“Presently you shall sit in judgment. Meantime, suppose you account for yourself.”
Chester Kent stretched himself luxuriously. “A distinguished secretary of state has remarked that all the news worth telling on any subject can be transmitted by wire for twenty-five cents. The short and simple annals of the poor in my case can be recorded within that limit. ‘Postgraduate science. Agricultural Department job. Lectures. Invention. Judiciary Department expert. Signed, Chester Kent.’ Ten words—count them—ten.”
“Interesting, but unsatisfying,” retorted his friend. “Can’t you expand a bit? I suppose you haven’t any dark secret in your life?”
“No secret, dark or light,” sighed the other. “The newspapers won’t let me have.”
“Eh? Won’t let you? Am I to infer that you’ve become a famous person? Pardon the ignorance of expatriation. Have you discovered a new disease, or formulated a new theory of life, or become a golf champion, or a senator, or a freak aviator, or invented perpetual motion? Do you possess titles, honors, and ribboned decorations? Ought I to bat my brow against the floor in addressing you? What are you, anyway?”
“What I told you, an expert in the service of the Department of Justice.”
“On the scientific side?”
“Why—yes, generally speaking. I like to flatter myself that my pursuit is scientific.”
“Pursuit? What do you pursue?”
“Men and motives.”