IV

But Sandy Sanderson's burning solicitude to fix the crime flickered

out in the face of opposition, and in the end he bowed his head to the

inevitable "open verdict." Then the floodgates of inkland were opened,

and the deluge pattered for nine days on the deaf coffin where the poor

idealist mouldered. The tongues of the Press were loosened, and the

leader-writers revelled in recapitulating the circumstances of "The

Big Bow Mystery," though they could contribute nothing but adjectives

to the solution. The papers teemed with letters--it was a kind of Indian

summer of the silly season. But the editors could not keep them out, nor

cared to. The mystery was the one topic of conversation everywhere--it

was on the carpet and the bare boards alike, in the kitchen and the

drawing-room. It was discussed with science or stupidity, with aspirates

or without. It came up for breakfast with the rolls, and was swept off

the supper-table with the last crumbs.

No. 11 Glover Street, Bow, remained for days a shrine of pilgrimage. The

once sleepy little street buzzed from morning till night. From all parts

of the town people came to stare up at the bedroom window and wonder with

a foolish face of horror. The pavement was often blocked for hours

together, and itinerant vendors of refreshment made it a new market

centre, while vocalists hastened thither to sing the delectable ditty of

the deed without having any voice in the matter. It was a pity the

Government did not erect a toll-gate at either end of the street. But

Chancellors of the Exchequer rarely avail themselves of the more obvious

expedients for paying off the National Debt.

Finally, familiarity bred contempt, and the wits grew facetious at the

expense of the Mystery. Jokes on the subject appeared even in the comic

papers.

To the proverb, "You must not say Bo to a goose," one added, "or else she

will explain you the Mystery." The name of the gentleman who asked

whether the Bow Mystery was not 'arrowing shall not be divulged. There

was more point in "Dagonet's" remark that, if he had been one of the

unhappy jurymen, he should have been driven to "suicide." A professional

paradox-monger pointed triumphantly to the somewhat similar situation in

"the murder in the Rue Morgue," and said that Nature had been

plagiarising again--like the monkey she was--and he recommended Poe's

publishers to apply for an injunction. More seriously, Poe's solution

was re-suggested by "Constant Reader" as an original idea. He thought

that a small organ-grinder's monkey might have got down the chimney with

its master's razor, and, after attempting to shave the occupant of the

bed, have returned the way it came. This idea created considerable

sensation, but a correspondent with a long train of letters draggling

after his name pointed out that a monkey small enough to get down so

narrow a flue would not be strong enough to inflict so deep a wound. This

was disputed by a third writer, and the contest raged so keenly about the

power of monkeys' muscles that it was almost taken for granted that a

monkey was the guilty party. The bubble was pricked by the pen of "Common

Sense," who laconically remarked that no traces of soot or blood had been

discovered on the floor, or on the nightshirt, or the counterpane. The

_Lancet's_ leader on the Mystery was awaited with interest. It said: "We

cannot join in the praises that have been showered upon the coroner's

summing up. It shows again the evils resulting from having coroners who

are not medical men. He seems to have appreciated but inadequately the

significance of the medical evidence. He should certainly have directed

the jury to return a verdict of murder on that. What was it to do with

him that he could see no way by which the wound could have been inflicted

by an outside agency? It was for the police to find how that was done.

