“WELL, well,” said Robert Pomfret. At that moment he was a very puzzled
man.
“So now you know the worst,” said Brandon, looking at him eagerly. “And
that’s why in my humble opinion the thing must stand just as it is.
Moreover, you now know why I conceive it my bounden duty to give it to
the world. And if it can’t be put up here I shall take it to New York.”
The mention of New York had a visible effect upon Pomfret. “Rather a
coincidence,” he said. “Urban Meyer is over here. He’s lunching with me
today at the Ritz. You’d better come and meet him.”
It was a grave confession of ignorance, but Brandon owned that the name
of Urban Meyer conveyed nothing.
“He’s the biggest thing of his kind in existence. He controls four
hundred theaters in the United States, and about the same number in
Europe.”
“A sort of Haroun-al-Raschid,” laughed Brandon.
“I’ve already mentioned the play to him. And he’s reading it now. If
you will come with me to the Ritz you may get further light on the
matter. But if you’re wise you won’t be quite so frank with him as
you’ve been with me. A little bird tells me that he’s interested. But
he’s a regular Napoleon in business. Still you may like to hear what he
has to say, and there’s just a chance that he may save you a journey to
New York.”
“He may,” said Brandon, “but I’m not hopeful. His name bewrayeth him.”
“A hyphenated American,” said Pomfret, “but he began life as a little
Frankfort Jew. A remarkable man with a still more remarkable career
behind him. Exact study of the public taste has made him a millionaire.
Still, we’re old friends and I’m bound to say I’ve always found him a
very decent fellow. And if you care for human documents I think he will
interest you.”
In a fraternal manner they passed the time till one o’clock. About noon
a wintry sun came out and they took a gentle turn in the Green Park to
get an appetite for luncheon. The shrewdly humorous man of affairs was
so full of advice that he was like a kindly uncle. “Whatever you do, my
son, don’t talk to Urban Meyer as you’ve talked to me,” was the burden
of his homily. Even now the practical Pomfret had not quite overcome a
feeling of sheer amazement. A fantastic illusion had declared itself
in a brilliant mind, and no matter how cautiously he approached the
subject he felt the oppression of its shadow. Continuing his sage
advice, he finally led his freakish friend through the revolving doors
of the Ritz on the very stroke of one o’clock.