as I came out. "Spoke some foreign lingo, didn't they?" he asked.

I nodded.

"They allers do," he went on. "Why, I don't know, for the life o' me. A lot of death's heads I call them."

"They look like consumptives," I suggested.

"Like as not they hare!" he returned. "Look at this muss, Brown! What do you make of it?"

He held up a huge bowl of cream into which a hundred different species of nuts had been grated. "This is what they take for sweets," he said with a shiver. "It tastes 'orrible!"

"Perhaps it is medicine."

"May be. I spose you didn't make out hanything they said, Brown?"

"They spoke in French, Butts," I replied.

He shrugged his shoulders, and we waited for the bell. When it rang I took in the bowl of nut cream.

"Do you understand French, Brown?" demanded my master as soon as the door closed behind me.

"Not a word, sir."

"Very good. Serve the sweets, please."

A murmur of approval went round the table. The gentlemen ate their cream in silence, and washed it down with champagne. I refilled their glasses with the dexterity of an expert waiter, and I was about to resume my old place behind my master's chair, when he fixed me with his eyes, and addressed me suddenly in French. "Brown!" cried he, "leave the room this instant!"

I halted and looked at him with a stupid air. "Beg pardon, sir. Did you speak to me, sir?"

He smiled and answered in English. "Yes, Brown, fill my glass please. I forgot that you do not understand French!"

"You should have tested the fellow beforehand," said Sir Charles Venner in French. "The closer you approach your tomb, Dagmar, the more careless you become!"

"What does it matter," said my master wearily. "Pardoe, kindly present your report!"

Mr. Pardoe got slowly to his feet, and I marvelled to see for the first time, his lean ungainly frame. A bag of skin and bone it was, no more. A frightful fit of coughing preluded his speech. When he had recovered, he put his right foot on a chair, and leaning on his bony knee, began as follows:—

"Gentlemen, this is our seventeenth monthly gathering since the initiation of our order, and we are all, seven of us, still above ground, although we were all condemned as incurable before we first foregathered. During the period I have indicated not one of us has flinched from his bargain, and as your latest secretary, gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that I have duly and regularly received from each member the weekly contribution fixed by our rules. The amount at present standing to my credit in trust for the order is £7,000." He took a small pass-book from his pocket, and handed it to his nearest neighbour, who glanced at its contents and passed it up the table to Sir William. "You will find in that book, gentlemen, a cheque for the amount named marked 'good' by the Bank. I have the honor now to tender you my resignation. Mr. Cavanagh should, I believe, be my successor."

He sat down again, coughing terribly.

Sir William nodded. "It is your turn, Cavanagh," he said quietly. "You will hold office for the current month."

"Very well," replied Mr. Cavanagh, tugging fiercely at his moustache as he spoke. "You fellows can forward your subs, direct to my studio, without waiting for notices. I never write letters."

Sir William arose, holding the cheque above his head. "Whose shall it be this time, friends?" he demanded. "Remember that I have won three times running. Will any give me odds?"

"I," cried Dr. Fulton sharply. "I'll lay you seven to one in hundreds, Dagmar, that you do not win to-night."

"Done! Come, gentlemen."

They trooped out of the room, and I, ablaze with curiosity, made haste to follow them, carrying a silver tray of coffee and liqueurs with which Butts supplied me.

I found them standing around the larger card-table, watching, in perfect silence, Mr. Nevil Pardoe shaking an iron dice-box. Upon the middle of the cloth lay the cheque for £7,000 face upwards, which Mr. Pardoe had given to Sir William. No one heeded me, so I put down the tray and watched them. Presently Mr. Pardoe scattered the dice upon the cloth.

"Five," said Mr. Cavanagh, picking up the dice. "Your turn, Sir Charles."

Sir Charles took up the box, scarcely rattled it, and threw.

"Six," said Mr. Cavanagh. "Dr. Fulton."

The doctor threw eleven; Mr. Husband five; Mr. Humphreys thirteen, and Mr. Cavanagh sixteen.

When the latter's fortune was declared, Dr. Fulton rubbed his hands together. "He! he! he! beat that, Dagmar!" he chuckled.

Sir William took up the box for half a minute, and scattered the pieces without looking at the board.

"Seventeen!" said Mr. Cavanagh in a stifled voice. The poor young man's face was a ghastly sight to witness. He had evidently made sure of winning, and the snatching of the cup from his lips had cost him a month of his fast dwindling life, or his looks belied him. He sank into a chair and began to cough so violently that a bloody foam soon stained the handkerchief he held before his mouth.

