That so sympathetic and kindly a gentleman should utterly disregard the feelings and desires of his neighbours, that he should have in his bedroom the largest gramophone that Hampstead had ever known, and a gramophone, moreover, fitted with an automatic arm, so that no sooner was the record finished than the needle was switched to the outer edge of the disc and began all over again, and that he should choose the midnight hour for his indulgence, were facts as strange as they were deplorable.
Mr. Lynne had urged at the police court that the only method he had discovered for so soothing his nerves that he could ensure himself a night’s sleep, was to hear that thunderous piece.
That Mr. Lynne was sympathetic at least three distressed parents could testify. He was a theatrical agent with large interests in South America; he specialised in the collection of “turns” for some twenty halls large and small, and the great artists who had travelled through the Argentine and Mexico, Chile and Brazil, had nothing but praise for the excellent treatment they had received at the hands of those Mr. Lynne represented. It was believed, and was in truth, a fact, that he was financially interested in quite a number of these places of amusement, which may have accounted for the courtesy and attention which the great performers received on their tour.
He also sent out a number of small artists—microscopically small artists whose names had never figured on the play bills of Britain. They were chosen for their beauty, their sprightliness and their absence of ties.
“It’s a beautiful country,” Mr. Homer Lynne would say.
He was a grave, smooth man, clean-shaven, save for a sign of grey side-whiskers, and people who did not know him would imagine that he was a successful lawyer, with an ecclesiastical practice.
“It’s a beautiful country,” he would say, “but I don’t know whether I like sending a young girl out there. Of course, you’ll have a good salary, and live well—have you any relations?”
If the girl produced a brother or a father, or even a mother, or an intimate maiden aunt, Mr. Lynne would nod and promise to write on the morrow, a promise which he fulfilled, regretting that he did not think the applicant would quite suit his purpose—which was true. But if she were isolated from these connections, if there were no relations to whom she would write, or friends who were likely to pester him with enquiries, her first-class passage was forthcoming—but not for the tour which the great artists followed, nor for the bigger halls where they would be likely to meet. They were destined for smaller halls, which were not so much theatre as cabaret.
Now and again, on three separate occasions to be exact, the applicant for an engagement would basely deceive him. She would say she had no relations, and lo! there would appear an inquisitive brother, or, as in the present case, a father.
On a bright morning in June, Mr. Lynne sat in his comfortable chair, his hands folded, regarding gravely a nervous little man who sat on the other side of the big mahogany desk balancing his bowler hat on his knees.
“Rosie Goldstein,” said Mr. Lynne thoughtfully, “I seem to remember the name.”
He rang a bell and a dark young man answered.
“Bring me my engagement book, Mr. Mandez,” said Mr. Lynne.
“You see how it is, Mr. Lynne,” said the caller anxiously—he was unmistakably Hebraic and very nervous. “I hadn’t any idea that Rosie had gone abroad until a friend of hers told me that she had come here and got an engagement.”
“I see,” said Mr. Lynne. “She did not tell you she was going.”
“No, sir.”
The dark young man returned with the book and Mr. Lynne turned the pages leisurely, running his finger down a list of names.
“Here we are,” he said. “Rosie Goldstein. Yes, I remember the girl now, but she told me she was an orphan.”
Goldstein nodded.
“I suppose she thought I’d stop her,” he said with a sigh of relief. “But as long as I know where she is, I’m not so worried. Have you her present address?”
Lynne closed the book carefully and beamed at the visitor.
“I haven’t her present address,” he said cheerfully, “but if you will write her a letter and address it to me, I will see that it goes forward to our agents in Buenos Aires: they, of course, will be able to find her. You see, there are a large number of halls in connection with the circuit, and it is extremely likely that she may be performing upcountry. It is quite impossible to keep track of every artist.”
“I understand that, sir,” said the grateful little Jew.
“She ought to have told you,” said the sympathetic Lynne shaking his head.
He really meant that she ought to have told him.
“However, we’ll see what can be done.”
He offered his plump hand to the visitor, and the dark young man showed him to the door.
Three minutes later Mr. Lynne was interviewing a pretty girl who had the advantage of stage experience—she had been a member of a beauty chorus in a travelling revue. And when the eager girl had answered questions relating to her stage experiences, which were few, Mr. Lynne came to the real crux of the interview.
“Now what do your father and mother say about this idea of your accepting this engagement to go abroad?” he asked with his most benevolent smile.
“I have no father or mother,” said the girl, and Mr. Lynne guessed from the momentary quiver of the lips that she had lost one of these recently.
“You have brothers, perhaps?”
“I have no brothers,” she answered, shaking her head. “I haven’t any relations in the world, Mr. Lynne. You will let me go, won’t you?” she pleaded.
Mr. Lynne would let her go. If the truth be told, the minor “artists” he sent to the South American continent were infinitely more profitable than the great performers whose names were household words
