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"No, you've put him out," growled the gentleman himself, suddenly appearing in his slippers. "Come in. What the devil have you been doing with yourself since the inquest? Drinking again?" "I've sworn off. Haven't touched a drop since " "The murder?" "Eh?" said Denzil Cantercot, startled. "What do you mean?" "What I say. Since December 4.
Denzil Cantercot sat in his fur overcoat at the open window, looking at the landscape in watercolours. He smoked an after-dinner cigarette, and spoke of the Beautiful. Crowl was with him. They were in the first floor front, Crowl's bedroom, which, from its view of the Mile End Road, was livelier than the parlour with its outlook on the backyard. Mrs.
"Ah, but we should fill it up with bread and butter," said Peter Crowl. "Yes, it is bread and butter that kills the Beautiful," said Denzil Cantercot, bitterly. "Many of us start by following the butterfly through the verdant meadows, but we turn aside " "To get the grub," chuckled Peter, cobbling away. "Peter, if you make a jest of everything, I'll not waste my time on you."
All men and women have something to conceal, and you have only to pretend to know what it is. Thus Grodman, who was nothing if not scientific. Denzil Cantercot shambled home thoughtfully, and abstractedly took his place at the Crowl dinner-table. Mrs. Crowl surveyed Denzil Cantercot so stonily and cut him his beef so savagely that he said grace when the dinner was over.
Manual labour is all very well for plain men like me, with no gift but just enough brains to see into the realities of things to understand that we've got no soul and no immortality, and all that and too selfish to look after anybody's comfort but my own and mother's and the kids'. But men like you and Cantercot it ain't right that you should be peggin' away at low material things.
Humanity must look to far other leaders to the seers and the poets!" "Cantercot, if you say Tom's guilty I'll knock you down." The little cobbler turned upon his tall friend like a roused lion. Then he added, "I beg your pardon, Cantercot, I don't mean that. After all, I've no grounds. The judge is an honest man, and with gifts I can't lay claim to. But I believe in Tom with all my heart.
His clothes were muddy and tattered, his cocked hat was deformed, his cavalier beard was matted, and his eyes were bloodshot. The cobbler nearly dropped the ticket at the sight of him. "Hallo, Cantercot!" he gasped. "Why, where have you been all these days?" "Terribly busy!" said Denzil. "Here, give me a glass of water. I'm dry as the Sahara."
"Besides, murder isn't a very appropriate subject." "No, it ain't," said Grodman. "How did we get on to it? Oh, yes Denzil Cantercot. Ha! ha! ha! That's curious, for since Denzil revised Criminals I have Caught, his mind's running on nothing but murders. A poet's brain is easily turned." Wimp's eye glittered with excitement and contempt for Grodman's blindness.
I intend this statement to form the basis of an appendix to the twenty-fifth edition sort of silver wedding of my book, Criminals I have Caught. Mr. Denzil Cantercot, who, by the will I have made to-day, is appointed my literary executor, will have the task of working it up with literary and dramatic touches after the model of the other chapters of my book.
Cantercot went straight or as straight as his loose gait permitted to 46 Glover Street, and knocked at the door. Grodman's factotum opened it. She was a pock-marked person, with a brickdust complexion and a coquettish manner. "Oh! Here we are again!" she said vivaciously. "Don't talk like a clown," Cantercot snapped. "Is Mr. Grodman in?"
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