"'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 idealized 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.
"No—I've retired," laughed Grodman.
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——"
"Murder. So you said at the inquest."