He shot a quick glance at me from beneath his shaggy russet brows.
"How so? I see varry little connection," he said suspiciously.
"There's this connection—that while you speak with some freedom of what I do, you are quite willing to take advantage of it when it serves your turn."
"'Advantage,' Harrison?" he said slowly.
"Of the advertisement Martin Renard gives you. I must point out that you condone a thing when you accept the benefit of it. Either you shouldn't have come to me at all, or you should deny yourself the gratification of these slurs."
"Slurrrrs?" he repeated loweringly.
"Both of you—you and Miss Andriaovsky, or Maschka as I call her, tout court. Don't suppose I don't know as well as you do the exact worth of my 'sleuth-hound,' as you call him. You didn't come to me solely because I knew Andriaovsky well; you came because I've got the ear of the public also; and I tell you plainly that, however much you dislike it, Michael's fame as far as I'm of any use to him, depends on the popularity of Martin Renard."
He shook his big head. "This is what I feared," he said.
"More," I continued, "you can depend upon it that Michael, wherever he is, knows all about that."
"Ay, ay," he said sagely, "I misdoubt your own artistic soul's only to be saved by the writing of poor Michael's 'Life,' Harrison."