But later on there were hitches.  Curtis, whose dislike to vegetarian diet steadily increased, when dining one evening at his club, could no longer withstand the sight of roast beef.  The smell of it tickled his palate unmercifully.

“Take this infernal mess away!” he said, pushing a plate of nut steak from him in disgust, “and let me have a full course—­entree, soup, fish, meat, everything you’ve got—­chartreuse and a liqueur, and bring it quick—­I’m famished.”

He ate and ate, and drank and drank, until it was as much as he could do to rise from the table.  And then, in excellent spirits, he repaired to Cockspur Street.

How he got on to the stage he could never tell.  Everything was in a haze around him, until there was a dull crash in his ears, and he suddenly found himself drowning.  No one, at first, noticed his helpless condition, but attributed his antics to part of the programme; and he most certainly would have been drowned, had it not been for Lilian Rosenberg, who, being quite by chance, in front of the house, perceived he was drunk, the moment he came on the stage.  She flew to the wings, and, just in the nick of time, got two of the supers to haul him out of the tank.  Of course, it was announced—­with a pretty apology—­by Mr. Hamar, that Mr. Curtis had been taken ill.  Kelson immediately came on with his animals, and the audience departed without the slightest suspicion as to the truth.

Hamar was furious.

“You idiot!” he said to Curtis, “that all comes of your making a beast of yourself—­you would sacrifice Matt and me, for your insatiable craving for meat and alcohol.  Can’t you see it was a trick of the Unknown to make us break the compact?  Had you been drowned, the partnership, would, of course, have been dissolved—­and it would have been your fault!  You must obey your injunctions!  Damn it, you must!” And Hamar spoke so fiercely that Curtis was for once in a way cowed, and solemnly promised that he would not repeat the offence.

Kelson was the next culprit; and his misdoings were indirectly associated with the foregoing incident.  Lilian Rosenberg’s action in saving Curtis’s life, thrilled him to the core, and called into play all his ardent passion.  He had seen her sitting in the front of the house, and had come upon the scene just as she was urging the supers to go to Curtis’s assistance; and he then thought she had never looked so lovely.

“Come out with me to-morrow afternoon,” he whispered.  “Hamar’s going out of town!” And before she could stop him he had kissed her.

Kelson hardly expected Lilian Rosenberg would accept his invitation, but on arriving at the place he had named, he was delighted beyond measure to find her there.

Nor could anyone have been nicer to him.  No girl, he told himself, who did not in some degree at least, reciprocate his sentiments, could have allowed him to stare into her eyes as she did, or squeeze her hands, as he did.  He took her to the ladies’ drawing-room of his club, where there were plenty of quiet, secluded nooks, and there, whilst she poured out tea for him, he once more related to her all his early deeds and ailments—­real and imaginary—­and all his ideals and aspirations.