“The mystery-story,” I said, “is a money-maker. Look at 'Sherlock Holmes,' and look at—well, look at 'Old and Young King Brady'!”
“All those dime novels are written by the same man,” said my wife, unemotionally.
“Were, my dear. I believe that man is dead now.”
“Then it's his brother,” said my wife.
“But I am not going to descend to the dime novel,” I went on. “I am going to write the higher type of mystery-story. My first story will concern the Oriental of whom I have spoken. It will be called 'The Chinaman's Head.' Don't you think it a good idea?”
“But that isn't all of it?” the rainbow fancy of my lost youth questioned, at the same time making a long arm for the olives.
“Of course not. There are innumerable complications. They—er—they complicate—”
“Such as?”
“Of course,” I said, “I conceived this idea just before lunch. I have had no time as yet to work out the mere detail.”
“Oh,” said my lifelong penance, chewing an end of celery.