"You did that turn on the stage?"
"No. Seldom on the stage. On the stage I used a usual, more hackneyed routine, sometimes with a girl-assistant named.." He waved his hand. "No matter. This was usually done at private parties in private houses: concerts, Christmas entertainments, and the rest of it. It isn't so well suited to a big hall. I agreed to perform tonight when Captain Sharpless clamored for it, because…"
"Because?"
Again Rich lifted his shoulders.
"Well, because I wanted another good dinner. Things have not been very easy, these days."
He brushed at his sleeve, and pushed back the shirt-cuff from his left wrist.
"So. Weren't you successful?"
"The idea," Rich replied candidly, "the routine, I thought was a good one. I still think so. I developed it myself. I thought it would take like wildfire. In fact, as far as interest is concerned, it can't fail. But—"
H.M. raised his eyebrows, prompting as Rich paused.
"But concert parties aren't so numerous. And I failed to take another danger into account. Once or twice—" the shadow of a smile went over his face, despite the strained eyes and the mottled red color in his forehead—"once or twice, I regret to say, the good wife has pulled the trigger of the dummy gun. Result: uproarious delight, for the moment. But do you think the wife liked it? Or the husband liked it? Or that other people, when the word went round, wanted me to experiment on them? No. My trick had one great fault; it wasn't a trick. It worked."