He turned on his heel and looked over some papers lying on the table. Grovelyn touched his arm; there was an evil leer on his face.
'The pen is mightier than the sword, Mr Valdis!' he observed.
'Ay, ay! That means you are going to blackguard me in the next number of the ha'penny Clarion? Be it so! Truth shall not budge for a ha'porth of slander!'
He resumed his perusal of the papers, and Grovelyn walked away slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground, and a brooding mischief in his face.
'You should never ruffle the temper of a man who has liver complaint, Valdis,' said Dr Dalley, cheerfully, drawing his chair up to the table where the handsome actor still leaned. 'All evil humours come from the troubles of that important organ, and I am sure, if I could only meet a would-be murderer in time, I could save him from the committal of his intended wicked deed by a dose—quite a small dose—of suitable medicine!'
Valdis laughed rather forcedly.
'Could you? Then you'd better attend to Grovelyn without delay. He's ripe for murder—with the pen!'
Dr Dalley rubbed his well-shaven, rounded chin meditatively.
'Is he? Well, perhaps he is; I really shouldn't wonder! Curiously enough, now I come to think of it, he has certain points about him that are synonymous with a murderer's instinct—phrenologically and physiologically speaking, I mean. It is rather strange he should be a poet at all.'
'Is he a poet?' queried Valdis, contemptuously; 'I never heard it honestly admitted. One does not acknowledge a man as a poet simply because he has a shock head of very dirty hair.'