"I noticed that the book-shop was thronged, as usual, as I came by," Aaron Rodd remarked.
"This week," the poet declared solemnly, "will practically sever my connection with the book-shop. My publishers insist upon it that my work must be distributed in the regular fashion. Henceforth, the poems of Stephen Cresswell will be on sale at every reputable bookseller's—at four and sixpence, if you please. I have also an agent, and, as I before remarked, a banking account. Things have changed with me, Aaron Rodd. Only yesterday I found myself in need of a ten-pound note, referred the matter to my publishers and found them most affable.... How are adventures this morning?"
"Nothing doing," was the prompt reply, "until Harvey Grimm comes back. My only client has been to ask me a question about maritime law. He is coming back directly."
The poet ignored the hint.
"My presence here will do you good," he pointed out. "He will perhaps take me for another client. He is not a man of culture by any chance?"
"He is not," Aaron Rodd admitted tersely; "nor is he one of those who have been whacked into reading one of your poems."
"He must have read about them, at any rate," Cresswell insisted a little irritably. "If you introduce me, you had better mention my identity. Fame so far has left me quite unspoiled. I still feel a little thrill of pleasure in noticing the effect which the mention of my name has upon strangers.... Come in," he added pleasantly, in response to a thunderous knock at the door.
The door opened and Mr. Jacob Potts entered, bringing with him a strong atmosphere of old ale and bread and cheese. To Aaron Rodd's surprise, he recognised the poet with a broad grin.
"My Ulysses of Wapping!" the latter exclaimed, holding out his hand. "What a meeting!"
Mr. Jacob Potts jerked his thumb towards Cresswell as he turned to the lawyer.