Strong looked up from the note he was writing. The tender lines had gone from his face, and he had become the stern man of action again.
"I am giving instructions that the services of my commissionaire, hall-boy, and fifth secretary will no longer be required."
"Don't do that," pleaded Dorothy.
Strong tore up the note and turned to her. "What do you want of me?" he asked.
She blushed and looked down. "I--I have written a--a play," she faltered.
He smiled indulgently. He did not write plays himself, but he knew that other people did.
"When does it come off?" he asked.
"The manager says it will have to at the end of the week. It came _on_ a week ago."
"Well," he smiled, "if people don't want to go, I can't make them."
"Yes, you can," she said boldly.
He gave a start. His brain working at lightning speed saw the possibilities in an instant. At one stroke he could win Lady Dorothy's gratitude, provide _The Daily Vane_ with a temporary policy, and give a convincing exhibition of the power of his press.
"Oh, Mr. Strong----"
"Hector," he whispered. As he rose from his desk to go to her, he accidentally pressed the button of the trap-door. The next moment he was alone.
"That the British public is always ready to welcome the advent of a clean and wholesome home-grown play is shown by the startling success of _Christina's Mistake_, which is attracting such crowds to The King's every night." So wrote _The Daily Vane_, and continued in the same strain for a column.
"Clubland is keenly exercised," wrote _The Evening Vane_, "over a problem of etiquette which arises in the Second Act of _Christina's Mistake_, the great autumn success at The King's Theatre. The point is shortly this. Should a woman ..." And so on.
"A pretty little story is going the rounds," said _Slosh_, "anent that charming little lady, Estelle Rito, who plays the part of a governess in _Christina's Mistake_, for which ('Manager' Barodo informs me) advance booking up to Christmas has already been taken. It seems that Miss Rito, when shopping in the purlieus of Bond Street ..."
_Sloppy Chunks_ had a joke which set all the world laughing. It was called----
"BETWEEN THE ACTS
_Flossie._ 'Who's the lady in the box with Mr. Johnson?'
_Gussie._ 'Hush! It's his wife!'
And Flossie giggled so much that she could hardly listen to the last Act of _Christina's Mistake_, which she had been looking forward to for weeks!"
_The Sunday Sermon_ offered free tickets to a hundred unmarried suburban girls, to which class _Christina's Mistake_ might be supposed to make a special religious appeal. But they had to collect coupons first for _The Sunday Sermon_.
And, finally, _The Times_, of two months later, said:
"A marriage has been arranged between Lady Dorothy Neal, daughter of the Earl of Skye, and the Hon. Geoffrey Bollinger."
Than a successful revenge nothing is sweeter in life. Hector Strong was not the man to spare anyone who had done him an injury. Yet I think his method of revenging himself upon Lady Dorothy savoured of the diabolical. He printed a photograph of her in _The Daily Picture Gallery_. It was headed "The Beautiful Lady Dorothy Neal."
THE COLLECTOR
When Peter Plimsoll, the Glue King, died, his parting advice to his sons to stick to the business was followed only by John, the elder. Adrian, the younger, had a soul above adhesion. He disposed of his share in the concern and settled down to follow the life of a gentleman of taste and culture and (more particularly) patron of the arts. He began in a modest way to collect ink-pots. His range at first was catholic, and it was not until he had acquired a hundred and forty-seven ink-pots of various designs that he decided to make a speciality of historic ones. This decision was hastened by the discovery that one of Queen Elizabeth's inkstands--supposed (by the owner) to be the identical one with whose aid she wrote her last letter to Raleigh--was about to be put on the market. At some expense Adrian obtained an introduction, through a third party, to the owner; at more expense the owner obtained, through the same gentleman, an introduction to Adrian; and in less than a month the great Elizabeth Ink-pot was safely established in Adrian's house. It was the beginning of the "Plimsoll Collection."
This was twenty years ago. Let us to-day take a walk through the galleries of Mr. Adrian Plimsoll's charming residence, which, as the world knows, overlooks the park. Any friend of mine is always welcome at Number Fifteen. We will start with the North Gallery; I fear that I shall only have time to point out a few of the choicest gems.
This is a Pontesiori sword of the thirteenth century--the only example of the master's art without any notches.
On the left is a Capricci comfit-box. If you have never heard of Capricci, you oughtn't to come to a house like this.
Here we have before us the historic de Montigny topaz. Ask your little boy to tell you about it.
In the East Gallery, of course, the chief treasure is the Santo di Santo amulet, described so minutely in his _Vindiciae Veritatis_ by John of Flanders. The original MS. of this book is in the South Gallery. You must glance at it when we get there. It will save you the trouble of ordering a copy from your library; they would be sure to keep you waiting....
With some such words as these I lead my friends round Number Fifteen.
The many treasures in the private parts of the house I may not show, of course; the bathroom, for instance, in which hangs the finest collection of portraits of philatelists that Europe can boast. You must spend a night with Adrian to be admitted to their company; and, as one of the elect, I can assure you that nothing can be more stimulating on a winter's morning than to catch the eye of Frisby Dranger, F.Ph.S., behind the taps as your head first emerges from the icy waters.
Adrian Plimsoll sat at breakfast, sipping his hot water and crumbling a dry biscuit. A light was in his eye, a flush upon his pallid countenance. He had just heard from a trusty agent that the Scutori breast-plate had been seen in Devonshire. His car was ready to take him to the station.
But alas! a disappointment awaited him. On close examination the breast-plate turned out to be a common Risoldo of inferior working.
Adrian left the house in disgust and started on his seven-mile walk back to the station. To complete his misery a sudden storm came on.
Cursing alternately his agent and Risoldo, he made his way to a cottage and asked for shelter.
An old woman greeted him civilly and bade him come in.
"If I may just wait till the storm is over," said Adrian, and he sat down in her parlour and looked appraisingly (as was his habit) round the room. The grandfather clock in the corner was genuine, but he was beyond grandfather clocks. There was nothing else of any value: three china dogs and some odd trinkets on the chimney-piece; a print or two----
Stay! What was that behind the youngest dog?
"May I look at that old bracelet?" he asked, his voice trembling a little; and without waiting for permission he walked over and took up the circle of tarnished metal in his hands. As he examined it his colour came and went, his heart seemed to stop beating. With a tremendous effort he composed himself and returned to his chair.
_It was the Emperor's Bracelet!_
Of course you know the history of this most famous of all bracelets.
Made by Spurius Quintus of Rome in 47 B.C., it was given by Caesar to Cleopatra, who tried without success to dissolve it in vinegar.
Returning to Rome by way of Antony, it was worn at a minor conflagration by Nero, after which it was lost sight of for many centuries. It was eventually heard of during the reign of Canute (or Knut, as his admirers called him); and John is known to have lost it in the Wash, whence it was recovered a century afterwards. It must have travelled thence to France, for it was seen once in the possession of Louis XI; and from there to Spain, for Philip the Handsome presented it to Joanna on her wedding day. Columbus took it to America, but fortunately brought it back again; Peter the Great threw it at an indifferent musician; on one of its later visits to England Pope wrote a couplet to it. And the most astonishing thing in its whole history was that now for more than a hundred years it had vanished completely. To turn up again in a little Devonshire cottage! Verily, truth is stranger than fiction.
"That's rather a curious bracelet of yours," said Adrian casually.
"My--er--wife has one just like it, which she asked me to match. Is it an old friend, or would you care to sell it?"