The Grand Duke made another objection.

"I understand," he said, "it is etiquette for music-hall artists in
their spare time to eat--er--fried fish with their fingers. Must I do
that? I doubt if I could manage it."

Mr Quhayne once more became the human semaphore.

"S'elp me! Of course you needn't! All the leading pros, eat it with a
spoon. Bless you, you can be the refined gentleman on the Halls same as
anywhere else. Come now, your Grand Grace, is it a deal? Four hundred
and fifty chinking o'Goblins a week for one hall a night, and
press-agented at eight hundred and seventy-five. S'elp me! Lauder
doesn't get it, not in England."

The Grand Duke reflected. The invasion has proved more expensive than
he had foreseen. The English are proverbially a nation of shopkeepers,
and they had put up their prices in all the shops for his special
benefit. And he was expected to do such a lot of tipping. Four hundred
and fifty a week would come in uncommonly useful.

"Where do I sign?" he asked, extending his hand for the agreement.

* * * * *

Five minutes later Mr. Quhayne was urging his taxidriver to exceed the
speed-limit in the direction of Tottenham.