Enough that it was impossible for the unhappy young man to have inflicted

such a wound, and then to have strength and will power enough to hide the

instrument and to remove perfectly every trace of his having left the bed

for the purpose." It is impossible to enumerate all the theories

propounded by the amateur detectives, while Scotland Yard religiously

held its tongue. Ultimately the interest on the subject became confined

to a few papers which had received the best letters. Those papers that

couldn't get interesting letters stopped the correspondence and sneered

at the "sensationalism" of those that could. Among the mass of fantasy

there were not a few notable solutions, which failed brilliantly, like

rockets posing as fixed stars. One was that in the obscurity of the fog

the murderer had ascended to the window of the bedroom by means of a

ladder from the pavement. He had then with a diamond cut one of the panes

away, and effected an entry through the aperture. On leaving he fixed in

the pane of glass again (or another which he had brought with him) and

thus the room remained with its bolts and locks untouched. On its being

pointed out that the panes were too small, a third correspondent showed

that that didn't matter, as it was only necessary to insert the hand and

undo the fastening, when the entire window could be opened, the process

being reversed by the murderer on leaving. This pretty edifice of glass

was smashed by a glazier, who wrote to say that a pane could hardly be

fixed in from only one side of a window frame, that it would fall out

when touched, and that in any case the wet putty could not have escaped

detection. A door panel sliced out and replaced was also put forward, and

as many trap-doors and secret passages were ascribed to No. 11 Glover

Street, as if it were a mediaeval castle. Another of these clever theories

was that the murderer was in the room the whole time the police were

there--hidden in the wardrobe. Or he had got behind the door when Grodman

broke it open, so that he was not noticed in the excitement of the

discovery, and escaped with his weapon at the moment when Grodman and

Mrs. Drabdump were examining the window fastenings.

Scientific explanations also were to hand to explain how the assassin

locked and bolted the door behind him. Powerful magnets outside the door

had been used to turn the key and push the bolt within. Murderers armed

with magnets loomed on the popular imagination like a new microbe. There

was only one defect in this ingenious theory--the thing could not be

done. A physiologist recalled the conjurers who swallow swords--by an

anatomical peculiarity of the throat--and said that the deceased might

have swallowed the weapon after cutting his own throat. This was too much

for the public to swallow. As for the idea that the suicide had been

effected with a penknife or its blade, or a bit of steel, which had then

got buried in the wound, not even the quotation of Shelley's line:--

"Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it,"

could secure it a moment's acceptance. The same reception was accorded

to the idea that the cut had been made with a candle-stick (or other

harmless necessary bedroom article) constructed like a sword stick.

Theories of this sort caused a humorist to explain that the deceased had

hidden the razor in his hollow tooth! Some kind friend of Messrs.

Maskelyne and Cook suggested that they were the only persons who could

have done the deed, as no one else could get out of a locked cabinet. But

perhaps the most brilliant of these flashes of false fire was the

facetious, yet probably half-seriously meant letter that appeared in the

_Pell Mell Press_ under the heading of

"THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED

"Sir,--You will remember that when the Whitechapel murders were

agitating the universe, I suggested that the district coroner was the

assassin. My suggestion has been disregarded. The coroner is still at

large. So is the Whitechapel murderer. Perhaps this suggestive

coincidence will incline the authorities to pay more attention to me

this time. The problem seems to be this. The deceased could not have

cut his own throat. The deceased could not have had his throat cut for

him. As one of the two must have happened, this is obvious nonsense. As

this is obvious nonsense I am justified in disbelieving it. As this

obvious nonsense was primarily put in circulation by Mrs. Drabdump and

Mr. Grodman, I am justified in disbelieving _them_. In short, sir, what

guarantee have we that the whole tale is not a cock-and-bull story,

invented by the two persons who first found the body? What proof is

there that the deed was not done by these persons themselves, who then

went to work to smash the door and break the locks and the bolts, and

fasten up all the windows before they called the police in?--I enclose

my card, and am, sir, yours truly,

"ONE WHO LOOKS THROUGH HIS OWN SPECTACLES."

"[Our correspondent's theory is not so audaciously original as he seems

to imagine. Has he not looked through the spectacles of the people who

persistently suggested that the Whitechapel murderer was invariably

the policeman who found the body? _Somebody_ must find the body, if it is

to be found at all.--Ed. P.M.P.]"

The editor had reason to be pleased that he inserted this letter, for it

drew the following interesting communication from the great detective

himself:--

"THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED

"Sir,--I do not agree with you that your correspondent's theory lacks

originality. On the contrary, I think it is delightfully original. In

fact it has given me an idea. What that idea is I do not yet propose to

say, but if 'One who looks through his own spectacles' will favour me

with his name and address I shall be happy to inform him a little

before the rest of the world whether his germ has borne any fruit.

