I laughed.
“You won’t get credit for literary skill out of the sort of books I want you to put your name to. They’re potboilers. You needn’t worry about Fame. You’ll be a martyr, not a hero.”
“You may be right. You wrote the book. But, in any case, I should be more of a charlatan than I care about.”
“You won’t do it?” I said. “I’m sorry. It would have been a great convenience to me.”
“On the other hand,” continued Hatton, ignoring my remark, “there are arguments in favour of such a scheme as you suggest.”
“Stout fellow!” I said encouragingly.
“To examine the matter in its—er—financial—to suppose for a moment—briefly, what do I get out of it?”
“Ten per cent.”
He looked thoughtful.
“The end shall justify the means,” he said. “The money you pay me can do something to help the awful, the continual poverty of Lambeth. Yes, James Cloyster, I will sign whatever you send me.”