‘Lady Carlyon’s name is hardly fitted to be a bone of contention for us literary and play-acting dogs-in-the-manger,’ he continued. ‘She does not write verse, so she is not in your way, Mr Grovelyn, nor will she interfere with your claim on posterity. She is not an actress, so she does not rob me of any of my honours as an actor, and I think we should do well to magnanimously allow her the peaceful enjoyment of her honestly-earned reputation, without grouping ourselves together like dirty street-boys to try and throw mud at her. Our mud doesn’t stick, you know! Her book is an overwhelming success, and her husband will doubtless enjoy all the financial profits of it.’ He turned on his heel and looked over some papers lying on the table. Grovelyn touched his arm; there was an evil leer on his face. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword, Mr Valdis!’ he observed. ‘Ay, ay! That means you are going to blackguard me in the next number of the ha’penny _Clarion_? Be it so! Truth shall not budge for a ha’porth of slander!’ He resumed his perusal of the papers, and Grovelyn walked away slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground, and a brooding mischief in his face. ‘You should never ruffle the temper of a man who has liver complaint, Valdis,’ said Dr Dalley, cheerfully, drawing his chair up to the table where the handsome actor still leaned. ‘All evil humours come from the troubles of that important organ, and I am sure, if I could only meet a would-be murderer in time, I could save him from the committal of his intended wicked deed by a dose—quite a small dose—of suitable medicine!’ Valdis laughed rather forcedly. ‘Could you? Then you’d better attend to Grovelyn without delay. He’s ripe for murder—with the pen!’ Dr Dalley rubbed his well-shaven, rounded chin meditatively. ‘Is he? Well, perhaps he is; I really shouldn’t wonder! Curiously enough, now I come to think of it, he has certain points about him that are synonymous with a murderer’s instinct—phrenologically and physiologically speaking, I mean. It is rather strange he should be a poet at all.’ ‘Is he a poet?’ queried Valdis, contemptuously; ‘I never heard it honestly admitted. One does not acknowledge a man as a poet simply because he has a shock head of very dirty hair.’ ‘My dear Valdis,’ expostulated the little doctor, amiably, ‘you really are very bitter, almost violent in your strictures upon the man, who to me is one of the most interesting persons I have ever met! Because I foresee his death—due to very complex and entertaining complications of disease—in the space of—let me see! Well, suppose we say eighteen months! I do not think we shall have any chance of an autopsy. I wish I could think it likely, but I am afraid—’ Here Dr Dalley shook his head, and looked so despondent concerning the slender hope he had of dissecting Grovelyn after death, that Valdis laughed heartily, and this time unrestrainedly.