The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  POTS O'MONEY

  Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr Sheppherd, andwith difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg andtwiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before theinfluence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and SuburbanBank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average ofthirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged bythe astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurredthat, if you have got to have young men to chant 'We are merry and gay,tra-la, for this is Bohemia,' in the Artists' Ball scene, you mightjust as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He hadnot been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-classcricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to agoogly bowler who had done well in the last Varsity match; but he hadbeen one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which isknown as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr Sheppherdthat he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he foundhimself suffering exactly the same symptoms.

  From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that hisincome, salary and private means included, amounted to less than twohundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of hisfailures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that tookthe heart out of him. Mr Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavyfather out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour ashe listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical.Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing everhappened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the secondminute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing throughthe air, urged by Mr Sheppherd's boot, his transit indicated by adotted line and a few stars.

  Mr Sheppherd's manner was inclined to bleakness.

  'This is most unfortunate,' he said. 'Most unfortunate. I have mydaughter's happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.' Hepaused. 'You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed thatyour uncle--? Surely, with his influence--?'

  'My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finishedhim, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not his only nephew, you know. Thereare about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds.'

  Mr Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feelingmore than a little aggrieved.

  He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncleHenry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to inviteeach of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr Sheppherd didnot know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbingwith the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it wassharp practice on Owen's part to accept his invitation to call, and,having called, to continue calling long enough to make the presentdeplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been inbetter taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved morelike a bank-clerk and less like an heir.

  'I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr Bentley,' he said, 'but you willunderstand that I cannot--It is, of course, out of the question. Itwould be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see mydaughter again--'

  'She's waiting in the passage outside,' said Owen, simply.

  '--after today. Good-bye.'

  Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of thedoor. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they alwaysdid, at the sight of her.

  'Well?' she said.

  He shook his head.

  'No good,' he said.

  Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with anidea.

  'Shall I go in and cry?'

  'It wouldn't be of any use.'

  'Tell me what happened.'

  'He said I mustn't see you again.'

  'He didn't mean it.'

  'He thinks he did.'

  Audrey reflected.

  'We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on thetelephone. That isn't seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?'

  'Yes. But--'

  'That's all right, then. I'll ring you up every day.'

  'I wish I could make some money,' said Owen, thoughtfully. 'But I seemto be one of those chaps who can't. Nothing I try comes off. I've neverdrawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds onsixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn't win athing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizinga novel. Nothing came of that, either.'

  'What novel?'

  'A thing called _White Roses,_ by a woman named Edith Butler.'

  Audrey looked up quickly.

  'I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?'

  'I didn't know her at all. I'd never met her. I just happened to buythe thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. Iexpect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble tosend it back or even to acknowledge receipt.'

  'Perhaps she never got it?'

  'I registered it.'

  'She was a cat,' said Audrey, decidedly. 'I'm glad of it, though. Ifanother woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died ofjealousy.'

  Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his partingwith Mr Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashingschemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it,sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink andits customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting outrainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glowfaded and hopelessness grew.

  If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more thanfulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang himup at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which wasnoted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head ofhis department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing hissubordinates' work for them.

  As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing, was discursive and lackedcentral motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart.

  'Owen'--her voice was excited--'have you seen the paper today? Thenlisten. I'll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: "ThePiccadilly Theatre will reopen shortly with a dramatized version ofMiss Edith Butler's popular novel, _White Roses_, prepared by theauthoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including--" Andthen a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?'

  'What am I going to do?'

  'Don't you see what's happened? That awful woman has stolen your play.She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are youlaughing at?'

  'I wasn't laughing.'

  'Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I'll ring off if you do it again.You don't believe me. Well, you wait and see if I'm not--'

  'Edith Butler's incapable of such a thing.'

  There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.

  'I thought you said you didn't know her,' said Audrey, jealously.

  'I don't--I don't,' said Owen, hastily. 'But I've read her books.They're simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She's a sort ofliterary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn't steal aplay if she tried.'

  'You can't judge authors from their books. You must go and see the playwhen it comes on. Then you'll see I'm right. I'm absolutely certainthat woman is trying to swindle you. Don't laugh in that horrid way.Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I'm going to.'

  At the beginning of the next month Owen's annual holiday arrived. Theauthorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. Theyrecognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employees tendays in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelvemonths' work.

  Owen spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his fatherhad been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, tothe farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire.There is something about the country there, with its green fiel
ds andminiature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasantbackground for sentimental musings.

  It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr Dorman,an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr Dorman'smother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wisewoman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and itwas known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even thebotts by means of spells.

  Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. Itseemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room,and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this andsing 'Asthore', the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to himstrongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangementin three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr Dorman appeared,somewhat agitated.

  'If you don't mind, Mr Owen,' he said. 'I forgot to tell you. There's alit'ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can't bear tobe disturbed.'

  A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words.

  'Writing a book he is,' continued Mr Dorman. 'He caught young George aclip over the ear-'ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs.Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he'd skin him if he ever did itagain. So, if you don't mind--'

  'Oh, all right,' said Owen. 'Who is he?'

  'Gentleman of the name of Prosser.'

  Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of thatname; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was acelebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet.

  'I never heard of him,' he said, 'but that's no reason why I shoulddisturb him. Let him rip. I'll cut out the musical effects in future.'

  The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible,though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy ofcomposition. Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old MrsDorman.

  That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, wasindicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipeat the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him tothe station, when George, the son of the house, entered.

  George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:

  'Farsezjerligranmatellyerforchbythecards?'

  'Eh?' said Owen.

  The youth repeated the word.

  'Once again.'

  On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent inthe place, added to this ten days' stay, had made Owen something of alinguist.

  'Father says would I like grandma to do what?'

  'Tell yer forch'n by ther cards.'

  'Where is she?'

  'Backyarnder.'

  Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr Dorman, thefarmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an oldwoman, whom he remembered well.

  'Mother wants to tell your fortune,' said Mr Dorman, in a hoarse aside.'She always will tell visitors' fortunes. She told Mr Prosser's, and hedidn't half like it, because she said he'd be engaged in two months andmarried inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn't make him do it.'

  'She can tell me that if she likes. I shan't object.'

  'Mother, here's Mr Owen.'

  'I seed him fast enough,' said the old woman, briskly. 'Shuffle, an' cutthree times.'

  She then performed mysterious manoeuvres with the cards.

  'I see pots o' money,' announced the sibyl.

  'If she says it, it's there right enough,' said her son.

  'She means my bonus,' said Owen. 'But that's only ten pounds. And I loseit if I'm late twice more before Christmas.'

  'It'll come sure enough.'

  'Pots,' said the old woman, and she was still mumbling the encouragingword when Owen left the kitchen and returned to the sitting-room.

  He laughed rather ruefully. At that moment he could have found a usefor pots o' money.

  He walked to the window, and looked out. It was a glorious morning. Theheat-mist was dancing over the meadow beyond the brook, and from thefarmyard came the liquid charawks of care-free fowls. It seemed wickedto leave these haunts of peace for London on such a day.

  An acute melancholy seized him. Absently, he sat down at the piano. Theprejudices of literary Mr Prosser had slipped from his mind. Softly atfirst, then gathering volume as the spirit of the song gripped him, hebegan to sing 'Asthore'. He became absorbed.

  He had just, for the sixth time, won through to 'Iyam-ah waiting for-ertheeee-yass-thorre,' and was doing some intricate three-chord workpreparatory to starting over again, when a loaf of bread whizzed pasthis ear. It missed him by an inch, and crashed against a plasterstatuette of the Infant Samuel on the top of the piano.

  It was a standard loaf, containing eighty per cent of semolina, and itpractically wiped the Infant Samuel out of existence. At the samemoment, at his back, there sounded a loud, wrathful snort.

  He spun round. The door was open, and at the other side of the tablewas standing a large, black-bearded, shirt-sleeved man, in an attituderather reminiscent of Ajax defying the lightning. His hands trembled.His beard bristled. His eyes gleamed ferociously beneath enormouseyebrows. As Owen turned, he gave tongue in a voice like the dischargeof a broadside.

  'Stop it!'

  Owen's mind, wrenched too suddenly from the dreamy future to the vividpresent, was not yet completely under control. He gaped.

  'Stop--that--infernal--noise!' roared the man.

  He shot through the door, banging it after him, and pounded up thestairs.

  Owen was annoyed. The artistic temperament was all very well, butthere were limits. It was absurd that obscure authors should behave inthis way. Prosser! Who on earth was Prosser? Had anyone ever heard ofhim? No! Yet here he was going about the country clipping small boysover the ear-hole, and flinging loaves of bread at bank-clerks as if hewere Henry James or Marie Corelli. Owen reproached himself bitterly forhis momentary loss of presence of mind. If he had only kept his head,he could have taken a flying shot at the man with the marmalade-pot. Ithad been within easy reach. Instead of which, he had merely stood andgaped. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'Itmight have been.'

  His manly regret was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Dorman with theinformation that the dog-cart was at the door.

