"What book?"
"Well, I like that. Didn't you write it for me? And don't you recollect we were to share profits? Look at those"—and he pushed toward him an immense bundle of press-cuttings.
From these it appeared that the book had achieved notoriety, if not fame.
"You didn't let me know where you went, and you've never written me, or I would have posted these things to you. Ripping, aren't they?"
"They appear excellent."
"And there's something else that's still better. Read that!"
It was a letter bearing the well-known office address of Mr. Wilbur M. Legion, and enclosing a substantial cheque.
"It only came yesterday. I guess we'll cash it. Half of it is yours, you know, and if you're going to England it may come in handy."
Arthur looked up at that, fixing his eyes on Horner's cheerful face with a long, searching gaze.
Did Horner know the miserable truth about his father? But of course he did. It was being shouted round the world. And this reference to the money being handy on a voyage to England was no doubt the little artist's indirect, and indeed delicate, way of communicating his knowledge.