Eliphalet Cardomay was wonderfully calm during the interview, and did not betray by word or gesture the slightest excitement, but his fingers trembled a trifle as he took the letters. He received the address of a firm of solicitors, who were looking after the money on his behalf, shook hands, and walked from the office.
On the pavement outside he conveyed the news to the little comedian who, in his enthusiasm, performed a war-dance which drew toward them a massive policeman, complete with warnings.
“But you don’t look half pleased enough,” he gasped, when Eliphalet took his arm and drew him away.
“I am—I am—very pleased and very grateful. It’s just a shade of disappointment that the play should not have made its success on the legitimate stage.” But the cloud faded almost before it came in the bright blue horizon of the future.
A twinkle showed in his eyes.
“Dwyer,” he said, “in all my life I have never yet borrowed from a fellow-artist, but I am wondering now if you would lend me a sovereign.”
“Whatever you want, old man; whatever you want.”
“Simpson’s is just over there, and I was thinking—an undercut from a saddle of mutton—you and I together-a little celebration, what?”
“Fine!” echoed Dwyer. “Take what you want out of this——” producing a fiver from a Friday night envelope.
As they turned into Bedford Street there were a few old down-and-outers of the profession, leaning disconsolately against the wall of an agent’s office.