dumb show with the leading serious, which only needed to have been a trifle better to have proved convincing.
"Yet," continued the author, "owing to the popular interest in an imminent war and a lack of energy on the part of my publishers, the book doesn't sell."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "Impossible! Why, I was saying only the other day to Henry Irving, 'Hen,' I said – I call him 'Hen' for short, – 'that book – '"
"What you say doesn't cut any ice," broke in Spotts. "What were you saying, sir?"
"I was about to remark," continued Banborough, "that what the novel needs is advertising. For an author to make the round of the shops is so old an artifice that any tradesman would see through it."
"It is," interjected the tragedian. "I have more than once demanded the lower right-hand box when I was playing the leading rôle."
"And always got it," added Spotts. The silence was appalling, and Cecil rushed into the breach, saying:
"It's occurred to me, however, that if a number of people, apparently in different walks of life, were to call at the various bookshops and department stores of the city, demanding copies of 'The Purple Kangaroo,' and refusing to be satisfied with excuses, it might create a market for the book."
"A first-rate idea!" cried Spotts heartily.
"But supposing it was in stock?" suggested the more cautious duenna.
"I shall of course see you're provided with funds for such an emergency," the author hastened to add; "and if you ladies and gentlemen feel that you could canvass the city thoroughly in my interests at – ten dollars a day and car-fares?" he ventured, fearing he had offered too little.
"I should rather think we do," said Spotts emphatically. "Ten dollars a day and car-fares is downright luxury compared with one-night stands and a salary that doesn't get paid. You're a might good fellow, Mr. Banborough," continued the young actor, "and Violet and I and the rest of the company will do our best to make your book a howling success." And as he spoke he laid his hand familiarly on the little actress's shoulder, an action which did not altogether please Cecil, and made him realise that in the attractive young comedian he had found a strong rival for Miss Arminster's favour.
"Well, then, we'll consider it settled," he said; whereat the company arose and clasped his hands silently. Their satisfaction was too deep for words. Spotts was the first to rouse himself to action.
"Come," he said, "we mustn't lose any time. Your interests are ours now, Mr. Banborough, and the sooner we get to work the more thoroughly we'll earn our salary," and touching a bell, he said to the answering messenger:
"Bring me a New York directory," thereby showing an honest activity which was much appreciated by his employer.
An hour later, the company, fully primed, departed joyfully on their mission.
Banborough, rich in the comforting sense of a good morning's work well accomplished, retired to his club to dream of the success of his book. In spirit he visited the book-stalls, noting the growing concern of the clerks as they were obliged to turn away customer after customer who clamoured for "The Purple Kangaroo.". He saw the hurried consultations with the heads of firms, who at length realised their blind stupidity in neglecting to stock their shelves with the success of the season. He saw the dozens of orders which poured into the publishing house, and heard in fancy that sweetest of all announcements that can fall upon an author's ears: "My dear sir, we have just achieved another edition."
So dreaming, he was rudely awakened by a slap on the shoulder, and the cheerful voice of Marchmont, saying:
"Who's asleep this time?"
"Not I," replied his friend, "only dreaming."
"Of the success of 'The Purple Kangaroo'?" asked the journalist. "Well, you'll have it, old man – see if you don't – and live to bless the name of Marchmont and the Daily Leader. Why, thousands will be reading your book before the week's out."
"What do you mean?" gasped the Englishman. "Surely you don't know – ?" For he feared the discovery of his little plot.
"Know!" replied the journalist. "I know that your book has leaped at one bound from fiction to the exalted sphere of politics. Now don't you breathe a word of this, for it's professional, but the Spanish secret-service agents have taken the title of your novel as their password. The city is watched by our own special corps of detectives, and the instant 'The Purple Kangaroo' is used in a suspicious sense we arrest the spies and unravel the plot."
"But, good heavens, man! You don't understand – " began Banborough.
"I understand it all. I tell you the Daily Leader will not shrink from its duty. It'll leave no stone unturned to hound the offenders down. I dare say they may be making arrests even now, and once started, we'll never pause till every Spanish sympathiser who has knowledge of the plot is under lock and key."
"Stop! Stop!" cried Cecil. "You don't know what you're doing!"
"Oh, trust me for that, and think of the boom your book'll get. I'll make it my special care. I tell you 'The Purple Kangaroo' will be all the rage."
"But you're making a ghastly mistake," insisted the author. "You must listen to me – "
"Can't!" cried Marchmont, springing up as the sound of shouts and clanging bells fell upon his ear. "There's a fire! See you later!" and he dashed out of the club and was gone.
Cecil sank back in his chair fairly paralysed.
"Good heavens! Suppose any of the company should be suspected or arrested! Supposing – "
"A gentleman to see you, sir," said a page at his elbow.
"Show him in!" cried Banborough, fearing the worst, as he read Tybalt Smith's name on the card.
There was no need to have given the message. The actor was at the page's heels, dishevelled, distraught.
"Do you know we're taken for Spanish spies?" he gasped.
"Yes, yes; I've just heard – "
"But they've arrested – "
"Not one of your companions – Spotts, Kerrington, or Mill?"
"No," said the tragedian, shaking his head, "they've arrested Miss Arminster."
CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH DRIVES A BLACK MARIA
Cecil Banborough's feelings can be better imagined than described at the announcement of the calamity which had befallen Miss Arminster. The winsome ways of the charming Violet had impressed the young man more deeply than he knew until he was brought face to face with a realisation of the miseries to which his own folly had exposed her.
"Where have they taken her?" he demanded of Smith as soon as his consternation could find expression.
"She's at the police station round the corner from here."
"Where did this occur?" asked Banborough.
"On Fourteenth Street," replied Smith, "Spotts and I met Miss Arminster, and she called out as she passed me, 'Don't forget "The Purple Kangaroo!"' A minute later the police arrested her, and when the crowd heard that she was a Spanish spy, I swear I think they'd have torn her in pieces if the officers hadn't put her in a prison van and got her away."
The tragedian paused, shivering from his recent agitation, and Cecil, seeing his condition, rang for some brandy.
"But what does it all mean?" asked the actor, tossing off his drink.
"I know what it means," cried Banborough, "but there's no time to talk now. We've not a moment to lose!" and he rushed downstairs.
Spotts met them at the doorway, and, as they walked rapidly along, the young Englishman poured into his companions' ears an account of what he had learned from Marchmont of the Spanish plot and the unforeseen use which had been made of the title of his book, while the tragedian rehearsed again the story of Miss Arminster's arrest, of his own hair-breadth escape from the clutches of the law, of his prodigies of valour in connection with Spotts, whom he had met in his headlong flight,