"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 _Kensington_." "The Jenkins story ?" I said.

"How did you come to see it ?" "Then send me the _Kensington_," he answered.