“I expect he’s a wealthy chap in his old age,” said Edward Henry.

“Wealthy!” exclaimed Mr. Sachs.  “He’s the richest actor in America, and that’s saying in the world.  He had the greatest reputation.  He’s still the handsomest man in the United States—­that’s admitted—­with his white hair!  They used to say he was the cruellest, but it’s not so.  Though of course he could be a perfect terror with his companies.”

“And so you knew Archibald Florance?”

“You bet I did.  He never had any friends—­never—­but I knew him as well as anybody could.  Why, in San Francisco, after the show, I’ve walked with him back to his hotel, and he’s walked with me back to mine, and so on and so on till three or four o’clock in the morning.  You see, we couldn’t stop until it happened that he finished a cigar at the exact moment when we got to his hotel door.  If the cigar wasn’t finished, then he must needs stroll back a bit, and before I knew where I was he’d be lighting a fresh one.  He smoked the finest cigars in America.  I remember him telling me they cost him three dollars apiece.”

And Edward Henry then perceived another profound truth, his second cardinal discovery on that notable evening:  namely, that no matter how high you rise, you will always find that others have risen higher.  Nay, it is not until you have achieved a considerable peak that you are able to appreciate the loftiness of those mightier summits.  He himself was high, and so he could judge the greater height of Seven Sachs; and it was only through the greater height of Seven Sachs that he could form an adequate idea of the pinnacle occupied by the unique Archibald Florance.  Honestly, he had never dreamt that there existed a man who habitually smoked twelve-shilling cigars—­and yet he reckoned to know a thing or two about cigars!

“I am nothing!” he thought modestly.  Nevertheless, though the savour of the name of Archibald Florance was agreeable, he decided that he had heard enough for the moment about Archibald Florance, and that he would relate to Mr. Sachs the famous episode of his own career in which the Countess of Chell and a mule had so prominently performed.

“I remember—­” he recommenced.

“My first encounter with Archibald Florance was very funny,” proceeded Mr. Seven Sachs, blandly deaf.  “I was starving in New York,—­trying to sell a new razor on commission—­and I was determined to get on to the stage.  I had one visiting-card left—­just one.  I wrote ‘Important’ on it, and sent it up to Wunch.  I don’t know whether you’ve ever heard of Wunch.  Wunch was Archibald Florance’s stage-manager, and nearly as famous as Archibald himself.  Well, Wunch sent for me upstairs to his room, but when he found I was only the usual youngster after the usual job he just had me thrown out of the theatre.  He said I’d no right to put ‘Important’ on a visiting-card.  ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘I’m going to get back into that theatre somehow!’ So I went up to Archibald’s private house—­Sixtieth Street I think it was—­and asked to see him, and I saw him.  When I got into his room he was writing.  He kept on writing for some minutes, and then he swung round on his chair.