"He is not," Aaron Rodd admitted tersely; "nor is he one of those who have been whacked into reading one of your poems." "He must have read about them, at any rate," Cresswell insisted a little irritably. "If you introduce me, you had better mention my identity. Fame so far has left me quite unspoiled. I still feel a little thrill of pleasure in noticing the effect which the mention of my name has upon strangers.... Come in," he added pleasantly, in response to a thunderous knock at the door. The door opened and Mr. Jacob Potts entered, bringing with him a strong atmosphere of old ale and bread and cheese. To Aaron Rodd's surprise, he recognised the poet with a broad grin. "My Ulysses of Wapping!" the latter exclaimed, holding out his hand. "What a meeting!" Mr. Jacob Potts jerked his thumb towards Cresswell as he turned to the lawyer. "One of my clients," he remarked. Aaron Rodd was puzzled. He had once paid a visit to the river-side public-house over which Jacob Potts presided, and he found it hard to associate Cresswell in any way with the atmosphere there. Mr. Jacob Potts had pressed a thick forefinger to his lips. "Mum's the word, guv'nor," he declared reassuringly. "Don't you worry." The poet picked up his hat. "From this gentleman," he asserted grandiloquently, "I have no secrets. To be frank with you, it was he and another friend who are responsible for those incidents in my career with which you have been professionally connected." Mr. Jacob Potts glanced at him admiringly. "That's 'ow 'e talks down at Wapping. Ain't it wonderful!" he observed. Stephen Cresswell edged towards the door. "When you have finished with our friend here," he said, addressing Aaron, "come across to the Milan. I have a proposition to make anent the opening of my banking account. It is connected with food and drink. Au revoir! Farewell, my river-side Goliath," he added, waving his hand to Jacob Potts. "Remember, our little bargain still goes." Mr. Potts' large face was convulsed into humorous wrinkles. "That's a queer gent.," he declared, as the door closed. "Come to me, 'e did, sometime ago--heard I'd been a bit of a bruiser and asked me to teach him a knock-out blow, something quick and not dangerous. Lord love me, I used to let 'im go on, and give 'im 'is fill o' beer, for the sake of hearing 'im talk! 'Ow I larfed when I tumbled to 'is game--me and the missis! He'd written some stuff wot no one would read, and 'is idea was to advertise it. Up you goes to an old gent at a dark corner. ''Ave you read my book?' he arsks. 'No!' sez the old gent. 'Cresswell's Poems, eightpence a copy, number thirty-two Manchester Street,' he sez, and biffs 'im one. Then other nervous old gents, 'ear about this and buys the poems, give the proper answer when they're tackled and 'ome they goes to tea. 'Oly Moses, it was a great scheme, but it was a greater before I'd done with it!" "Where did you come in?" Aaron Rodd asked curiously.