Edgar Wallace

“ What is his profession?"
"Lawyer," said Wembury dryly.
"A lawyer! Good lord, so he is! I'd forgotten."
Alan turned his head toward where Mr. Haggitt was very busy with his wash-leather and duster, and lowered his voice.
"Not to know Meister is almost proof of a man's honesty," he said, half laughing, half serious. "There isn't a crook in London who doesn't know him. Nor a big crook convicted in the last twenty years who hasn't been defended by him. Are you listening very hard, Haggitt?" he demanded. ”

“ I'd never have got married if I'd been a teetotaller. These Americans are right about booze—it oughtn't to be allowed."
"You called me because you didn't want to be implicated, eh? That's the worst of having a bad record," smiled Wembury, intent upon his inspection of the apartment.
It was the first opportunity he had had of looking around at his leisure.
"The difference between me and Meister is that I've been found out and he hasn't," said Sam grimly; "and as to having a bad character——"
Alan was at the mysterious door, the bolted door that was never opened and led to nowhere. ”

“ Are you to be reformed? He's never had a man sleeping in the house before."
"And he won't have much longer," said Mr. Haggitt with emphasis. "He's getting on my nerves. Booze, booze, all the day and all the night! Habits I don't mind, it's customs that get my goat."
He caught Alan's eyes for a moment, coughed and looked elsewhere.
"Whom is he afraid of?" asked Wembury curtly. "You know, I think—the Ringer!"
Haggitt went a shade paler.
"The Ringer?" he stammered. "He's in Australia."
"Did you know him?" asked Wembury.
Sam Haggitt swallowed something. ”