I feel he is a kindred spirit, and take this opportunity of saying

publicly that I was extremely disappointed at the unsatisfactory

verdict. The thing was a palpable assassination; an open verdict has a

tendency to relax the exertions of Scotland Yard. I hope I shall not be

accused of immodesty, or of making personal reflections, when I say

that the Department has had several notorious failures of late. It is

not what it used to be. Crime is becoming impertinent. It no longer

knows its place, so to speak. It throws down the gauntlet where once it

used to cower in its fastnesses. I repeat, I make these remarks solely

in the interest of law and order. I do not for one moment believe that

Arthur Constant killed himself, and if Scotland Yard satisfies itself

with that explanation, and turns on its other side and goes to sleep

again, then, sir, one of the foulest and most horrible crimes of the

century will for ever go unpunished. My acquaintance with the unhappy

victim was but recent; still, I saw and knew enough of the man to be

certain (and I hope I have seen and known enough of other men to judge)

that he was a man constitutionally incapable of committing an act of

violence, whether against himself or anybody else. He would not hurt a

fly, as the saying goes. And a man of that gentle stamp always lacks

the active energy to lay hands on himself. He was a man to be esteemed

in no common degree, and I feel proud to be able to say that he

considered me a friend. I am hardly at the time of life at which a man

cares to put on his harness again; but, sir, it is impossible that I

should ever know a day's rest till the perpetrator of this foul deed is

discovered. I have already put myself in communication with the family

of the victim, who, I am pleased to say, have every confidence in me,

and look to me to clear the name of their unhappy relative from the

semi-imputation of suicide. I shall be pleased if any one who shares my

distrust of the authorities, and who has any clue whatever to this

terrible mystery or any plausible suggestion to offer, if, in brief,

any 'One who looks through his own spectacles' will communicate with

me. If I were asked to indicate the direction in which new clues might

be most usefully sought, I should say, in the first instance, anything

is valuable that helps us to piece together a complete picture of the

manifold activities of the man in the East-end. He entered one way or

another into the lives of a good many people; is it true that he

nowhere made enemies? With the best intentions a man may wound or

offend; his interference may be resented; he may even excite jealousy.

A young man like the late Mr. Constant could not have had as much

practical sagacity as he had goodness. Whose corns did he tread on? The

more we know of the last few months of his life the more we shall know

of the manner of his death. Thanking you by anticipation for the

insertion of this letter in your valuable columns, I am, sir, yours

truly,

"George Grodman.

"46 Glover Street, Bow.

"P. S.--Since writing the above lines, I have, by the kindness of Miss

Brent, been placed in possession of a most valuable letter, probably

the last letter written by the unhappy gentleman. It is dated Monday,

3 December, the very eve of the murder, and was addressed to her at

Florence, and has now, after some delay, followed her back to London

where the sad news unexpectedly brought her. It is a letter couched,

on the whole, in the most hopeful spirit, and speaks in detail of his

schemes. Of course there are things in it not meant for the ears of

the public, but there can be no harm in transcribing an important

passage:--

"'You seem to have imbibed the idea that the East-end is a kind of

Golgotha, and this despite that the books out of which you probably got

it are carefully labelled "Fiction." Lamb says somewhere that we think

of the "Dark Ages" as literally without sunlight, and so I fancy people

like you, dear, think of the "East-end" as a mixture of mire, misery,

and murder. How's that for alliteration? Why, within five minutes' walk

of me there are the loveliest houses, with gardens back and front,

inhabited by very fine people and furniture. Many of my university

friends' mouths would water if they knew the income of some of the

shopkeepers in the High Road.

"'The rich people about here may not be so fashionable as those in

Kensington and Bayswater, but they are every bit as stupid and

materialistic. I don't deny, Lucy, I _do_ have my black moments, and

I do sometimes pine to get away from all this to the lands of sun and

lotus-eating. But, on the whole, I am too busy even to dream of

dreaming. My real black moments are when I doubt if I am really doing

any good. But yet on the whole my conscience or my self-conceit tells

me that I am. If one cannot do much with the mass, there is at least

the consolation of doing good to the individual. And, after all, is it

not enough to have been an influence for good over one or two human

souls? There are quite fine characters hereabout--especially in the

women--natures capable not only of self-sacrifice, but of delicacy of

sentiment. To have learnt to know of such, to have been of service to

one or two of such--is not this ample return? I could not get to St.

