"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 idealized 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 don't know. Writing what?" Denzil hesitated. "An epic poem." "No wonder you're in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?" "No; it wouldn't be the least use to me." "Here it is, then." Denzil took the coin and his hat. "Aren't you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write something for me." Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place. "What do you want me to write?" "The Epic Poem."