The Saint glanced over the paragraph, drew a deep breath and read with almost uncontrollable emotion.
"No, do not lie to me. You have already given me the answer for which I have been waiting. I am not ungrateful for what you once did for me, but I see now that that kind act was only a part of your scheme to ensnare my better nature in the toils of your unhallowed passions, as though pure love were a thing that could be bought like merchandise. Ah, yes, I loved you, but I did not know that that pretty face was only a mask for the corruption beneath. How you must have laughed at me! Ha, ha. I brought you a rose, but you turned it into a nest of vipers in my bosom. They have stabbed my heart! (Sobs.)"
Mr. Urlaub clasped his hands together. His eyes bulged and rolled upwards.
"My God," he breathed hoarsely.
"What?" said the Saint.
"Why?" said Mr. Quarterstone.
"But it's like a miracle!" squeaked Waldemar Urlaub. "He's the man! The type! The face! The figure! The voice! The manner! He is a genius! Homer, where did you find him? The women will storm the theatre." He grasped the Saint by the arm, leaning as far as he could over the desk and over Mr. Quarter-stone. "Listen. He must play that part. He must. He is the only man. I couldn't put anyone else in it now. Not after I've seen him. I'll show Aaron Niementhal where he gets off. Quit, did he? Okay. He'll be sorry. We'll have a hit that'll make history!"
"But Waldemar…"
Mr. Urlaub dried up. His clutching fingers uncoiled from Simon's arm. The fire died out of his eyes. He staggered blindly back and sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"Yes," he whispered bitterly. "I'd forgotten. The play can't go on. I'm sunk, Homer — just for a miserable fifteen grand. And now, of all times, when I've just seen Mr. Tombs I"