James's Hall to hear your friend's symphony at the Henschel concert.

I have been reading Mme. Blavatsky's latest book, and getting quite

interested in occult philosophy. Unfortunately I have to do all my

reading in bed, and I don't find the book as soothing a soporific as

most new books. For keeping one awake I find Theosophy as bad as

toothache....'"

* * * * *

"The Big Bow Mystery Solved

"Sir,--I wonder if any one besides myself has been struck by the

incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman's letter in your last issue. That

he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult and run

it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition that his

judgment is failing him in his old age. In view of this letter, are the

relatives of the deceased justified in entrusting him with any private

documents? It is, no doubt, very good of him to undertake to avenge one

whom he seems snobbishly anxious to claim as a friend; but, all things

considered, should not his letter have been headed 'The Big Bow Mystery

Shelved'? I enclose my card, and am, sir,

"Your obedient servant,

"Scotland Yard."

George Grodman read this letter with annoyance, and crumpling up the

paper, murmured scornfully, "Edward Wimp!"

V

"Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?" said Denzil Cantercot.

"Hang the Beautiful!" said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee of

the Academy. "Give me the True."

Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn't happen to have it about him.

Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord's shop, and

imparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the close

leathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant without

raising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, with

a greasy apron. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar.

He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private he

removed it and sat in his shirt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thought

he was--which seems to involve original thinking anyway. His hair was

thinning rapidly at the top, as if his brain was struggling to get as

near as possible to the realities of things. He prided himself on having

no fads. Few men are without some foible or hobby; Crowl felt almost

lonely at times in his superiority. He was a Vegetarian, a Secularist, a

Blue Ribbonite, a Republican, and an Anti-tobacconist. Meat was a fad.

Drink was a fad. Religion was a fad. Monarchy was a fad. Tobacco was a

fad. "A plain man like me," Crowl used to say, "can live without fads."

"A plain man" was Crowl's catchword. When of a Sunday morning he stood

on Mile-end Waste, which was opposite his shop--and held forth to the

crowd on the evils of kings, priests, and mutton chops, the "plain man"

turned up at intervals like the "theme" of a symphonic movement. "I am

only a plain man and I want to know." It was a phrase that sabred the

spider-webs of logical refinement, and held them up scornfully on the

point. When Crowl went for a little recreation in Victoria Park on Sunday

afternoons, it was with this phrase that he invariably routed the

supernaturalists. Crowl knew his Bible better than most ministers, and

always carried a minutely printed copy in his pocket, dog's-eared to mark

contradictions in the text. The second chapter of Jeremiah says one

thing; the first chapter of Corinthians says another. Two contradictory

statements _may_ both be true, but "I am only a plain man, and I want to

know." Crowl spent a large part of his time in setting "the word against

the word." Cock-fighting affords its votaries no acuter pleasure than

Crowl derived from setting two texts by the ears. Crowl had a

metaphysical genius which sent his Sunday morning disciples frantic

with admiration, and struck the enemy dumb with dismay. He had

discovered, for instance, that the Deity could not move, owing to already

filling all space. He was also the first to invent, for the confusion of

the clerical, the crucial case of a saint dying at the Antipodes

contemporaneously with another in London. Both went skyward to heaven,

yet the two travelled in directly opposite directions. In all eternity

they would never meet. Which, then, got to heaven? Or was there no such

place? "I am only a plain man, and I want to know."

Preserve us our open spaces; they exist to testify to the incurable

interest of humanity in the Unknown and the Misunderstood. Even 'Arry is

capable of five minutes' attention to speculative theology, if 'Arriet

isn't in a 'urry.

Peter Crowl was not sorry to have a lodger like Denzil Cantercot, who,

though a man of parts and thus worth powder and shot, was so hopelessly

wrong on all subjects under the sun. In only one point did Peter Crowl

agree with Denzil Cantercot--he admired Denzil Cantercot secretly. When

he asked him for the True--which was about twice a day on the average--he

didn't really expect to get it from him. He knew that Denzil was a poet.

