inspired one with the respect that one feels for a man who has lived and
does not care a curse. He had a weird intermittent genius that made it
worth Fox's while to put up with his lapses and his brutal snubs.

I produced the coffee and pointed to the sofa of the night before.

"Damn it," he said, "I'm ill, I tell you; I want ..."

"Exactly!" I cut in. "You want a rest, old fellow. Here's Cal's article.
We want something special about it. If you don't feel up to it I'll send
round to Jenkins."

"Damn Jenkins," he said; "I'm up to it."

"You understand," I said, "you're to write strictly on Callan's lines.
Don't insert any information from extraneous sources. And make it as
slashing as you like--on those lines."

He grunted in acquiescence. I left him lying on the sofa, drinking the
coffee. I had tenderly arranged the lights for him as Fox had arranged
them the night before. As I went out to get my dinner I was comfortably
aware of him, holding the slips close to his muddled eyes and
philosophically damning the nature of things.

When I returned, Soane, from his sofa, said something that I did not
catch--something about Callan and his article.

"Oh, for God's sake," I answered, "don't worry me. Have some more coffee
and stick to Cal's line of argument. That's what Fox said. I'm not
responsible."