“Oh, no, Cantercot.  Don’t say that; don’t say that!” pleaded the little cobbler.

“Well, shall I say unpleasant, then?”

“No, no, Cantercot.  Don’t misunderstand me.  Mother has been very much put to it lately to rub along.  You see she has such a growing family.  It grows—­daily.  But never mind her.  You pay whenever you’ve got the money.”

Denzil shook his head.  “It cannot be.  You know when I came here first I rented your top room and boarded myself.  Then I learnt to know you.  We talked together.  Of the Beautiful.  And the Useful.  I found you had no soul.  But you were honest, and I liked you.  I went so far as to take my meals with your family.  I made myself at home in your back parlour.  But the vase has been shattered (I do not refer to that on the mantel-piece), and though the scent of the roses may cling to it still, it can be pieced together—­nevermore.”  He shook his hair sadly and shambled out of the shop.  Crowl would have gone after him, but Mrs. Crowl was still calling, and ladies must have the precedence in all polite societies.

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?”

“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.  I reckon everything from that murder, now, as they reckon longitude from Greenwich.”

“Oh,” said Denzil Cantercot.

“Let me see.  Nearly a fortnight.  What a long time to keep away from Drink—­and Me.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” said Denzil, irritated.  “You both steal away my brains.”

“Indeed?” said Grodman, with an amused smile.  “Well, it’s only petty pilfering, after all.  What’s put salt on your wounds?”

“The twenty-fourth edition of my book.”

“Whose book?”

“Well, your book.  You must be making piles of money out of Criminals I have Caught.”

“‘Criminals I have Caught,’” corrected Grodman.  “My dear Denzil, how often am I to point out that I went through the experiences that make the backbone of my book, not you?  In each case I cooked the criminal’s goose.  Any journalist could have supplied the dressing.”

“The contrary.  The journeymen of journalism would have left the truth naked.  You yourself could have done that—­for there is no man to beat you at cold, lucid, scientific statement.  But I idealised the bare facts and lifted them into the realm of poetry and literature.  The twenty-fourth edition of the book attests my success.”