"The Beautiful," he went on, "is a thing that only appeals to men like

you. The True is for all men. The majority have the first claim. Till

then you poets must stand aside. The True and the Useful--that's what we

want. The Good of Society is the only test of things. Everything stands

or falls by the Good of Society."

"The Good of Society!" echoed Denzil, scornfully. "What's the good of

Society? The Individual is before all. The mass must be sacrificed to the

Great Man. Otherwise the Great Man will be sacrificed to the mass.

Without great men there would be no art. Without art life would be a

blank."

"Ah, but we should fill it up with bread and butter," said Peter Crowl.

"Yes, it is bread and butter that kills the Beautiful," said Denzil

Cantercot, bitterly. "Many of us start by following the butterfly through

the verdant meadows, but we turn aside--"

"To get the grub," chuckled Peter, cobbling away.

"Peter, if you make a jest of everything, I'll not waste my time on you."

Denzil's wild eyes flashed angrily. He shook his long hair. Life was very

serious to him. He never wrote comic verse intentionally.

There are three reasons why men of genius have long hair. One is, that

they forget it is growing. The second is, that they like it. The third

is, that it comes cheaper; they wear it long for the same reason that

they wear their hats long.

Owing to this peculiarity of genius, you may get quite a reputation for

lack of twopence. The economic reason did not apply to Denzil, who could

always get credit with the profession on the strength of his appearance.

Therefore, when street arabs vocally commanded him to get his hair cut,

they were doing no service to barbers. Why does all the world watch over

barbers and conspire to promote their interests? Denzil would have told

you it was not to serve the barbers, but to gratify the crowd's

instinctive resentment of originality. In his palmy days Denzil had been

an editor, but he no more thought of turning his scissors against himself

than of swallowing his paste. The efficacy of hair has changed since the

days of Samson, otherwise Denzil would have been a Hercules instead of a

long, thin, nervous man, looking too brittle and delicate to be used even

for a pipe-cleaner. The narrow oval of his face sloped to a pointed,

untrimmed beard. His linen was reproachable, his dingy boots were down at

heel, and his cocked hat was drab with dust. Such are the effects of a

love for the Beautiful.

Peter Crowl was impressed with Denzil's condemnation of flippancy, and he

hastened to turn off the joke.

"I'm quite serious," he said. "Butterflies are no good to nothing or

nobody; caterpillars at least save the birds from starving."

"Just like your view of things, Peter," said Denzil. "Good morning,

madam." This to Mrs. Crowl, to whom he removed his hat with elaborate

courtesy.

Mrs. Crowl grunted and looked at her husband with a note of interrogation

in each eye. For some seconds Crowl stuck to his last, endeavouring not

to see the question. He shifted uneasily on his stool. His wife coughed

grimly. He looked up, saw her towering over him, and helplessly shook his

head in a horizontal direction. It was wonderful how Mrs. Crowl towered

over Mr. Crowl, even when he stood up in his shoes. She measured half an

inch less. It was quite an optical illusion.

"Mr. Crowl," said Mrs. Crowl, "then I'll tell him."

"No, no, my dear, not yet," faltered Peter, helplessly; "leave it to me."

"I've left it to you long enough. You'll never do nothing. If it was a

question of provin' to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis,

or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don't consarn no mortal

soul, used to contradict each other, your tongue'ud run thirteen to the

dozen. But when it's a matter of takin' the bread out o' the mouths o'

your own children, you ain't got no more to say for yourself than a

lamp-post. Here's a man stayin' with you for weeks and weeks--eatin' and

drinkin' the flesh off your bones--without payin' a far--"

"Hush, hush, mother; it's all right," said poor Crowl, red as fire.

Denzil looked at her dreamily. "Is it possible you are alluding to me,

Mrs. Crowl?" he said.

"Who then should I be alludin' to, Mr. Cantercot? Here's seven weeks come

and gone, and not a blessed 'aypenny have I--"

"My dear Mrs. Crowl," said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouth

with a pained air, "why reproach _me_ for _your_ neglect?"

"_My_ neglect! I like that!"

"I don't," said Denzil more sharply. "If you had sent me in the bill you

would have had the money long ago. How do you expect me to think of these

details?"

