obliged to seek my assistance to recover a jewelled sword. The Grand Duchess of Pretzel-Brauntswig is desirous of discovering where her husband was on the night of the 14th of February, and last night”—he lowered his voice slightly—“a lodger in this very house, meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know ‘Why they don’t answer his bell.’ ”
I could not help smiling—until I saw a frown gathering on his inscrutable forehead.
“Pray to remember,” he said coldly, “that it was through such an apparently trivial question that I found out, ‘Why Paul Ferroll killed his Wife,’ and ‘What happened to Jones!’ ”
I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then suddenly changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: “When I say these are trifles—they are so in comparison to an affair that is now before me. A crime has been committed, and, singularly enough, against myself. You start,” he said; “you wonder who would have dared attempt it! So did I; nevertheless, it has been done.
I
have been
robbed
!”
“
You
robbed—you, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!” I gasped in amazement, rising and gripping the table as I faced him.
“Yes; listen. I would confess it to no other. But
you
who have followed my career, who know my methods; yea, for whom I have partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity; you, who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately admiredmy inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, grovelled at my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and rapidly decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over
my
problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed everything and everybody to me—
you
I make my confidant!”
I rose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. “Sit down,” he said; “have a cigar?”
“I have given up cigar smoking,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
I hesitated, and perhaps coloured. I had really given it up because, with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. I could only afford a pipe. “I prefer a pipe,” I said laughingly. “But tell me of this robbery. What have you lost?”
He rose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under his coat tails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. “Do you remember the cigar-case presented to me by the Turkish Ambassador for discovering the missing favourite of the Grand Vizier in the fifth chorus girl at the Hilarity Theatre? It was that one. It was incrusted with diamonds. I mean the cigar-case.”
“And the largest one had been supplanted by paste,” I said.
“Ah,” he said with a reflective smile, “you know that?”
“You told me yourself. I remember considering it a proof of your extraordinary perception. But, by Jove, you don’t mean to say you have lost it?”
He was silent for a moment. “No; it has been stolen, it is true, but I shall still find it. And by myself alone! In your profession, my dear fellow, when a member is severely ill he does not prescribe for himself, but call in a brother doctor. Therein we differ. I shall take this matter in my own hands.”
“And where could you find better?” I said enthusiastically. “I should say the cigar-case is as good as recovered already.”
“I shall remind you of that again,” he said lightly. “And now, to show you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my determination to pursue this alone, I am willing to listen to any suggestions from you.”
He drew a memorandum book from his pocket, and, with a grave smile, took up his pencil.
I could scarcely believe my reason. He, the great Hemlock Jones! accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! I kissed his
I could not help smiling—until I saw a frown gathering on his inscrutable forehead.
“Pray to remember,” he said coldly, “that it was through such an apparently trivial question that I found out, ‘Why Paul Ferroll killed his Wife,’ and ‘What happened to Jones!’ ”
I became dumb at once. He paused for a moment, and then suddenly changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: “When I say these are trifles—they are so in comparison to an affair that is now before me. A crime has been committed, and, singularly enough, against myself. You start,” he said; “you wonder who would have dared attempt it! So did I; nevertheless, it has been done.
I
have been
robbed
!”
“
You
robbed—you, Hemlock Jones, the Terror of Peculators!” I gasped in amazement, rising and gripping the table as I faced him.
“Yes; listen. I would confess it to no other. But
you
who have followed my career, who know my methods; yea, for whom I have partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity; you, who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately admiredmy inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, grovelled at my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and rapidly decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over
my
problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and arsenic for Epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed everything and everybody to me—
you
I make my confidant!”
I rose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. “Sit down,” he said; “have a cigar?”
“I have given up cigar smoking,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
I hesitated, and perhaps coloured. I had really given it up because, with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. I could only afford a pipe. “I prefer a pipe,” I said laughingly. “But tell me of this robbery. What have you lost?”
He rose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under his coat tails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. “Do you remember the cigar-case presented to me by the Turkish Ambassador for discovering the missing favourite of the Grand Vizier in the fifth chorus girl at the Hilarity Theatre? It was that one. It was incrusted with diamonds. I mean the cigar-case.”
“And the largest one had been supplanted by paste,” I said.
“Ah,” he said with a reflective smile, “you know that?”
“You told me yourself. I remember considering it a proof of your extraordinary perception. But, by Jove, you don’t mean to say you have lost it?”
He was silent for a moment. “No; it has been stolen, it is true, but I shall still find it. And by myself alone! In your profession, my dear fellow, when a member is severely ill he does not prescribe for himself, but call in a brother doctor. Therein we differ. I shall take this matter in my own hands.”
“And where could you find better?” I said enthusiastically. “I should say the cigar-case is as good as recovered already.”
“I shall remind you of that again,” he said lightly. “And now, to show you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my determination to pursue this alone, I am willing to listen to any suggestions from you.”
He drew a memorandum book from his pocket, and, with a grave smile, took up his pencil.
I could scarcely believe my reason. He, the great Hemlock Jones! accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! I kissed his
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