“As a legal document it would probably be laughed at,” said Madgin junior.  “But in another point of view I have no doubt that it would carry with it a certain moral weight.  For instance, suppose the claim embodied in this paper were disputed, and I were compelled to resort to ulterior measures, the written promise given by you might not be found legally binding, but, on the other hand, neither Lady Chillington nor you would like to see that document copied in extenso into all the London papers, nor the whole of your remarkable scheme for the recovery of the Hara Diamond detailed by the plaintiff in open court, to be talked over next morning through the length and breadth of England.  “Extraordinary Case between a Lady of Rank and an Actor.”  How would that read, eh?”

“My dear James, let me shake hands with you,” exclaimed the old man with emotion.  “You are a most extraordinary young man.  I am proud of you, my dear boy, I am indeed.  What a pity that you adopted the stage as your profession!  You ought to have entered the law.  In the law you would have risen—­nothing could have kept you down.”

“That is as it may be,” returned James.  “If I am satisfied with my profession you have no cause to grumble.  But here comes dinner.”

Mr. James Madgin was first low comedian at one of the transpontine theatres.  The height of his ambition was to have the offer of an engagement from one of the West-end managers.  Only give him the opportunity, and he felt sure that he could work his way with a cultivated audience.  When a lad of sixteen he had run away from home with a company of strolling players, and from that time he had been a devoted follower of Thespis.  He had roughed it patiently in the provinces for years, his only consolation during a long season of poverty and neglect arising from the conviction that he was slowly but surely improving himself in the difficult art he had chosen as his mode of earning his daily bread.  When the manager of the Royal Tabard, then on a provincial tour, picked him out from all his brother actors, and offered him a Metropolitan engagement, James Madgin thought himself on the high road to fame and fortune.  Time had served to show him the fallacy of his expectations.  He had been four years at the Royal Tabard, during the whole of which time he had been in receipt of a tolerable salary for his position—­that of first low comedian; but fame and fortune still seemed as far from his grasp as ever.  With opportunity given him, he had hoped one day to electrify the town.  But that hope was now buried very deep down in his heart, and if ever brought out, like an “old property,” to be looked at and turned about, its only greeting was a quiet sneer, after which it was relegated to the limbo whence it had been disinterred.  James Madgin had given up the expectation of ever shining in the theatrical system as a “great star;” he was trying to content himself with the thought of living and dying a respectable mediocrity—­useful, ornamental even, in his proper sphere, but certainly never destined to set the Thames on fire.  The manager of the Tabard had recently died, and at present James Madgin was in want of an engagement.