It was true that the puss had pricked up her ears when Denzil Cantercot’s name was mentioned.  Grodman saw it, and watched her, and fooled Wimp to the top of his bent.  It was, of course, Wimp who introduced the poet’s name, and he did it so casually that Grodman perceived at once that he wished to pump him.  The idea that the rival bloodhound should come to him for confirmation of suspicions against his own pet jackal was too funny.  It was almost as funny to Grodman that evidence of some sort should be obviously lying to hand in the bosom of Wimp’s hand-maiden; so obviously that Wimp could not see it.  Grodman enjoyed his Christmas dinner, secure that he had not found a successor after all.  Wimp, for his part, contemptuously wondered at the way Grodman’s thought hovered about Denzil without grazing the truth.  A man constantly about him, too!

“Denzil is a man of genius,” said Grodman.  “And as such comes under the heading of Suspicious Characters.  He has written an Epic Poem and read it to me.  It is morbid from start to finish.  There is ‘death’ in the third line.  I dare say you know he polished up my book?” Grodman’s artlessness was perfect.

“No.  You surprise me,” Wimp replied.  “I’m sure he couldn’t have done much to it.  Look at your letter in the Pell Mell.  Who wants more polish and refinement than that showed?”

“Ah, I didn’t know you did me the honour of reading that.”

“Oh, yes; we both read it,” put in Mrs. Wimp.  “I told Mr. Wimp it was very clever and cogent.  After that quotation from the letter to the poor fellow’s fiancee there could be no more doubt but that it was murder.  Mr. Wimp was convinced by it too, weren’t you, Edward?”

Edward coughed uneasily.  It was a true statement, and therefore an indiscreet.  Grodman would plume himself terribly.  At this moment Wimp felt that Grodman had been right in remaining a bachelor.  Grodman perceived the humour of the situation, and wore a curious, sub-mocking smile.

“On the day I was born,” said Wimp’s grand-mother-in-law, “over a hundred years ago, there was a babe murdered.”—­Wimp found himself wishing it had been she.  He was anxious to get back to Cantercot.  “Don’t let us talk shop on Christmas Day,” he said, smiling at Grodman.  “Besides, murder isn’t a very appropriate subject.”

“No, it ain’t,” said Grodman.  “How did we get on to it?  Oh, yes—­Denzil Cantercot.  Ha! ha! ha!  That’s curious, for since Denzil revised Criminals I have Caught, his mind’s running on nothing but murders.  A poet’s brain is easily turned.”

Wimp’s eye glittered with excitement and contempt for Grodman’s blindness.  In Grodman’s eye there danced an amused scorn of Wimp; to the outsider his amusement appeared at the expense of the poet.

Having wrought his rival up to the highest pitch, Grodman slyly and suddenly unstrung him.

“How lucky for Denzil!” he said, still in the same naive, facetious Christmasy tone, “that he can prove an alibi in this Constant affair.”