Esthetic values apart—­and, indeed, to all such values Patricia accorded a provisional respect—­what most impressed her Stapyltonian mind was the fact that these books represented, in a perfectly tangible way, success.  Patricia very heartily admired success when it was brevetted as such by the applause of others.  And while to be a noted stylist, and even to be reasonably sure of annotated reissuement for the plaguing of unborn schoolchildren, was all well enough, in an unimportant, high-minded way, Patricia was far more vividly impressed by the blunt figures which told how many of John Charteris’s books had been bought and paid for.  She accepted these figures as his publishers gave them forth, implicitly; and she marveled over and took odd joy in these figures.  They enabled her to admire Charteris’s books without reservation.

By this time Mrs. Ashmeade had managed, in the most natural manner, to tell Patricia a deal concerning Charteris.  No halo graced the portrait Mrs. Ashmeade painted....  But, indeed, Patricia now viewed John Charteris, considered as a person, without any particular bias.  She did not especially care—­now—­what the man had done or had omitted to do.

But the venerable incongruity of the writer and his work confronted her intriguingly.  A Charteris writes In Old Lichfield; a Cockney drug-clerk writes The Eve of St. Agnes; a genteel printer evolves a Lovelace; and a cutpurse pens the Ballad of Dead Ladies in a brothel.  It is manifestly impossible; and it happens.

So here, then, was a knave who held, somehow, the keys to a courtlier and nobler world.  These tales made living seem a braver business, for all that they were written by a poltroon.  Was it pure posturing?  Patricia, at least, thought it was not.  At worst, such dexterous maintenance of a pose was hardly despicable, she considered.  And, anyhow, she preferred to believe that Charteris had by some miracle put the best of himself into these books, had somehow clarified the abhorrent mixture of ability and evil which was John Charteris; and the best in him she found, on this hypothesis, to be a deal more admirable than the best in Rudolph Musgrave.

“It is a part of Jack,” she fiercely said.  “It is, because I know it is.  All this is part of him—­as much a part of him as the cowardice and the trickery.  So I don’t really care if he is a liar and a coward.  I ought to, I suppose.  But at the bottom of my heart I admire him.  He has made something; he has created these beautiful books, and they will be here when we are all dead.  He doesn’t leave the world just as he found it.  That is the only real cowardice, I think—­especially as I am going to do it——­”

And later she said, belligerently:  “If I had been a man I could have at least assassinated somebody who was prominent.  I do wish Rudolph was not such a stick-in-the-mud.  And I wish I liked Rudolph better.  But on the whole I prefer the physical coward to the moral one.  Rudolph simply bores me stiff with his benevolent airs.  He just walks around the place forgiving me sixty times to the hour, and if he doesn’t stop it I am going to slap him.”