  * * * * *

  Audrey was out of town when Owen arrived in London, but she returned aweek later. The sound of her voice through the telephone did much tocure the restlessness from which he had been suffering since theconclusion of his holiday. But the thought that she was so near yet soinaccessible produced in him a meditative melancholy which envelopedhim like a cloud that would not lift. His manner became distrait. Helost weight.

  If customers were not vaguely pained by his sad, pale face, it was onlybecause the fierce rush of modern commercial life leaves your businessman little leisure for observing pallor in bank-clerks. What did painthem was the gentle dreaminess with which he performed his duties. Hewas in the Inward Bills Department, one of the features of which wasthe sudden inrush, towards the end of each afternoon, of hatless,energetic young men with leather bags strapped to their left arms,clamouring for mysterious crackling documents, much fastened with pins.Owen had never quite understood what it was that these young men didwant, and now his detached mind refused even more emphatically tograpple with the problem. He distributed the documents at random withthe air of a preoccupied monarch scattering largess to the mob, and thesubsequent chaos had to be handled by a wrathful head of the departmentin person.

  Man's power of endurance is limited. At the end of the second week theoverwrought head appealed passionately for relief, and Owen was removedto the Postage Department, where, when he had leisure from answeringAudrey's telephone calls, he entered the addresses of letters in alarge book and took them to the post. He was supposed also to stampthem, but a man in love cannot think of everything, and he was apt attimes to overlook this formality.


  One morning, receiving from one of the bank messengers the usualintimation that a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone, he wentto the box and took up the receiver.

  'Is that you, Owen? Owen, I went to _White Roses_ last night. Haveyou been yet?'

  'Not yet.'

  'Then you must go tonight. Owen, I'm _certain_ you wrote it. It'sperfectly lovely. I cried my eyes out. If you don't go tonight, I'llnever speak to you again, even on the telephone. Promise.'

  'Must I?'

  'Yes, you must. Why, suppose it _is_ yours! It may mean a fortune.The stalls were simply packed. I'm going to ring up the theatre now andengage a seat for you, and pay for it myself.'

  'No--I say--' protested Owen.

  'Yes, I shall. I can't trust you to go if I don't. And I'll ring upearly tomorrow to hear all about it. Good-bye.'

  Owen left the box somewhat depressed. Life was quite gloomy enough asit was, without going out of one's way to cry one's eyes out oversentimental plays.

  His depression was increased by the receipt, on his return to hisdepartment, of a message from the manager, stating that he would liketo see Mr Bentley in his private room for a moment. Owen never enjoyedthese little chats with Authority. Out of office hours, in the circleof his friends, he had no doubt the manager was a delightful andentertaining companion; but in his private room his conversation wasless enjoyable.

  The manager was seated at his table, thoughtfully regarding theceiling. His resemblance to a stuffed trout, always striking, wassubtly accentuated, and Owen, an expert in these matters, felt that hisfears had been well founded--there was trouble in the air. Somebody hadbeen complaining of him, and he was now about, as the phrase went, tobe 'run-in'.

  A large man, seated with his back to the door, turned as he entered,and Owen recognized the well-remembered features of Mr Prosser, theliterary loaf-slinger.

  Owen regarded him without resentment. Since returning to London he hadtaken the trouble of looking up his name in _Who's Who_ and hadfound that he was not so undistinguished as he had supposed. He was, itappeared, a Regius Professor and the author of some half-dozen works onsociology--a record, Owen felt, that almost justified loaf-slinging andear-hole clipping in moments of irritation.

  The manager started to speak, but the man of letters anticipated him.

  'Is this the fool?' he roared. 'Young man, I have no wish to be hard ona congenital idiot who is not responsible for his actions, but I mustinsist on an explanation. I understand that you are in charge of thecorrespondence in this office. Well, during the last week you havethree times sent unstamped letters to my fiancee, Miss Vera Delane,Woodlands, Southbourne, Hants. What's the matter with you? Do you thinkshe likes paying twopence a time, or what is it?'

  Owen's mind leaped back at the words. They recalled something to him.Then he remembered.

  He was conscious of a not unpleasant thrill. He had not known that hewas superstitious, but for some reason he had not been able to getthose absurd words of Mr Dorman's mother out of his mind. And here wasanother prediction of hers, equally improbable, fulfilled to theletter.

  'Great Scott!' he cried. 'Are you going to be married?'

  Mr Prosser and the manager started simultaneously.

  'Mrs Dorman said you would be,' said Owen. 'Don't you remember?'

  Mr Prosser looked keenly at him.

