Did he but know how far the historical parallel had gone that day—how Jocky Mason had waited for hours outside his residence in the hope of seeing him and becoming acquainted with his appearance—he might have been surprised, but he would never have guessed the evil that this man would accomplish, and, in some measure, accomplish unconsciously.
He was not in his club five minutes when a friend tackled him for a concert subscription.
"Anson, you are fond of music. Here is a new violinist, a Hungarian, who wants a start. I heard him in Budapest last autumn. He is a good chap. Take some stalls."
Philip glanced at the program.
"Eckstein at the piano. I see! He must be a star. Who is the soprano? I have never heard her name before."
"Miss Evelyn Atherley," read his friend over his shoulder. "I don't know her myself. Dine with me here to-morrow night. We will go and hear the performance afterward."
"Can you distribute stalls among your acquaintances?"
"My dear fellow, I will be delighted. Sorry I can't help Jowkacsy a bit myself."
"You are helping him very well. I will take a dozen; two for you and me; ten elsewhere, for the claque."
"You are a good chap. Hello! There's Jones. Jones is good for a couple. Don't forget to-morrow night."