They were shown into a front room, of good size, containing two beds. The servant handed them the key, and left them.

“This looks very comfortable, Mr. de Gray,” said the professor, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

“Why do you call me Mr. de Gray?” asked Philip, thinking he had been misunderstood. “It is plain Gray, without any de.”

“I am only using your professional name,” answered the professor. “Don't you know people will think a great deal more of you if they suppose you to be a foreigner?”

Philip laughed.

“Is Lorenzo Riccabocca your true or professional name, professor?” he asked.

“Professional, of course. My real name—I impart it to you in the strictest confidence—is Lemuel Jones. Think of it. How would that look on a poster?”

“It would not be so impressive as the other.”

“Of course not; and the public need to be impressed. I thank thee for that word, Mr. de Gray. By the way, it's rather a pity I didn't give you a Spanish or Italian name.”

“But I can't speak either language. It would be seen through at once.”

“People wouldn't think of asking. You'd be safe enough. They will generally swallow all you choose to say.”

They went down to dinner presently, and the professor—Philip could not help thinking—ate as if he were half-starved. He explained afterward that elocutionary effort taxes the strength severely, and makes hearty eating a necessity.

After dinner was over the professor said:

“Are you content, Mr. de Gray, to leave me to make the necessary arrangements?”

“I should prefer that you would,” said Philip, and he spoke sincerely. “Probably you understand much better than I what needs to be done.”

“'Tis well! Your confidence is well placed,” said the professor, with a wave of his hand. “Shall you remain in the hotel?”

“No, I think I will walk about the town and see a little of it. I have never been here before.”

Philip took a walk through the principal streets, surveying with curiosity the principal building's, for, though there was nothing particularly remarkable about them, he was a young traveler, to whom everything was new. He could not help thinking of his late home, and in particular of Frank Dunbar, his special friend, and he resolved during the afternoon to write a letter to Frank, apprising him of his luck thus far. He knew that Frank would feel anxious about him, and would be delighted to hear of his success as a musician.

He went into a book-store and bought a sheet of paper and an envelope.

He had just completed his letter, when his partner entered the reading-room of the hotel with a brisk step.

“Mr. de Gray,” he said, “I have made all necessary arrangements. I have hired the hall for to-morrow evening—five dollars—ordered some tickets and posters at the printing-office, and secured a first-class notice in to-morrow morning's paper. Everybody in Wilkesville will know before to-morrow night that they will have the opportunity of attending a first-class performance at the Music Hall.”

“It seems to me the necessary expenses are considerable,” said Philip uneasily.

“Of course they are; but what does that matter?”

“What is to be the price of tickets?”

“General admission, twenty-five cents; reserved seats, fifty cents, and children under twelve, fifteen cents. How does that strike you!”

“Will anyone be willing to pay fifty cents to hear us?” asked Philip.

“Fifty cents! It will be richly worth a dollar!” said the professor loftily.

“I suppose he knows best,” thought Philip. “I hope all will come out right. If it does we can try the combination in other places.”