Callan took a meditative sip of whiskey, added a little more water, a
little more whiskey, and then found the mixture to his liking.

"You see," he said, "Fox got a letter here to say that Wilkinson had
died suddenly--some affection of the heart. Wilkinson was to have
written a series of personal articles on prominent people. Well, Fox was
nonplussed and I put in a word for you."

"I'm sure I'm much--" I began.

"Not at all, not at all," Callan interrupted, blandly. "I've known you
and you've known me for a number of years."

A sudden picture danced before my eyes--the portrait of the Callan of
the old days--the fawning, shady individual, with the seedy clothes, the
furtive eyes and the obliging manners.

"Why, yes," I said; "but I don't see that that gives me any claim."

Callan cleared his throat.

"The lapse of time," he said in his grand manner, "rivets what we may
call the bands of association."

He paused to inscribe this sentence on the tablets of his memory. It
would be dragged in--to form a purple patch--in his new serial.

"You see," he went on, "I've written a good deal of autobiographical
matter and it would verge upon self-advertisement to do more. You know
how much I dislike _that_. So I showed Fox your sketch in the