The King Diamond by Fred M. White — Read

For the next week or two, Bly was destined to see the name of Cleopatra looming very largely in the popular Press. Her name was everywhere, she was seen here and there, always magnificently dressed and always in the forefront of the picture. She was going to appear at the Colidrome in a sketch specially written for her by a famous dramatist and supported by a company of actors and actresses who had been tempted to so far efface themselves by the big fee they were obtaining for appearing on the same stage with one who was at once the most beautiful woman and the worst actress in the world. She was going to make a tremendous sensation presently in a new British romantic film which was going to cost at the very least £100,000. Indeed, it seemed, for the moment, as if Cleopatra had eclipsed the rest of creation.

All of which Bly read with a quiet smile on his face. It had been a week or two before he had seen the picture he was waiting for in the popular pictorial which Clissold represented, but on the seventeenth day it appeared with an appropriate outline underneath, and, so far as Bly could judge, was an exceedingly fine likeness of that rascally adventurer.