Sir William, with a curiously blank smile, took up the cheque and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll trouble you for seven hundred pounds at your leisure, Fulton," he said quietly.

"I'll post it," snapped the doctor. "May the furies seize your luck! That is the fourth time in succession you have fleeced us!"

The others shrugged their shoulders, and sought chairs, which they drew about the board. I served them immediately with coffee. A moment later, each had a pile of bank-notes and gold before him, and at the centre of the table, in a little cup-like depression, lay a heap of sovereigns. The game was draw poker. It was a strange experience for me to watch them. All seven seemed gamblers born. All had death in their faces, and were living only by the grace of their disease. All were men of uncommon intellect. They played with a rigid affectation of indifference, that poorly concealed their underlying eagerness. They only spoke to bet, and the stakes ran high. From the first Sir William Dagmar won. His luck was marvellous. Standing as I did behind his chair, I could see his cards and his opponents' faces. Twice running, four queens were dealt him. Each time he won a considerable sum, and each time six pair of wolfish eyes detested his good fortune. Twice again he drew for a flush, and made it. On the latter occasion, two of his opponents held full hands—Sir Charles Venner and Mr. Cavanagh. The others passed out, but Venner and Cavanagh bet to the limit, a hundred pounds. Sir William called them, and with his customary blandness, scooped the pool. They arose, with muttered curses, to their feet, and became spectators. Half an hour later the game broke up. Sir William had despoiled the last of his guests, and his pockets simply bulged with money.

"It is an omen!" he declared. "I now believe that I shall be the first to go! Fate is fond of such little ironies! Brown," he added in English. "Help these gentlemen to don their cloaks. My friends, good-night."

They replied with the curtest of nods, and I attended them from the house.

While I was undressing my master I racked my brains to try to discern a means of turning to my own advantage what I had seen and heard that night. Sir William seemed worn out, and he got into bed immediately. But as I was about to extinguish the gas, he called me to him. "Well, Brown," said he, "what do you think of my luck?"

"Wonderful, sir!" I replied, "simply wonderful."

He nodded, and a sneer curled his lips. "In this life, Brown," he muttered, "the things we neither need nor desire are oftenest showered upon us. Be good enough to count my winnings."

I obeyed, eyeing him covertly the while. But he had turned his back, and appeared to pay me no heed.

"Seven thousand six hundred and thirteen pounds," I announced at last.

He glanced round at me, a smile upon his face. "I am glad to see that you are an honest man, Brown," he said quietly. "That will do—you may go."

I had been bitterly tempted, but, well he had turned his back upon me. Charmed with the result of my astuteness, I left the room and sought my own. There I occupied myself for a few minutes with my make-up box, and when quite satisfied with my appearance, I tip-toed down stairs to the pantry.

Butts was seated before a dainty meal, and in the act of opening a bottle of champagne.

"Butts!" said I, "when did I give you permission to drink my champagne?"

He sprang to his feet uttering a cry of terror, and the bottle toppled over the table.

"Sir William!" he gasped, "Oh, sir; oh, sir!"

"Look at me!" I commanded.

His eyes almost bulged out of his head. "Is there anything in my appearance?" I demanded, "which might lead you to suppose that I am the sort of man to allow my servants such indulgence."

"Oh, sir. Please forgive me, sir!" he mumbled, shaking like a leaf. "I—I——"

"Dishonest in one thing, then in another," I interrupted sternly. "How much did you steal in providing to-night's dinner? Tell me the truth, or I shall send for the police!"

"Not a penny sir—so—help me! The wine man gave me two pounds commission on the order, that is all, sir—so help me!"

"Hand it over to me at once, and let this be a lesson to you!" I commanded.

Butts, trembling, placed two sovereigns in my outstretched palm.

"Was Brown a partner in your rascality?" I demanded.

"No—no, sir," he stammered. "Oh! oh! please forgive me, sir. I'll never do it again, sir—so help me!" The fellow actually fell on his knees before me, and tears of entreaty rolled down his cheeks.

"I'll forgive you this once!" I returned, and swinging on my heel, I left the pantry.

Ten minutes later Butts poured into my ears a wild tale of how Sir William Dagmar had caught him opening a bottle of champagne, and of the row that they had had. But he told me nothing about the two sovereigns reposing that instant in my pocket.

I went to sleep that night perfectly self-satisfied, and so reconciled with my position as Sir William Dagmar's valet, that I would not have changed places with Dan Leno himself. I had formed a fine plan to enrich myself, and I determined to abandon the stage for ever.