  'Why, I've seen you before,' he said. 'You're the young turnip-headedscallywag at the farm.'

  'That's right,' said Owen.

  'I've been wanting to meet you again. I thought the whole thing over,and it struck me,' said Mr Prosser, handsomely, 'that I may have seemeda little abrupt at our last meeting.'

  'No, no.'

  'The fact is, I was in the middle of an infernally difficult passage ofmy book that morning, and when you began--'

  'It was my fault entirely. I quite understand.'

  Mr Prosser produced a card-case.

  'We must see more of each other,' he said. 'Come and have a bit ofdinner some night. Come tonight.'

  'I'm very sorry. I have to go to the theatre tonight.'

  'Then come and have a bit of supper afterwards. Excellent. Meet me atthe Savoy at eleven-fifteen. I'm glad I didn't hit you with that loaf.Abruptness has been my failing through life. My father was just thesame. Eleven-fifteen at the Savoy, then.'

  The manager, who had been listening with some restlessness to theconversation, now intervened. He was a man with a sense of fitness ofthings, and he objected to having his private room made the scene ofwhat appeared to be a reunion of old college chums. He hinted as much.

  'Ha! Prrumph!' he observed, disapprovingly. 'Er--Mr Bentley, that isall. You may return to your work--ah'mmm! Kindly be more carefulanother time in stamping the letters.'

  'Yes, by Jove,' said Mr Prosser, suddenly reminded of his wrongs,'that's right. Exercise a little ordinary care, you ivory-skulledyoung son of a gun. Do you think Miss Delane is _made_ oftwopences? Keep an eye on him,' he urged the manager. 'These youngfellows nowadays want someone standing over them with a knout all thetime. Be more careful another time, young man. Eleven-fifteen,remember. Make a note of it, or you'll go forgetting _that_.'

  * * * * *

  The seat Audrey had bought for him at the Piccadilly Theatre proved tobe in the centre of the sixth row of stalls--practically a death-trap.Whatever his sufferings might be, escape was impossible. He wassecurely wedged in.

  The cheaper parts of the house were sparsely occupied, but the stallswere full. Owen, disapproving of the whole business, refused to buy aprogramme, and settled himself in his seat prepared for the worst. Hehad a vivid recollection of _White Roses_, the novel, and he didnot anticipate any keen enjoyment from it in its dramatized form. Hehad long ceased to be a member of that large public for which MissEdith Butler catered. The sentimental adventures of governesses inducal houses--the heroine of _White Roses_ was a governess--nolonger contented his soul.

  There is always a curiously dream-like atmosphere about a play foundedon a book. One seems to have seen it all before. During the whole ofthe first act Owen attributed to this his feeling of familiarity withwhat was going on on the stage. At the beginning of the second act hefound himself anticipating events. But it was not till the third actthat the truth sank in.

  The third was the only act in which, in his dramatization, he had takenany real liberties with the text of the novel. But in this act he hadintroduced a character who did not appear in the novel--a creature ofhis own imagination. And now, with bulging eyes, he observed thiscreature emerge from the wings, and heard him utter lines which he nowclearly remembered having written.

  Audrey had been right! Serpent Edith Butler had stolen his play.

  His mind, during the remainder of the play, was active. By the time thefinal curtain fell and he passed out into the open air he had perceivedsome of the difficulties of the case. To prove oneself the author of anoriginal play is hard, but not impossible. Friends to whom one hadsketched the plot may come forward as witnesses. One may have preservedrough notes. But a dramatization of a novel is another matter. Alldramatizations of any given novel must necessarily be very much alike.

  He started to walk along Piccadilly, and had reached Hyde Park Cornerbefore he recollected that he had an engagement to take supper with MrProsser at the Savoy Hotel. He hailed a cab.

  'You're late,' boomed the author of sociological treatises, as heappeared. 'You're infernally late. I suppose, in your woollen-headedway, you forgot all about it. Come along. We'll just have time for anolive and a glass of something before they turn the lights out.'

  Owen was still thinking deeply as he began his supper. Surely there wassome way by which he could prove his claims. What had he done with theoriginal manuscript? He remembered now. He had burnt it. It had seemedmere useless litter then. Probably, he felt bitterly, the woman Butlerhad counted on this.

  Mr Prosser concluded an animated conversation with a waiter on thesubject of the wines of France, leaned forwar
d, and, having helpedhimself briskly to anchovies, began to talk. He talked loudly andrapidly. Owen, his thoughts far away, hardly listened.

