“It’s a great old city,” he said, half affectionately, “and I make my living by letting my hook down into the night and drawing up a mystery. You mustn’t mind if I sometimes rattle the old Royal when better folks are asleep.”
“If you’ll take the advice of an older man,” said Mr. Lund with an air of firmness, “you’ll let crook stories alone and choose something a little healthier. Your mind is full of them.”
Still a little outraged Mr. Lund bowed himself from the room. Anthony Trent fed his ancient briar and took the seat by the window.
“I wonder if he’s right,” mused Anthony Trent.
CHAPTER III
THE DAY OF TEMPTATION
THE dawn had long passed and the milkmen had awakened their unwilling clients two hours agone before Anthony Trent finished his story. He was not a quick worker. His was a mind that labored heavily unless the details of his work were accurate. This time he was satisfied. It was a good story and the editor for whom he was doing a series would be pleased. He might even increase his rates.
Crosbeigh, the editor of the magazine which sought Anthony Trent’s crook stories, was an amiable being who had won a reputation for profundity by reason of eloquent silences. He would have done well in any line of work where originality was not desired. He knew, from what his circulation manager told him, that Trent’s stories made circulation and he liked the writer apart from his work. Perhaps because he was not a disappointed author he was free from certain editorial prejudices.
“Sit down,” he cried cordially, when Anthony Trent was shown in. “Take a cigarette and I’ll read this right away.” Crosbeigh was a nervous man who battled daily with subway crowds and was apt to be irritable.
“It’s great,” he said when he had finished it, “Great! Doyle, Hornung, well—there you are!” It was one of his moments of silent eloquence. The listener might have inferred anything.
“But they are paid real money,” replied Anthony Trent gloomily.