So his wishes were respected, and for six tranquil months the Old Card sold his papers and followed in the dramatic columns the movements of members of his old companies. Thus he learned that Freddie Manning had abandoned the Road for the business managership of the Royal Theatre, New Brighton.
“Good boy, Manning,” he said. “That’s capital. New Brighton, too!” Rather a twisted smile came to the corners of his mouth, for he could not help thinking of that Dream Villa, facing the sea. It would have been very pleasant with Manning so close at hand, dropping in of an evening, maybe, for a bit of late supper and a chat about old times. Through the same medium he learnt how Mornice had sprung to Fame as a Film Artiste and was commanding a truly Chaplinesque salary.
This was a matter that gave him less pleasure, for, although rejoicing in her success, he could not conquer the underlying conviction that the Cinema was the bastard child of the stage, and an ignoble art.
“I wonder what she thought of my play,” he ruminated. “I would like to have known.”
One day there burst into the shop a little music-hall comedian named Dwyer. He was one of the very few who had recognised Eliphalet, and something of friendship had sprung up between them.
“Seen this week’s Foot-Lights?” he demanded. Then, without waiting for an answer, “They’re advertising for you.”
He produced a crumpled periodical, flung it on the counter and pointed to a certain passage with a nicotine-stained forefinger.
“If Eliphalet Cardomay will call upon or communicate with Messrs, Newman & Stranger, 108a, Henrietta Street, W. C., he will hear something greatly to his advantage.”
“Good gracious!” said Eliphalet. “I wonder what that means. I must step round there this evening.”
“You’ll step round now, old cock.”