  Presently the waiter returned with the selected brand. He filled Owen'sglass, and Owen drank, and felt better. Finding his glass magicallyfull once more, he emptied it again. And then suddenly he found himselflooking across the table at his Host, and feeling a sense of absoluteconviction that this was the one man of all others whom he would haveselected as a confidant. How kindly, though somewhat misty, his facewas! How soothing, if a little indistinct, his voice!

  'Prosser,' he said, 'you are a man of the world, and I should like youradvice. What would you do in a case like this? I go to a theatre to seea play, and what do I find?'

  He paused, and eyed his host impressively.

  'What's that tune they're playing?' said Mr Prosser. 'You hear iteverywhere. One of these Viennese things, I suppose.'

  Owen was annoyed. He began to doubt whether, after all, Mr Prosser'svirtues as a confidant were not more apparent than real.

  'I find, by Jove,' he continued, 'that I wrote the thing myself.'

  'It's not a patch on _The Merry Widow_,' said Mr Prosser.

  Owen thumped the table.

  'I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself.'

  'What thing?'

  'This play I'm telling you about. This _White Roses_ thing.'

  He found that he had at last got his host's ear. Mr Prosser seemedgenuinely interested.

  'What do you mean?'

  Owen plunged on with his story. He started from its dim beginning, fromthe days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath toCheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of thepackage, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched theprogress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crispcharacter-sketch of Mr Sheppherd. He took his hearer right up tothe moment when the truth had come home to him.

  Towards the end of his narrative the lights went out, and he finishedhis story in the hotel courtyard. In the cool air he felt revived. Theoutlines of Mr Prosser became sharp and distinct again.

  The sociologist listened admirably. He appeared absorbed, and did notinterrupt once.

  'What makes you so certain that this was your version?' he asked, asthey passed into the Strand.

  Owen told him of the creature of his imagination in Act III.

  'But you have lost your manuscript?'

  'Yes; I burnt it.'

  'Just what one might have expected you to do,' said Mr Prosser,unkindly. 'Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something inthis. You haven't got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in acourt of law, of course; but still, I'm inclined to believe you. Forone thing, you haven't the intelligence to invent such a story.'

  Owen thanked him.

  'In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied.'

  It seemed to Owen that Mr Prosser was tending to get a little abovehimself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but thatappeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort ofjudge and master of the ceremonies.

  'That's very good of you,' he said; 'but will Edith Butler besatisfied? That's more to the point.'

  'I _am_ Edith Butler,' said Mr Prosser.

  Owen stopped. 'You?'

  'You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only personbesides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn't have told you if I couldhave helped it. It isn't a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don'tgoggle at me like a fish! Haven't you heard of pseudonyms before?'

  'Yes, but--'

  'Well, never mind. Take it from me that I _am_ Edith Butler. Nowlisten to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country.There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the factthat you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort ofthing you would have done, to put no name on the thing.'

  'I enclosed a letter, anyhow.'

  'There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. Therewas a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and thatwas the last I saw of it. I had read as far as "Dear Madam". But onething I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent from somehotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?'

  'I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham's. I was stopping there.'

  'You pass,' said Mr Prosser. 'It was Wilbraham's.'

  Owen's heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.

  'Then do you mean to say that it's all right--that you believe--'

  'I do,' said Mr Prosser. 'By the way,' he said, 'the notice of _WhiteRoses_ went up last night.'

  Owen's heart turned to lead.

  'But--but--' he stammered. 'But tonight the house was packed.'

  'It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London werethere. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,' hecried, with sudden vehemence, 'serve 'em right. If I told them once itwould fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London publicwon't stand that sort of blithering twaddle.'

  Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. Hesignalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blowcould have unmanned him more completely than this hideousdisappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be runninghis way.

  'Sooner ride than walk,' said Mr Prosser, pushing his head through theopen window. 'Laziness--slackness--that's the curse of the modern youngman. Where shall I tell him to drive to?'

  Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked hishost for his hospitality.

  'It was awfully good of you to give me supper, Mr Prosser,' he said.'I've enjoyed it tremendously.'

  'Come again,' said Mr Prosser. 'I'm afraid you're disappointed aboutthe play?'

  Owen forced a smile.

  'Oh, no, that's all right,' he said. 'It can't be helped.'

  Mr Prosser half turned, then thrust his head through the window again.

  'I knew there was something I had forgotten to say,' he said. 'I oughtto have told you that the play was produced in America before it cameto London. It ran two seasons in New York and one in Chicago, and thereare three companies playing it still on the road. Here's my card. Comeround and see me tomorrow. I can't tell you the actual figuresoff-hand, but you'll be all right. You'll have pots o' money.'