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has been compared by three experts with the known signatures and they find enough coincidence to give the strongest presumption of identical authorship. They are perfectly satisfied as to the age of the cheveril and the writing materials and that apart from saltwater stains there has been no subsequent interference. In fact, my dear Mr. Jay, incredible as one might think it, the glove and the document actually seem to be what they purport to be.”
    Peregrine said, “I’ve always felt this would happen and now I can’t believe it.”
    “The question is: what is to be done with them?”
    “You will keep them for the time being?”
    “We are prepared to do so. We would very much like,” said the expert, and Peregrine caught the wraith of a chuckle in the receiver, “to keep them altogether. However! I think my principals will, after consultation, make an approach to—er—the owner. Through you, of course, and—I imagine this would be the correct proceeding—Mr. Greenslade.”
    “Yes. And—no publicity?”
    “Good God, no!” the expert exclaimed quite shrilly. “I should hope not. Imagine!” There was a long pause. “Have you any idea,” the expert said, “whenever he will contemplate selling?”
    “No more than you have.”
    “No. I see. Well: you will have the reports and a full statement from us within the next week. I—must confess—I—I have rung you up simply because I— in short—I am, as you obviously are, a devotee.”
    “I’ve written a play about the glove,” Peregrine said impulsively. “We’re opening here with it.”
    “Really? A play,” said the expert and his voice flattened.
    “It isn’t cheek!” Peregrine shouted into the telephone. “In its way it’s a tribute. A play! Yes, a play.”
    “Oh, please! Of course. Of course.”
    “Well, thank you for telling me.”
    “No, no.”
    “Goodbye.”
    “What? Oh, yes. Of course. Goodbye.”
    Peregrine put down the receiver and found Winter Meyer staring at him.
    “You’ll have to know about this, Winty,” he said. “But as you heard—no publicity. It concerns the Great Person, so that’s for sure. Further it must not go”
    “All right. If you say so: not an inch.”
    “Top secret?”
    “Top secret, as you say. Word of honour.”
    So Peregrine told him. When he had finished Meyer ran his white fingers through his black curls and lamented. “But listen, but listen, listen, listen. What material! What a talking line! The play’s
about
it. Listen: it’s
called The Glove.
We’ve
got
it. Greatest Shakespeare relic of all time. The
Dolphin
Glove. American offers. Letters to the papers: ‘Keep the Dolphin Glove in Shakespeare’s England.’ ‘New fabulous offer for Dolphin Glove!’ Public subscriptions. The lot! Ah, Perry, cherub, dear,
dear
Perry. All this lovely publicity and we should keep it secret!”
    “It’s no good going on like that.”
    “How do you expect me to go on? The Great Person must be handled over this one. He must be seen. He must be made to work. What makes him work? You’ve seen him. Look: he’s a financial wizard: he
knows.
He knows what’s good business. Listen: if this was handled right and we broke the whole story at the psychological moment: you know,
with
the publicity, the right kind of class publicity… Look—”
    “Do pipe down,” Peregrine said.
    “Ah! Ah! Ah!”
    “I’ll tell you what my guess is, Winty. He’ll take it all back to his iron bosom and lock it away in his Louis-the-Somethingth bureau and that’s the last any of us will ever see of young Hamnet Shakespeare’s cheveril glove.”
    In this assumption, however, Peregrine was entirely mistaken,
    “
But that’s all one
,” Marcus Knight read in his beautiful voice. “
Put it away somewhere. I shall not look at it again. Put it away.
”
    He laid his copy of Peregrine’s play down, and the six remaining members of the company followed his example. A little slap of typescripts ran round the table.
    “Thank