"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."