XX.

When Frank called on Lord Ottercove at six o’clock on Monday, Lord Ottercove was standing at a window in his office, gazing pensively at the dissolving outlines of St. Paul’s gradually devoured by the dusk. Lord Ottercove’s pose reminded Frank of Napoleon looking at burning Moscow, and of Kerenski, in imitation of Napoleon, gazing from a window in the Winter Palace at the burning theatre “Bouffe”, and Frank felt that the situation called for a fitting and pregnant remark on the man of action by the man of letters: “A man of letters puts into letters what he cannot put into action.” But Lord Ottercove, who, having soared above mean human endeavour and now only pondered upon it, considered himself a man of meditation, and did not look pleased.

“I was thinking,” he said, “of youth and the glory of struggle. How I envy you young men. The future belongs to you.”

“Why envy us, since the present belongs to you? The future is but a deferred present.”

“All the good the present is to us is that it helps us to forget that we have no future.”

“Mankind has not yet learnt,” said Frank, “to live in and for each moment. That is the meaning of life. And that is why I have just gone and got married: as a most effective means of living in the present.”

“Got married?” said Lord Ottercove, knitting his brows. “To whom?”

“To Cynthia Wellington!”

Lord Ottercove walked up and down several times. “Incredible,” he said. “It amazes me. Why, she’ll be the ruin of you. An extravagant girl like that, and you have no money.”

“But she has, hasn’t she?”

“Too much! Too damned much, one might think by the way she goes about it. That’s the trouble with her. Tends to give the impression of having what she hasn’t got.”

“But you said so.”

“Ironically. You should study the inflection when I speak; it is all-important. As important as punctuation. Ever heard of King Charles?”

“Yes.”

“‘_King Charles walked and talked_ _Half an hour after his head was cut off_.’

That doesn’t seem to make sense.”

“No. How could a man walk and talk half an hour after his head was cut off?”

“Precisely. Even King Charles couldn’t do it. But put a full stop after ‘talked’ and it makes perfect sense. You may have heard of treaties being wrecked through a comma out of place. And what punctuation is for the written speech, intonation is for the spoken language. You should have listened for it.”

“I have heard of treaties wrecked by faulty punctuation,” Frank said bitterly; “but this is my first experience of two human lives ruined by an ambiguous intonation.”

“Obviously you married under a misapprehension. But she! I am surprised she didn’t know any better. I am rather concerned about the matter. I knew her mother well. What was she thinking? Marrying a man like you without a farthing to bless himself with!”

“I told her you would give me _The Evening Ensign_ as a wedding present.”

Lord Ottercove frowned.

“You said so.”

“I cannot,” said Lord Ottercove, “give you _The Evening Ensign_ as a wedding present. It is my principal evening paper. It has the best tone of all the evening papers; it is read by the _élite_, the cream of the nation. But look here, I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you.”

Frank looked up at him hopefully.

“I’ll take an article from you. I’ll pay you”--he blew hard while considering the sum--“£20 for it. You know, when I like a fellow there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for him! I am like that--can’t help myself. My staff consider me wildly extravagant.”

“Is there any valid objection to paying me more?”

“Well, look here,” said Lord Ottercove, “you must make a name for yourself, and I will pay you more.”

“All very well, but how? How?”

“Well, we must bring your personality before the public. I am sure that if your personality is brought before the public the public will begin to get curious about your personality and begin to want to buy your books.”

Frank meditated for a minute. “There is nothing in my life of any interest to anybody, except perhaps that I was born at the time my father was First Secretary at our Embassy in St. Petersburg and--”

“Well, that’s interesting enough. Couldn’t you develop the situation?”

“How? Perhaps suggest that the Tsar eloped with my mother?”

“Of course. That would immediately reflect on your paternity and bring into question your legitimacy.”

“A marked resemblance to the late Emperor--what?”

“Certainly. It will make them talk.” He took up the receiver. “Send up Miss Sherwood to me, will you. I want her to write up a story about Mr. Dickin, who is in my office.”

Frank learnt that “stories” was the journalistic term for articles; whereas real stories--he suggested writing a short story for Lord Ottercove for £100--were called “articles.”

“All right,” said Lord Ottercove. “Write it to-night and let me have your article by six o’clock to-morrow morning. I will read it in bed before breakfast.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms to the ceiling. “Oh God, I’m bored to hell,” he said, and yawned voluptuously.

“Now, Miss Sherwood, you know Mr. Dickin, the famous novelist. Don’t say you haven’t read his books. That would sound uneducated. Now I want you to write a story about him that would reach the wider public which lives in ignorance of him only because they haven’t heard of him. I am convinced that he has a great future before him, a future of fame and felicity. He has already taken the first step towards it: he has gone and got married to-day. But I feel that the public wants to know personal details about him. There is, in the first place, his birth, under mysterious circumstances, in Russia. His mother was an intimate of the Imperial family. It is delicate ground we are treading upon here, but I know you are a clever woman and I have every confidence in your address and discretion. Your treatment of my niece’s divorce case confirms my opinion. You could begin by giving a pen-portrait of the late Tsar by projecting, so to speak, onto the screen of your story salient points of the amorous life of the late Emperor. Go to the British Museum and see if you find something, or look through the works of William Le Queux. I remember reading something about spies in Russia or somewhere--sure to be something about Rasputin or somebody. Well, here is Dickin’s mother....” Lord Ottercove’s tone grew inaudible; he took her across to the blue sofa. His robust lips moved silently. “You understand ...” Dickin heard, “ ... more than the lad cares to admit....”

“It’s a fine story,” nodded Miss Sherwood.

Lord Ottercove looked radiant. “Creating illusions,” he murmured, “in a world of appearances. The essential function of the journalist. Mrs. Hannibal,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “have that hung up as my motto all over the building.”

Mrs. Hannibal, making a shorthand note of it, retired to execute his instructions.

“Well,” said Lord Ottercove, stretching his hands to heaven, but restraining a yawn.

Miss Sherwood and Frank understood that the _séance_ was at an end.

After the door had closed on them, Lord Ottercove vented his yawn, looked at his watch, and jumped up.