There
he met Mr. James Hennings himself.
"You'll do," said the great man; "that last trick was neat. You ought
to polish up the others though. I suppose you don't want to tell me
how you did it? Well, well, come in the morning and we'll fix up a
contract."
And so, without having said a word, the conjurer found himself
hustled off by the Vaudeville Napoleon. Mr. Hennings had something
more to say to his manager.
"Bit rum," he said. "Did you see it?"
"Queerest thing we've struck."
"How was it done do you think?"
"Can't imagine. There one minute on his arm, gone the next, no trap,
or curtain, or anything."
"Money in it, eh?"
"Biggest hit of the century, I should think."
"I'll go and fix up a contract and get him to sign it tonight. Get
on with it." And Mr. James Hennings fled to his office.
Meanwhile the conjurer was wandering in the wings with the drooping
heart of a lost child. What had happened? Why was he a success, and
why did people stare so oddly, and what had become of his wife? When
he asked them the stage hands laughed, and said they had not seen
her. Why should they laugh? He wanted her to explain things, and hear
their good luck. But she was not in her dressing-room, she was not
anywhere. For a moment he felt like crying.
Then, for the second time that night, he pulled himself together.
After all, there was no reason to be upset. He ought to feel very
pleased about the contract, however it had happened.
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