"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."
"Rot! The twenty-fourth edition was all owing to the murder. Did you do that?"
"You take one up so sharply, Mr. Grodman," said Denzil, changing his tone.
Denzil did not reprove the ex-detective's flippancy. He even laughed a little.
"Well, give me another fiver, and I'll cry 'quits.' I'm in debt."
"Not a penny. Why haven't you been to see me since the murder? I had to write that letter to the _Pell Mell Press_ myself. You might have earned a crown."
"I've had writer's cramp, and couldn't do your last job. I was coming to tell you so on the morning of the--"
"Of course. Weren't you on your oath? It was very zealous of you to get up so early to tell me. In which hand did you have this cramp?"
"Or any other instrument, mayhap. What had you been doing to bring it on?"
"Writing too much. That is the only possible cause."
"No wonder you're in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?"
"No; it wouldn't be the least use to me."
"Aren't you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write something for me."
Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place.
Denzil started and flushed. But he set to work. Grodman leaned back in his arm-chair and laughed, studying the poet's grave face.
"Can't remember any more? Well, read me the start."
"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! Why, Milton chose the same subject!"
"Blow Milton. Take yourself off--you and your Epics."