"Now we're all here!" said Joe. "For I don't mind telling you, Beverley, that without Lisle's help we should be a long way from from well, from standing where we do at present."
Arthur felt that some of the limelight to use a metaphor appropriately theatrical was falling on him. "Oh, that's nothing! Anything I could afford awfully glad to have the chance," he murmured, rather confusedly.
"And he did afford something pretty considerable," added Joe, admiringly.
"Of course I can't guarantee success. You know what the theatre is," said Mr. Beverley.
They knew nothing about it and even Mr. Beverley himself had not yet made his bow to the public; but they all nodded their heads wisely.
"I do wish you would tell us something about it, Mr. Beverley," said impulsive Amabel.
"Oh, but I should be afraid of letting it out!" cried Mildred.
"The fact is, you can't be too careful," said Joe. "There are fellows who make a business of finding out about forthcoming plays and stealing the ideas. Aren't there, Beverley?"
"More than you might think," said Mr. Beverley.
"I much prefer to be told nothing about it," Marie declared, smiling. "I think that makes it ever so much more exciting."
"I recollect a friend of mine in the furniture line thirty years ago it must be taking me in with him to see a rehearsal once at the Now, let's see, what was the theatre? A rehearsal of tut Now, what was the play?" Old Mr. Sarradet was trying to contribute to the occasion, but the tide of conversation overwhelmed his halting reminiscences.
"But how do you get the idea, Mr. Beverley?"
"Oh, well, that may come just at any minute anywhere, you know."
"Where did this one come?"
"Oh, I got this one, as it happens, walking on Hampstead Heath."
"Hampstead Heath! Fancy!" breathed Amabel Osling in an awed voice.
"And you went straight home and wrote it out?" asked Mildred Quain.
"Oh, I've got my office in the daytime. I can only write at nights."
"Bit of a strain!" murmured Joe.
"It is rather. Besides, one doesn't begin by writing it out, Miss Quain." He smiled in condescending pity. "One has to construct, you see."
"Yes, of course. How stupid of me!" said Mildred, rather crestfallen.
"Not a bit, Miss Quain. You naturally didn't realise" Mr. Beverley seemed genuinely sorry if he had appeared to snub her. "And I I should like to tell you all how much I I feel what you're doing. Of course I believe in the thing myself, but that's no reason why Well, I tell you I do feel it. I I feel it really."
They had admired him before; they liked him the better for this little speech. He came off his pedestal, and made himself one of them a co-adventurer. His hesitation and his blush revealed him as human. They got a new and pleasantly flattering sense of what they were doing. They were not only going to make money and have fun; they were helping genius.
Joe raised his glass. "Here's luck to the Author and the Syndicate!"
"The what?" asked Amabel Osling. "I
mean, what is a syndicate?"
"We are!" answered Joe with mock solemnity. "Fill your glasses and no heel-taps!"
They drank to Mr. Claud Beverley and their enterprising selves. Joe clasped the author's hand. Mr. Beverley drained his glass.
"Here's luck!" he echoed. There was just a little shake in his voice; the occasion was not without its emotions for Mr. Beverley. Never before had he been the Hero of the Evening. His imagination darted forward to a wider triumph.
Arthur was moved too. He felt a generous envy of Mr. Beverley, awkward and melancholy as he was. Beverley was doing something really off his own bat. That was great. Well, the next best thing was to help to be in the venture; even that was making something of life. As he listened to the talk and shared in the excitement, his embarrassment had worn away; and old Sarradet himself had clinked glasses with him cordially.
Just on the heels of Mr. Beverley's "Here's luck!" almost clashing with it came a loud ring at the front door.
"Why, who's that?" exclaimed Marie.
They heard the scurry of the maid's feet. Then came a murmur of voices and the noise of the door closing. Then a full hearty voice known to them all except Mr. Beverley said: "That's better, old chap! You're all right now!"
The maid threw open the door of the room, and the festive and excited group inside received a sudden shock that banished all thought of Author and Syndicate alike. Very pale, very dishevelled, and seeming to totter on his feet, Raymond Sarradet came in, supported by Sidney Barslow's sturdy arm round his shoulders. Sidney was dishevelled too; his coat was torn all down the front, his hat was smashed. He had a black eye, a cut on the lip, and a swollen nose. They were a dismal battered pair.
"That's right, old chap! Here's a chair." Sidney gently deposited his friend in a seat and looked round at the astonished company. "They gave him a fair knock-out," he said, "but he's come round now." Then he spoke to Marie directly. "Still I thought I'd better see him home he's a bit shaky."