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"When I was in my cradle, a century ago," said Wimp's grandmother-in-law, "men were hanged for stealing horses." They silenced her with snapdragon performances. Wimp was busy thinking how to get at Grodman's factotum. Grodman was busy thinking how to get at Wimp's domestic. Neither received any of the usual messages from the Christmas Bells. The next day was sloppy and uncertain.
"Sir, I wonder if any one besides myself has been struck by the incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman's letter in your last issue. That he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult and run it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition that his judgment is failing him in his old age.
"Pending further inquiries into this," said the Home Secretary, not without appreciation of the grim humour of the situation as he glanced at Grodman's ashen cheeks, "I have reprieved the prisoner. Mr. Templeton was about to despatch the messenger to the governor of Newgate as you entered this room. Mr. Wimp's card-castle would have tumbled to pieces without your assistance.
"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.
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