“Take no notice,” Raymond hastened to explain. “It was only for something to say. Well, I must be going.”
“You—you won’t stop a day or two and rehearse us a little?”
He shook his head.
“I value the compliment, but I’m too conceited to reveal my weakness.”
“Weakness?”
“Yes, for I shouldn’t be able to help ’em. I’ll let you into a secret. People imagine I can teach anyone to act. I can’t. All I can do is to know who would be right in certain parts. Then I engage ’em, and their combined elements give forth a chemical compound known as a Brilliant Production. That’s the whole secret. Tell that fellow—Mellish, isn’t it?—not to wear daffodils in his buttonhole, and to cut his moustache off if he can’t let it alone—and tell the duchess to let her train take care of itself when she’s in a drawing-room. God bless you, Mr. Cardomay, and good luck.”
He shook hands warmly, and hurried away.
“Poor old devil!” he muttered, as the stage-door swung to behind him. One might have imagined that there was an added moisture in his eyes if the idea were not so absurd. A specialist has no feelings.
About a week later, Doctor Wardluke met Mr. Wilfred Wilfur in the street, and the latter gentleman was in a state of unparalleled excitement. In his hand he flourished a copy of the Bradford Mercury, and he cried:
“Seen the news? Old Cardomay has come an almighty cropper with that production of his—knew he would—knew he would!”