Lord What Fools These Mortals Be
He’s a cut above other London beggars. He created his own outlandish rules. No photos. No conversation. Small change frowned upon. Approach with respect. Bow gracefully. Offer your gift.
For donations of one hundred quid or more, you’ll get a folded scrap of paper containing a hand-written line from Shakespeare. Nobody quite understands the charm, the mystique, the raw magnetism of the man. Perhaps it’s just that he’s disarmingly different. Whatever the reason, everyone flocks to him.
At dusk, he sheds his disguise and returns to the manor.
“Successful day, m’lord?”
“Excellent, Briggs. Brandy in the library?”
“Very good, sir.”