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Updated: May 31, 2025
Grodman saw it, and watched her, and fooled Wimp to the top of his bent. It was, of course, Wimp who introduced the poet's name, and he did it so casually that Grodman perceived at once that he wished to pump him. The idea that the rival bloodhound should come to him for confirmation of suspicions against his own pet jackal was too funny.
"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.
"Pass him in." And in the twinkling of an eye Denzil had eagerly slipped inside. But during the brief altercation Wimp had come up. Even he could not make his face quite impassive, and there was a suppressed intensity in the eyes and a quiver about the mouth. He went in on Denzil's heels, blocking up the doorway with Grodman.
Your still undiscoverable crime would have shaken his reputation as you intended." A sudden explosion shook the room and blent with the cheers of the populace. Grodman had shot himself very scientifically in the heart. He fell at the Home Secretary's feet, stone dead. Some of the working men who had been standing waiting by the shafts of the hansom helped to bear the stretcher.
Grodman was up to his ears in letters and telegrams. Somehow he had become the leader of the rescue party suggestions, subscriptions came from all sides. The suggestions were burnt, the subscriptions acknowledged in the papers and used for hunting up the missing girl. Lucy Brent headed the list with a hundred pounds. It was a fine testimony to her faith in her dead lover's honour.
Denzil stood beside him, smoking in silence. A cold fear was at his heart. That terrible Grodman! As the hangman's cord was tightening round Mortlake, he felt the convict's chains tightening round himself. And yet there was one gleam of hope, feeble as the yellow flicker of the gas-lamp across the way.
The arrest must be delayed no longer. But Denzil seemed as if he were going in on the heels of Crowl. This would suit Grodman better. He could then have the two pleasures. But Denzil was stopped halfway through the door. "Ticket, sir!" Denzil drew himself up to his full height. "Press," he said majestically.
It was almost as funny to Grodman that evidence of some sort should be obviously lying to hand in the bosom of Wimp's hand-maiden; so obviously that Wimp could not see it. Grodman enjoyed his Christmas dinner, secure that he had not found a successor after all. Wimp, for his part, contemptuously wondered at the way Grodman's thought hovered about Denzil without grazing the truth.
Enough for me that I disseminate the Beautiful. Any letters come during my absence, Mrs. Crowl?" "No," she snapped. "But a gent named Grodman called. He said you hadn't been to see him for some time, and looked annoyed to hear you'd disappeared. How much have you let him in for?" "The man's in my debt," said Denzil, annoyed. "I wrote a book for him and he's taken all the credit for it, the rogue!
Grodman had obtained an interview with the condemned late that afternoon, and the parting had been painful, but the evening paper, that in its turn had obtained an interview with the ex-detective, announced on its placard and the thousands who yet pinned their faith on this extraordinary man refused to extinguish the last sparks of hope.
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