"We ain't so grand down here. People pays their way--they don't get no

_bills_" said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn.

Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse's voice.

"It's three pounds fourteen and eightpence, if you're so anxious to

know," Mrs. Crowl resumed. "And there ain't a woman in the Mile End Road

as 'ud a-done it cheaper, with bread at fourpence threefarden a quartern

and landlords clamburin' for rent every Monday morning almost afore the

sun's up and folks draggin' and slidderin' on till their shoes is only

fit to throw after brides and Christmas comin' and sevenpence a week for

schoolin'!"

Peter winced under the last item. He had felt it coming--like Christmas.

His wife and he parted company on the question of Free Education. Peter

felt that, having brought nine children into the world, it was only fair

he should pay a penny a week for each of those old enough to bear

educating. His better half argued that, having so many children, they

ought in reason to be exempted. Only people who had few children could

spare the penny. But the one point on which the cobbler-sceptic of the

Mile End Road got his way was this of the fees. It was a question of

conscience, and Mrs. Crowl had never made application for their

remission, though she often slapped her children in vexation instead.

They were used to slapping, and when nobody else slapped them they

slapped one another. They were bright, ill-mannered brats, who pestered

their parents and worried their teachers, and were as happy as the Road

was long.

"Bother the school fees!" Peter retorted, vexed. "Mr. Cantercot's not

responsible for your children."

"I should hope not, indeed, Mr. Crowl," Mrs. Crowl said sternly. "I'm

ashamed of you." And with that she flounced out of the shop into the

back parlour.

"It's all right," Peter called after her soothingly. "The money'll be all

right, mother."

In lower circles it is customary to call your wife your mother; in

somewhat superior circles it is the fashion to speak of her as "the

wife," as you speak of "the Stock Exchange," or "the Thames," without

claiming any peculiar property. Instinctively men are ashamed of being

moral and domesticated.

Denzil puffed his cigarette, unembarrassed. Peter bent attentively over

his work, making nervous stabs with his awl. There was a long silence. An

organ-grinder played a waltz outside, unregarded; and, failing to annoy

anybody, moved on. Denzil lit another cigarette. The dirty-faced clock on

the wall chimed twelve.

"What do you think," said Crowl, "of Republics?"

"They are low," Denzil replied. "Without a Monarch there is no visible

incarnation of Authority."

"What! do you call Queen Victoria visible?"

"Peter, do you want to drive me from the house? Leave frivolousness to

women, whose minds are only large enough for domestic difficulties.

Republics are low. Plato mercifully kept the poets out of his. Republics

are not congenial soil for poetry."

"What nonsense! If England dropped its fad of Monarchy and became a

Republic to-morrow, do you mean to say that--?"

"I mean to say there would be no Poet Laureate to begin with."

"Who's fribbling now, you or me, Cantercot? But I don't care a

button-hook about poets, present company always excepted. I'm only a

plain man, and I want to know where's the sense of givin' any one person

authority over everybody else?"

"Ah, that's what Tom Mortlake used to say. Wait till you're in power,

Peter, with trade-union money to control, and working men bursting to

give you flying angels and to carry you aloft, like a banner, huzzahing."

"Ah, that's because he's head and shoulders above 'em already," said

Crowl, with a flash in his sad grey eyes. "Still, it don't prove that I'd

talk any different. And I think you're quite wrong about his being

spoilt. Tom's a fine fellow--a man every inch of him, and that's a good

many. I don't deny he has his weaknesses, and there was a time when he

stood in this very shop and denounced that poor dead Constant. 'Crowl,'

said he, 'that man'll do mischief. I don't like these kid-glove

philanthropists mixing themselves up in practical labour disputes they

don't understand.'"

Denzil whistled involuntarily. It was a piece of news.

"I dare say," continued Crowl, "he's a bit jealous of anybody's

interference with his influence. But in this case the jealousy did wear

off, you see, for the poor fellow and he got quite pals, as everybody

knows. Tom's not the man to hug a prejudice. However, all that don't

prove nothing against Republics. Look at the Czar and the Jews. I'm only

a plain man, but I wouldn't live in Russia not for--not for all the

leather in it! An Englishman, taxed as he is to keep up his Fad of

Monarchy, is at least king in his own castle, whoever bosses it at

Windsor. Excuse me a minute, the missus is callin'."

