Meeting him in one of his usual haunts one night, he complained bitterly of a young man he had invited for a week, but who had stayed a month, and stayed on still. The name, which need not be mentioned, was a well-known one. It was a bad case of imposition, by a man, too, who had ample means of his own. I offered to turn him out, much to Brodie’s alarm. That is, he both desired the result and feared it. Next morning I arrived in the oddly-furnished rooms and found Brodie cooking breakfast for the undesirable young man who had imposed on his host too long, and who still lay in bed. It was a comic scene, no doubt, for Brodie, though frightened, bore out my accusations while he fried the eggs, and the other blustered noisily until he found out that bluster was of no avail; and then, threatening an action for assault, got suddenly out of bed and dressed himself. Half-an-hour later he was, bag and baggage, in the street, while I went down and sold the “story” to the _New York Journal_, who printed it next morning with big headlines, but also with a drawing showing the eviction scene. No action for assault followed, however; I received twenty dollars for my “story”; and Brodie, full of gratitude--his name was mentioned in flattering terms--offered to take me into partnership in “me beezness.” I demurred at first. “You might help me with the correspondence,” he suggested cautiously. I was to be his educated partner and his pen. All that spring and summer I received ten dollars a week which, in addition to free-lance newspaper work, enabled me to live in comparative luxury. In a dark little back-office on Broadway and 8th Street, the eau de Cologne was made. It might have been the secret headquarters of an anarchist fraternity, or the laboratory of some mediæval alchemist, such was the atmosphere of secrecy, of caution and of mystery. It never occurred to me that anything was wrong. Our only assistant was a young Polish girl named Paola, a beautiful, dark-haired Jewess. The precious recipe I was never allowed to see. Great flagons in wicker coverings stood in rows upon long shelves; the mixing of the ingredients was a delicate operation lasting an hour; the room smelt rich and sweet of spices that made me think of Araby and the East. It was a curious and picturesque scene--the rather darkened room, the perfume-laden air, the hush no traffic could disturb, the great, mysterious flagons, which might almost have concealed forty thieves, the canny Scot of doubtful origin, the beautiful Jewess, the air of caution and suspicion that reigned over all. The filling of the bottles in two sizes, affixing the labels, flavouring the soap--we made eau-de-Cologne soap too--answering the letters, writing flowery advertisements, and so forth, occupied the entire day. Brodie, a born salesman, would take a cab and visit the big stores with samples--Macy’s, Siegel and Cooper, and others whose names I have forgotten. He never came back without an order.