I could say nothing.

“Well, now, I can put you into the way of making at least three or four times as much as that.  Listen!  I am Alexander Poulter, of Poulter’s Pills.  I have a proposal to make to you.  The scheme is bound to succeed, but I want your help.  Accept my proposal and your fortune’s made.  Did you ever hear Moody and Sankey?” he asked abruptly.

The man is an idiot, thought I; he is now fairly carried away with his particular mania.  Will it last long?  Shall I ring?

“Novelty, my dear sir,” he went on, “is the rule of the day; and there must be novelty in advertising, as in everything else, to catch the public interest.  So I intend to go on a tour, lecturing on the merits of Poulter’s Pills in all the principal halls of all the principal towns all over the world.  But I have been delayed in carrying out my idea till I could associate myself with a gentleman such as yourself.  Will you join me?  I should be the Moody of the tour; you would be its Sankey.  I would speak my patter, and you would intersperse my orations with melodious ballads bearing upon the virtues of Poulter’s Pills.  The ballads are all ready!”

So saying, he opened that bag and drew forth from its recesses nothing more alarming than a thick roll of manuscript music.

“The verses are my own,” he said, with a little touch of pride; “and as for the music, I thought it better to make use of popular melodies, so as to enable an audience to join in the chorus.  See, here is one of the ballads:  ‘Darling, I am better now.’  It describes the woes of a fond lover, or rather his physical ailments, until he went through a course of Poulter.  Here’s another:  ‘I’m ninety-five!  I’m ninety-five!’ You catch the drift of that, of course—­a healthy old age, secured by taking Poulter’s Pills.  Ah! what’s this?  ‘Little sister’s last request.’  I fancy the idea of that is to beg the family never to be without Poulter’s Pills.  Here again:  ‘Then you’ll remember me!’ I’m afraid that title is not original; never mind, the song is.  And here is—­but there are many more, and I won’t detain you with them now.”  He saw, perhaps, I was getting impatient.  Thank Heaven, however, he was no escaped lunatic.  I was safe!

“Mr. Poulter,” said I, “I took you this afternoon for a disinterested and philanthropic millionaire; you take me for—­for—­something different from what I am.  We have both made mistakes.  In a word, it is impossible for me to accept your offer!”

“Is that final?” asked Poulter.

“Certainly,” said I.

Poulter gathered his manuscripts together and replaced them in the bag, and got up to leave the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Dale,” he said mournfully, as I opened the door of the room.  “Good evening”—­he kept on talking till he was fairly out of the house—­“mark my words, you’ll be sorry—­very sorry—­one day that you did not fall in with my scheme.  Offers like mine don’t come every day, and you will one day regret having refused it.”