'You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person
besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn't have told you if I could
have helped it. It isn't a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don't
goggle 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. Now
listen 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 fact
that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of
thing 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. There
was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that
was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as "Dear Madam". But one
thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent from some
hotel 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 _White
Roses_ 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 were
there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George,' he
cried, with sudden vehemence, 'serve 'em right. If I told them once it
would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public
won't stand that sort of blithering twaddle.'
Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. He
signalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blow
could have unmanned him more completely than this hideous
disappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be running
his way.
'Sooner ride than walk,' said Mr Prosser, pushing his head through the
open window. 'Laziness--slackness--that's the curse of the modern young
man. Where shall I tell him to drive to?'
Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked his
host 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 about
the 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 ought
to have told you that the play was produced in America before it came
to London. It ran two seasons in New York and one in Chicago, and there
are three companies playing it still on the road. Here's my card. Come
round and see me tomorrow. I can't tell you the actual figures
off-hand, but you'll be all right. You'll have pots o' money.'