Part 25 (1/2)

”Give me your arm,” said the rajah; ”I am tired.” I escorted him to a cab, and we drove home.

The Loadstone gave no performance the next evening: she was too fatigued; and Waterer was absent from the boat and from the sight of men two days. When he reappeared he made no reference to his friend the conjurer. He slunk about the Quad, looking very pale and upset. I met him once, when I was with the rajah, on our way to lecture. The rajah smiled urbanely at Waterer, and said to me, when he had pa.s.sed:

”It's such a rude thing to call a gentleman a n.i.g.g.e.r, isn't it?”

Waterer has not done it again. And the Loadstone never did that trick again. She took the pony, though. The manager called on Waterer, and asked for a check. I think that incident pleased the rajah most of all.

”It is a ready utilization of the unexpected,” he remarked, ”which does our friend much credit.”

A SUCCESSFUL REHEARSAL.

Mr. Aloysius Tappenham, of Stamford Road, was a dealer in frauds.

It must not be understood from this statement that he was either a company-promoter or the manager of a philanthropic undertaking. On the contrary, he was as honest a man of business as you would find in London, and he earned his living by discovering and introducing new attractions in the shape of ”Wonders,” ”Phenomenons,” and so forth.

The music-halls were Mr. Tappenham's best customers, and when he successfully launched a new impostor, he reaped a handsome return in the way of commissions on the salary of the impostor and the profits of the _entrepreneur_. All his _proteges_ were a success--a fact chiefly to be attributed to his unvarying habit of insisting that he himself should be shown ”how it was done.” He promised and observed absolute secrecy; but, as he always said, he could not properly judge of the merit of any particular fraud, unless he were allowed a private view of the machinery by which it was worked. Some few years ago, in the very prime of life and the full tide of a profitable trade, Mr. Tappenham suddenly retired from business. This was the reason:

One day Mr. Tappenham discovered a treasure in the shape of a very attractive young lady whose name was Hopkins, but who proposed to call herself Mlle. Claire. Claire was hardly suitable to the music-halls; Mr. Tappenham thought that she was above that, and proposed to ”run”

her himself in Bond Street, on half-profit terms. Her specialty was the production of any spirit you liked to order. She received in a dimly lighted room; you told her who you were, and whose spirit you wished to interview, and forthwith, without any nonsense of hand-holding or table-turning, she caused to appear a shadowy yet clearly perceptible figure which was exactly like the person you named, spoke with that person's voice, and exhibited full--or reasonably full--knowledge of everything which that person, and that person only, might be expected to know.

Mr. Tappenham was much struck with the dexterity of this performance.

Of course, when explained, it resolved itself into some clever optical illusion, a little ventriloquism, and a good deal of tact in returning to the inquirer in another form information pumped out of him beforehand. The materials were simple, the result was highly artistic; and Mr. Tappenham determined to furnish the only thing needful to set London aflame with the new marvel--namely, capital. However, before taking the last irreparable step, he decided on a final trial. He prepared the _mise-en-scene_ with due completeness, and invited Mlle.

Claire to experiment on himself.

”Consider me as one of the public,” he said, ”and give me a hair-raiser.”

Mlle. Claire protested that he was too much behind the scenes; but, on being pressed, she consented to try, and asked Mr. Tappenham to name his spirit.

He thought for a moment, and then said, ”When I was a young man, I knew a girl called Nellie Davies--a pretty girl, my dear. I dare say I didn't treat her over well; but that's neither here nor there. Let's have her.”

Clever little Mlle. Claire asked a question or two--and Mr. Tappenham admired the neat and apparently undesigned nature of her questions--and then set to work, after drawing the curtains a shade closer, and turning the light a trifle lower.

Mr. Tappenham sat comfortably in an armchair, his hands crossed over his white waistcoat, and a smile of satisfaction on his face. Presently the shadowy shape began to form itself a yard or two from Mr. Tappenham.

”Capital, capital!” he chuckled. ”That'll fetch 'em.” The shape grew more definite.

”Will that do?” asked Mlle. Claire triumphantly. ”Is it like?”

”Now, by Jove, it is rather! Make it speak.”

Mlle. Claire laughed, and, projecting her voice to the shape, began in low, sweet, sad tones. ”You summoned me. What do you desire of your dead friend?”

She stopped, laughing again, and said, ”It's no use, when you're up to it beforehand.”

Mr. Tappenham did not answer her. He sat looking at the shape, and seemed to be listening intently.

”Shall I go on?” she inquired.