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Grodman's house to tell him he had been unable to do some writing for him because he was suffering from writer's cramp, when Mr. Grodman called to him from the window of No. 11 and asked him to run for the police. No, he did not run; he was a philosopher. He had no stomach for crude sensations.
Grodman stood at the side of the platform secretly more amused than ever, concerning himself no more with Denzil Cantercot, who was already strengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs. The police about the hall blew their whistles, and policemen came rushing in from outside and the neighbourhood.
When Wimp invited Grodman to eat his Christmas plum-pudding at King's Cross, Grodman was only a little surprised. The two men were always overwhelmingly cordial when they met, in order to disguise their mutual detestation. When people really like each other, they make no concealment of their mutual contempt.
The great reception arranged outside was a fiasco; the evening banquet was indefinitely postponed. Wimp had won; Grodman felt like a whipped cur. "So you were right," Denzil could not help saying as he greeted Grodman a week afterwards. "I shall not live to tell the story of how you discovered the Bow murderer." "Sit down," growled Grodman; "perhaps you will after all."
"Do you still hope to discover the Bow murderer?" he asked the old bloodhound. "I can lay my hand on him now," Grodman announced curtly. Denzil hitched his chair back involuntarily. He found conversation with detectives as lively as playing at skittles with bombshells. They got on his nerves terribly, these undemonstrative gentlemen with no sense of the Beautiful.
After that quotation from the letter to the poor fellow's fiancée there could be no more doubt but that it was murder. Mr. Wimp was convinced by it too, weren't you, Edward?" Edward coughed uneasily. It was a true statement, and therefore an indiscreet. Grodman would plume himself terribly. At this moment Wimp felt that Grodman had been right in remaining a bachelor.
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.
I thought my information would be valuable to you, and I brought it." "And why didn't you take it to Mr. Grodman?" "Because I thought it wouldn't be valuable to me." "You wrote Criminals I have Caught?" "How how do you know that?" Wimp was startling him to-day with a vengeance. "Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot. The unique, noble style." "Yes, I was afraid it would betray me," said Denzil.
He had written for the trade papers since boyhood. But there is great competition on these papers. So many men of literary gifts know all about the intricate technicalities of manufactures and markets, and are eager to set the trade right. Grodman perhaps hardly allowed sufficiently for the step backwards that Denzil made when he devoted his whole time for months to Criminals I have Caught.
Grodman leaned back in his arm-chair and laughed, studying the poet's grave face. Denzil wrote three lines and paused. "Can't remember any more? Well, read me the start." Denzil read: "Of man's first disobedience and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world " "Hold on!" cried Grodman. "What morbid subjects you choose, to be sure!" "Morbid!
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