"Excuse _me_ a minute. I'm going, and I want to say before I go--I feel

it only right you should know at once--that after what has passed to-day

I can never be on the same footing here as in the--shall I say

pleasant?--days of yore."

"Oh, no, Cantercot. Don't say that; don't say that!" pleaded the little

cobbler.

"Well, shall I say unpleasant, then?"

"No, no, Cantercot. Don't misunderstand me. Mother has been very much put

to it lately to rub along. You see she has such a growing family. It

grows--daily. But never mind her. You pay whenever you've got the money."

Denzil shook his head. "It cannot be. You know when I came here first I

rented your top room and boarded myself. Then I learnt to know you. We

talked together. Of the Beautiful. And the Useful. I found you had no

soul. But you were honest, and I liked you. I went so far as to take my

meals with your family. I made myself at home in your back parlour. But

the vase has been shattered (I do not refer to that on the mantel-piece),

and though the scent of the roses may cling to it still, it can be pieced

together--nevermore." He shook his hair sadly and shambled out of the

shop. Crowl would have gone after him, but Mrs. Crowl was still calling,

and ladies must have the precedence in all polite societies.

Cantercot went straight--or as straight as his loose gait permitted--to

46 Glover Street, and knocked at the door. Grodman's factotum opened it.

She was a pock-marked person, with a brickdust complexion and a

coquettish manner.

"Oh! Here we are again!" she said vivaciously.

"Don't talk like a clown," Cantercot snapped. "Is Mr. Grodman in?"

"No, you've put him out," growled the gentleman himself, suddenly

appearing in his slippers. "Come in. What the devil have you been doing

with yourself since the inquest? Drinking again?"

"I've sworn off. Haven't touched a drop since--"

"The murder?"

"Eh?" said Denzil Cantercot, startled. "What do you mean?"

"What I say. Since December 4. I reckon everything from that murder, now,

as they reckon longitude from Greenwich."

"Oh," said Denzil Cantercot.

"Let me see. Nearly a fortnight. What a long time to keep away from

Drink--and Me."

"I don't know which is worse," said Denzil, irritated. "You both steal

away my brains."

"Indeed?" said Grodman, with an amused smile. "Well, it's only petty

pilfering, after all. What's put salt on your wounds?"

"The twenty-fourth edition of my book."

"_Whose_ book?"

"Well, _your_ book. You must be making piles of money out of _Criminals I

have Caught_."

"'Criminals _I_ have Caught,'" corrected Grodman. "My dear Denzil, how

often am I to point out that _I_ went through the experiences that make

the backbone of my book, not _you_? In each case _I_ cooked the

criminal's goose. Any journalist could have supplied the dressing."

"The contrary. The journeymen of journalism would have left the truth

naked. You yourself could have done that--for there is no man to beat

you at cold, lucid, scientific statement. But I idealised the bare

facts and lifted them into the realm of poetry and literature. The

twenty-fourth edition of the book attests my success."

"Rot! The twenty-fourth edition was all owing to the murder. Did you do

that?"

"You take one up so sharply, Mr. Grodman," said Denzil, changing his

tone.

"No--I've retired," laughed Grodman.

Denzil did not reprove the ex-detective's flippancy. He even laughed a

little.

"Well, give me another fiver, and I'll cry 'quits.' I'm in debt."

"Not a penny. Why haven't you been to see me since the murder? I had to

write that letter to the _Pell Mell Press_ myself. You might have earned

a crown."

"I've had writer's cramp, and couldn't do your last job. I was coming to

tell you so on the morning of the--"

"Murder. So you said at the inquest."

"It's true."

"Of course. Weren't you on your oath? It was very zealous of you to get

up so early to tell me. In which hand did you have this cramp?"

"Why, in the right of course."

"And you couldn't write with your left?"

"I don't think I could even hold a pen."

"Or any other instrument, mayhap. What had you been doing to bring it

on?"

"Writing too much. That is the only possible cause."

"Oh! I didn't know. Writing what?"